The Other Side of Lost

by Jessi Kirby

  I blink back the tears that spring to my eyes because she’s just put into words something that feels like it could be true.

  “What was her gift to you?” I ask.

  The fire crackles between us, and we both watch the flames as she thinks about it for a few moments. Finally, she looks at me in the orangey glow.

  “She taught me to hike my own hike.”

  She takes a deep breath and leans back on her pack. “When I met her, I had just come back from my first Mount Whitney attempt. I was the only one in my party who hadn’t made it to the summit, and I was totally distraught about failing at what so many other people were able to do. Especially because I’d been so obsessed with doing everything right. I’d bought all the highest-rated equipment, read every blog and guide I could find, watched all the videos on YouTube, done the training hikes, but none of that had mattered once I got out there on the trail and tried to keep up with everyone else who was way more experienced than me. I just couldn’t do it. The pace and the altitude got to me.”

  For a moment, I can see the memory of that disappointment flash over her face, but then she smiles.

  “I met Bri a few weeks after that, here in Yosemite. We were both waiting around at the permit office for the Half Dome cables permit lottery—those permits are nearly impossible to get through reservation, but they hold back a few for hikers who show up the day of, and draw a few lucky names each day. Neither one of us won a permit, and I was so upset, because somehow, in my mind, doing Half Dome was going to redeem my Mount Whitney fail. But it didn’t faze Bri. She just shrugged it off, and invited me to hike to Clouds Rest with her instead.”

  Now it’s me who has the goose bumps.

  “And it was the best hike I’d ever been on. She wasn’t worried about pace or miles, or anything other than just being out there, and so neither was I. It was so different from what I was used to, but it was exactly what I needed to learn. It’s hard to explain, but she wandered more than she hiked.” She pauses and smiles like she’s remembering. “She had this natural, easy flow to how she moved through nature.” Her voice breaks a little, and she pauses again to compose herself. “That’s how I thought of her trail name that day.”

  “Her what?”

  “It’s a nickname you go by out on the trail. Usually other hikers give it to you as kind of a rite of passage. Sometimes it’s a funny joke. Other times, it’s just something that describes you.”

  “What did you call her?” I ask softly.

  “Butterfly,” she says.

  I flash back to the violet-blue butterfly I saw in the forest just yesterday, and then I look at Corrie and smile.

  “You got her exactly right.”

  We sit beside the fire until only the glowing embers are left, talking like old friends. I tell stories of Bri and me as kids, and Corrie tells me about growing up in the mountains, and learning to hike on her own. She shows me how to work the stove, and explains the right way to use the water filter. We take out my guidebook, and in the light of our headlamps, she goes over sections of the trail that will be difficult, explaining how to cross creeks, and what to do when I hit the snow. She teaches me a system for washing and rotating my clothes, and caring for my blisters. By the time we zip ourselves into our tents for the night, I feel overwhelmed at the magnitude of what lies in front of me, but a little more prepared to meet it.

  The next morning, we rise early and watch the sun emerge from behind the distant peaks. After, it’s time to break camp and head our separate ways. I’m sad that Corrie and I are headed in opposite directions, but so grateful that our trails crossed, and for the gifts she’s given me.

  I’m kneeling on the ground, zipping the final items into Bri’s pack, when I notice a small butterfly pin on one of the pocket flaps. I take it off, then dig the journal out of the pack and open to the place where I’ve tucked the picture of Bri standing on top of Clouds Rest, and I bring them both over to Corrie, who is finishing up with her own pack.

  “I have something for you,” I say, holding out the picture.

  She gasps, and reaches for it. “Oh my gosh, I took this picture. That day, I took this picture of her with her phone.” She points at it, then looks at me like she can’t believe it.

  “I wondered about that last night,” I say. I hold out the butterfly pin between us. “This was on her pack. I think you should have it to put on yours.”

  I hand it to her, and tears spring to her eyes. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “You gave her the name.”

  She pulls me into a hug. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means—of course I’ll put it on my pack.” She looks around. “I wish I had something to give you.”

  “You’ve already given me more than you know,” I say, and I mean it. Not just the tips and the encouragement, but a snapshot of Bri as she was out here.

  Corrie releases me from the hug and holds on to my shoulders. “I know you can do this, Mari. Be brave, and remember that you’re not just doing it for her, it’s for you too. So hike your own hike.”

  We say our good-byes, and I watch her go until she disappears around the bend of the trail. And then it’s just me. And the moment I choose to take what feels like my real first step onto the John Muir Trail. I am really doing this.

  I hike. I follow the trail as it winds through thick forests and up and down steep switchbacks. When I reach the first place where the trail ends on one side of a creek and picks up again on the other, and no one has built a bridge to cross it, I do exactly what Corrie instructed: I take my shoes off and switch to the sandals, then plunge my feet into the icy water. And I make it to the other side. I have to do this so many times on this section of trail that I lose count.

