by Jessi Kirby
“To the top of Mount Whitney.” I don’t know why I say it. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I feel like the worst kind of liar.
“Wow,” her mom says. “That is far. That’s the whole John Muir Trail, right?”
I nod.
“How far is it?” Lia asks excitedly.
I picture the first page of Bri’s journal. Her handwriting. “Two hundred and eleven miles.”
Lia’s jaw drops. “By yourself? Don’t you have anyone to go with? Won’t you get lonely? What about at night? Aren’t you gonna be scared?”
“Lia,” her mom says, “that’s not polite.”
But even as she says it, she looks at me with a new level of concern in her eyes, like she wants to know the answers too. It makes me think of my mom, and how worried she’ll be when she gets home and finds my note.
“Yes, I’m going by myself,” I say. “But I won’t be lonely.” I look at Lia. “It’s good to be with just yourself sometimes.”
She’s quiet a moment as we walk, like she’s turning the idea around in her mind. And now it’s her mom who speaks.
“It was Muir, wasn’t it? Who said that going out is really going in? Something to that effect?”
I have no idea what she means, but seeing as I’m going to hike the trail named after the man, I nod.
“I think it was,” she says. She looks at me now. “It’s good to take time like that—to get out, clear your head, listen to your thoughts. I never would’ve been brave enough to do that on my own at your age. It’s impressive.” She says to Lia, “Isn’t what she’s doing so cool?”
“Yeah!” Lia agrees. “You must be SO brave. And superstrong.”
All of a sudden I want out of this conversation because I am not brave or strong. And I’m already lonely. And now I’m a shaky, sweaty mess who’s trying to figure out how to justify quitting before I even begin while lying to this little girl and her mom.
“I bet you’ll be even braver one day,” I manage to say to Lia before I pick up my pace the slightest bit. “You two enjoy the waterfall, okay?”
“Good luck to you,” her mom calls. “I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.” She takes her daughter’s hand again, slowing their pace just enough to let me go on my way with only my self-loathing as company.
I look down and focus on putting one foot in front of the other to put some distance between us, but that just makes it worse. This morning, when I’d laced up Bri’s boots, I’d been thinking of what my aunt said in her letter about hoping that someday these boots might travel the miles that Bri intended to herself. And standing there in the crisp morning air, I’d felt a tiny flicker of belief that maybe I could make that happen myself.
But watching my feet fight to move her boots and backpack forward makes me feel like an imposter in every possible way. I haven’t even made it a mile in her shoes—let alone two hundred and eleven—and I want to turn around before I get any farther. Quit before I fail any bigger. If I stopped right now, I could get back to my car and make it home by the afternoon, like I told my mom I would. Go back to my life without anyone ever knowing what I was almost stupid enough to try.
I veer to the edge of the trail so that I can wait for a break in the hikers to make the turnaround, but when I see Lia and her mom catching up quickly, I don’t think I can do it. Not in front of them. Not after what I told them. Especially not before we even make it to the real trail. I try to think of excuses I could make as I pass them, going the opposite way. That I forgot to lock my car. Or I left something vital behind. But they sound just as hollow as they are, and I can’t stomach the thought of lying to that little girl and her mom again after they’d so easily believed what I’d told them just a few minutes ago.
Lia waves when she spots me, and now I really can’t quit. So I wave back, then turn around and keep going. I try to find a rhythm, but the way the weight of the pack shifts as I move makes every step feel clumsy. I’d gotten everything back into it after spreading the contents out on the living room floor, but it had taken wedging, and shoving, and cramming it all into every available space. Sharp points and hard edges dig into me at odd angles with each step, but at this point, there’s nothing I can do to fix it. So I walk. And walk. And after what feels like miles, I make it to the Happy Isles Bridge, on the other side of which lies the trailhead.
It’s not lost on me as I cross the bridge and the roaring river beneath it that I have walked exactly one mile of flat, paved trail and already my legs feel weak. When I reach the other side of the bridge, I have to step aside so an elderly man with a walking stick can pass me. It takes a few moments to catch my breath, so I pretend to study the wooden sign that is the official beginning of the trail. At first, I’m confused by the title: High Sierra Loop Trail. But beneath it are two columns that list the names of places and their distances, both in miles and kilometers. My eyes travel all the way down to the end, where I find Bri’s destination:
Mount Whitney via John Muir Trail 211 miles
I can’t begin to think about that at this point so I bring my eyes up to the listing for the first stop on her itinerary instead:
CLOUDS REST 10 miles
Ten and a half miles. It’s farther than I’ve ever walked, but I just made it one mile without dying, so maybe it’s not completely impossible. Maybe I can make it there, to that first place she wanted to go—the one from the picture—just to see it for myself. I can stand on top of that mountain like she did, and maybe somehow, that’ll be enough. Maybe I’ll feel good about it.
I want to feel good about something today.
It seems like there should be some sense of ceremony, or a way to mark the beginning of this thing I’ve just made up my mind to do. I wrangle my phone out of the side pocket of the pack and look around for someone to take my picture in front of the sign before I take the real first step of this hike. But there’s no one nearby. I stand to the side of the sign and hold my camera out as far as I can to take a selfie, but I can’t get it all in the frame.
Finally, I step back and settle on taking a picture of just the sign. In my mind, I think of all the different captions I could post with it to tell people what I’m doing so I wouldn’t be the only one who knows. Because right now, besides the few strangers I’ve talked to about it, there is no one else who does, and that is a lonely, lonely feeling.
For a second, I think about how quickly I could set up a new account under a different name, and start posting pictures of this trip. I think of Bri’s feed—the scrapbook she left behind—and I picture how my new one could be more like hers. It could be full of inspirational posts about going outside and seeking adventure. I see the whole trip spread out in front of me—a series of anticipated memories and posts of beautiful scenery, and meaningful captions, all of it adding up to show how much I’ve grown and changed. But then I realize that under a new name, no one would even know to follow me. And that’s not the point of this whole thing anyway.
Getting away from all that was the point.
I stow my phone and look at the sign one more time. Ten and a half miles. I can make it there to that place where my cousin stood in the picture, where she looked so free and happy. And maybe by the time I get there, I’ll feel that way too.
“Okay,” I say under my breath, “here we go,” and then I step onto the trail she has led me to.
It surprises me that it’s asphalt, and for the first little bit I even think it might not be so bad after all. Trees and ferns in every shade of green line the walkway that skirts the river’s edge, and the sunlight filters its way down through the high branches to where it dances on the ground in front of me. It’s pretty, and calm, and I try to appreciate the beauty around me to distract myself from the weight of the pack.
And then the trail begins to climb, and I stop noticing the scenery. Up and up it goes, high above the river, but still so far below the granite peaks above. Again, I try to find a rhythm to walking like this, but leaned forward as I am
, under the weight of the pack, it’s impossible. Every step is a strain, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell Bri was thinking. What anyone is thinking when they decide to do this. It’s hard, and already monotonous, and I don’t want to, but I keep going because a little ways up the trail, I can see a bridge that crosses a river, and people, and even a bathroom. This gives me a little hope. There are lots of people who do this, and I haven’t really left civilization yet.
When I get to the bridge, the view is so beautiful I decide to rest there a minute. I lean against the railing and look up at the waterfall that tumbles over dark granite rock farther up the mountain. It sends mist up into the air in every direction, like it’s raining upward. When I turn, my eyes follow the river down the canyon until it disappears into the trees and continues to where I began. The distance looks vast, but the sign informs me that I am at the Vernal Falls Bridge, exactly .8 miles from the beginning trail, bringing my grand total to 1.9 miles.
I try not to be disappointed. I keep going, past where the trail splits and the asphalt ends, and where I find out the real work begins. The trail turns to sandy, rocky switchbacks that seem to go on forever under the midday sun. I stop for water and to rest at the corner of each one. Hikers in daypacks pass me at lightning speed. Some say hello. Others nod their greeting. I do the same. One girl who is coming down the trail from the opposite direction meets my eyes then looks at my pack. When we pass each other, she puts a hand out, like you would for a high five. I raise mine to meet it.
“You got this, girl,” she says. “The view from the top’s worth it. Keep going.” And then she releases my hand and does just that. And so do I, buoyed the tiniest bit by a stranger’s encouragement.
A short distance from there, the trail drops into Little Yosemite Valley, according to the sign, and skirts along a meadow and riverbank in the first flat section I’ve passed through. The lack of incline feels like a reprieve to my shaky legs, and when I reach the bank of the deep, lazy river, I decide to stop and take off the pack for a few moments.
They are blissful moments, despite the fact that I am utterly exhausted. And thirsty. I walk my almost-empty water bottle to the spout to fill up, surprised at how much I’ve already gone through after only a few miles. After, I find a shaded log to sit on and dig into the pack for something to eat, because all of a sudden I’m starving too. I grab the first thing I can find, then sit there with the bag of trail mix, alone in the middle of the towering pine trees, with the sun filtering down through them in visible beams, and it is so, so quiet. I close my eyes.
I remember this kind of quiet.
It’s the same kind Bri and I would find deep in the woods behind her house, when we’d go adventuring as kids. We’d pretend we were lost and instead of trying to find our way home, we’d have to survive out in the forest, relying only on what we could find and the things we knew how to do. We’d build makeshift shelters of branches and pine needles, then pile rocks in a ring and make a pretend fire to crouch beside. She’d climb high in the trees, pretending to pick fruit, but really just loving the feeling of seeing how far up she could go. I always stayed on the ground, wanting to join her but too scared to try. Never once did she make me feel bad for where I stood. She’d just point out the beauty there too. A butterfly landing on a branch, a leaf she’d set loose, twirling to the ground. The sun shining down through the trees.
I open my eyes, and it’s there, that same light. And for a second, it feels like she’s there too.
“I’m here!” I say out loud. “Doing this crazy-ass thing you were supposed to do.”
The hush of a breeze moves through the treetops like an answer.
“We were supposed to do,” I whisper.
A tiny blue butterfly lands silently on the log where I sit. When I reach for it, it takes flight, weaving a spiraling path up a beam of sunlight.
I watch until it disappears into the trees. Then I stand, blow a kiss upward, and put the pack back on to keep going, into a forest so deep I can’t see the sky.
Clouds Rest
LATE AFTERNOON.
I emerge from the trees, sweating and exhausted, and stop to catch my breath. In front of me is a granite ridge that juts straight up in the sky, towering over the valley below. My eyes follow the ridge upward to where it narrows into what looks like a rocky staircase leading nowhere. A stiff wind rises against me and I wonder how in the world I’m allowed to be here, doing this. I shouldn’t be. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that this looks like the place from Bri’s journal, and that the two people who passed me on their way back down from the summit confirmed that yes, I am standing at the base of Clouds Rest, yes, it’s worth the view to hike the last half mile, and yes, it’s safe. Relatively. Just as long as I stay on the ridge and don’t go plunging down to the valley from the peak, which is a towering 9,926 feet.
No wonder I can’t breathe.
I look up to where the rocky stairs seem to disappear into the top of the ridge, take a shaky breath, and then focus on the path in front of me, and Bri’s boots, and putting one in front of the other. My legs ache like they never have before, but at the suggestion of the two friendly hikers who passed me, I left my pack a few yards back, so I feel a little lighter and more balanced at least. It’s a relief and a form of motivation. I only have to carry myself up this ridge. Which I work on doing, very carefully.
I walk, and the only sounds up here are of the wind, and the crunch of my boots on the gravelly trail. And my breathing, which is more labored than it has been all day. The air feels thin, and I can’t seem to get enough to fill my lungs. Still, I keep going. I can feel I’m almost there.
The ridge begins to narrow, and I reach a point where I can see I’m going to have to climb and pull myself up between two boulders because there is no way around them. I look around at the drop-off on either side then swallow and wedge my feet between the rocks. My heart pounds in my chest, and I try to focus on finding a hold for my hands so I can pull myself up. I scan the rocks on either side of me and find the smallest of indentations for my fingers. Slowly, I put all of my weight onto the foot that’s wedged between the boulders, and then I summon all my strength and resolve to pull myself up by my fingers, which now grip the rocks so hard my arms shake uncontrollably.
I go for it, and my foot slips.
And then I’m falling, knocking and scraping my limbs on the granite that held me up moments ago. I hit the ground behind me with a thud and a whimper, shocked at the hardness of my landing. Silence follows, and I look down at my knees, brush off the gravel. Tiny pinpricks of red bloom as blood rises to the surface of the thin skin. My nails are jagged and torn from trying to hold on as I went scraping down the rock.
I’m shaken, but intact. Mostly. I look around instinctively for someone—anyone else. But I am alone. High above me in the sky, a bird circles in slow motion, and the wind blows, and the sun shines down, unblinking, like nothing happened. I realize in this moment how inconsequential I am out here. The mountains and the sky have no sympathy for my pain or stupidity. It’s just me, and what to do next is up to me.
I look back up at the two boulders—at the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in front of me, and I feel angry. Angry at Bri for putting me out here, at myself for being weak, at the world for being as it is. I’m angry at all of it because now I have a choice: turn around and quit, or try again. I don’t want to do either one. I want to be somewhere else, relaxing in my room, scrolling through my phone, looking at things like this from a safe, comfortable distance. But instead, I’m here on this mountain, wearing my cousin’s boots that are already giving me blisters.
I get to my feet and dig, with the last bit of resolve I have, for the last bit of strength in me. And I decide to try again. This time, I find a better foothold and am able to haul myself up over the rocks with shaky arms. I drag my legs up and over, and there I am, on the other side of the boulders. I look back, surprised. I hadn’t expected to make it on this try either. If I h
ad the energy to laugh, I would. I think of the first page of Bri’s journal. Maybe I’m stronger than I let myself believe.
I sit there on top of the boulder, surveying the narrow bridge of rock stretched out in front of me. It’s not until then that it hits me. I’ve made it. I am at the summit of Clouds Rest, the first destination of Bri’s journey.
And now I don’t know what to do next.
I climb down from the rocks and walk—slowly, slowly, out onto the bridge in the sky. It’s quiet, except for the rush of wind as it pours over the rocks then drops back out into the emptiness below. Still shaken, I look down at my bloodied knees, then at the smooth granite of the ridge beneath my feet. Around me, the sky stretches out vivid blue and boundless in every direction. In the distance, wispy clouds hang over the surrounding mountains and fading jet trails crisscross the sky.
I stand a moment longer, trying to catch my breath as the sting of my cuts begins to subside. And then, without warning, I start to cry. Not because it’s so beautiful here, and not because I’m so happy to have made it, but because I don’t have the strength left in my arms to lift them up like Bri did in her picture. I am hurt and exhausted, and I don’t feel the joy or the freedom that I always saw in her.
Standing here, in the place my cousin was supposed to be standing today, with my knees bleeding and my hands shaking, I feel more acutely alone than I ever have in my life.
It’s not what I was expecting.
I look down at her boots on my feet, like they might offer some insight or guidance, and that’s when I notice the small, round medallion on the ground in front of me. The skin on my knees stings as I squat down to get a closer look. Engraved in the bronze is an arrow, along with the stamp of the US Geological Survey. It’s dated 1956. I run my fingers over it, and wonder for a brief moment about the person who put it there, and why they would bother to hike up this ridge and mark it. The medallion isn’t big or showy. It doesn’t give any other information. Really, you could walk right over it and not even notice it was there. But it’s been here for over sixty years, quietly marking this place. An acknowledgment that people come here. I think of all the people who have, my cousin included, and for a second I feel a little bit of connection to something.