  In other places, fallen trees block the trail, forcing me to either climb over or crawl under the massive trunks. Over and over I am confronted with obstacles or choices I don’t want to make but have to if I want to keep moving forward. Here, there is no tuning reality out or letting it fade into the background, or obsessing over meaningless things. The immediacy of being on the trail is real. It demands my concentration, and it’s both mentally exhausting and physically taxing.

  I don’t see another person for miles, and by midday, my only thoughts are an endless loop comprised of two conflicting desires: to move forward and to stop and rest. The two ideas play tug-of-war in my head, and I hold out and just keep moving for as long as I can, wanting to make it to the third day goal listed in Bri’s journal. But then I remember what Corrie said about her Whitney attempt, and pushing too hard, and what Bri wrote, about enjoying the journey, and I think I’d enjoy it a lot more after some food, water, and a short rest.

  I find a place just off the trail that overlooks yet another mountain vista, and I stop there, eagerly anticipating the feeling of dropping my pack. The relief is immediate when I do, and I smile and stretch in the sunlight. After a few sips of warm water, I dig into the pack for the bear canister and my hands can hardly open it fast enough. The first thing I see is a bag full of smaller baggies with portioned-out nuts inside. I grab two of them, then spot another promising-looking bag packed the same way—this one containing what looks like jerky, vegan diet be damned. I scan the contents of the canister for anything else, and when I spot a bag full of fun-size Snickers bars, I think I’ve maybe died and gone to heaven. But these things need to last, so I just take one and save it for my dessert.

  I find myself a nice flat rock to sit on and spread what feels like a feast out in front of me, along with my water bottle, and I sit there in the midday sun, at the top of a ridge whose name I don’t know, inhaling food I never would in my normal life, and it’s amazing. I honestly can’t think of another time food tasted so good. I sit there chewing the salty jerky and cashews, thinking about how, for so long, I’ve worried about food, rather than enjoyed it. For all my pictures, it was either about how pretty a meal looked for a photo, or how many calories were in it and how that would make me look in the next photo.
Sitting here on this rock, savoring the taste of every bite I take, I marvel at how little time it has taken those old worries to feel distant and foolish. I am sore and tired and stinky right now, but I am infinitely more comfortable with myself in this moment than I have been for a long time. I’m not sucked in or pushed up or worrying about any tiny bulge that might be showing through my yoga pants.

  I just am. And that is enough.

  I can’t think of the last time I felt like this, where I wasn’t striving or stressing about my body. These last few years, the focus of my accounts became all about how I looked. How thin I was, how tan I was, how fit I was. I hid behind the excuse of wanting to live a healthy life, but that’s not what I was doing at all. I was obsessing about calories and exercising excessively, and so hungry—for nourishment, and for affirmation. Every time I got the slightest bit—a comment about how beautiful I was, or thin I was—I wanted more. And after a little while, it wasn’t enough.

  Today, despite the pain in my bones and muscles, I feel better. And freer. It makes me think of Bri and how beautiful I always thought she was. She was confident and strong, comfortable in her own skin even though she wasn’t stick thin like I worked so hard to be. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup or trendy clothes. In most of her pictures, her sun-drenched hair hangs long and natural, and the apples of her cheeks sport the bright pink evidence of days spent beneath the sun.

  But it’s her joy that really shines in those photos. Her smile. The warmth and life there. When I compare it in my mind to all of the carefully posed and edited shots on my own feed, the difference between us makes me sad. I feel a pang of shame again—at myself, and the things I put so much effort into. Things I thought mattered. I’ve wasted so much time, and so much of me on them.

  I think of Bri’s words in her journal: I only have so much time, and I won’t waste a second. I want to see it all, I want to make a difference in people’s lives, and I want to be happy.

  I believe she was happy. She was going out and doing exactly what she said, living life the way she wanted to. I think of all the people who wrote about her and the difference she made in their lives. How she helped them and made an impact without even realizing it. And somehow she got me out here, maybe to help me do the same thing. I hope so. Maybe even I can somehow do it all and make a difference in other people’s lives too. Those seem like tangible goals. But being happy, that’s so much more complicated.

  That night at camp, I experience a moment of true happiness when I get the little stove to light on my own. To celebrate, I cook my first hot dinner on the trail—a steaming mug of ramen noodles. I eat every last one and drink all of the salty broth too. After dinner, I wash my mug in a nearby creek, crawl into the sleeping bag, and switch on the headlamp to read the guidebook and see what tomorrow has in store, but immediately I realize I’m too tired even for that. So instead, I lie back on the small backpacking pillow, close my eyes, let myself drift off to the soft sound of water flowing over rocks.

  Bri Would Go

  This is the only thing on the itinerary for Day 4 in Bri’s journal. Beneath it is a quote:

  “Fear not, therefore, to try the mountain-passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy. Set you free . . .”—JOHN MUIR

  I try to hold on to this sentiment, but this is the day my new reality finally sets in—I decide I hate hiking. My body is beaten down, and I’m not sure how far Thousand Island Lake is, or if I’ll even make it there. I’ve already had to cross too many icy rivers to count, one of which swept away the extra pair of socks I had hanging on my pack to dry, and I am about to climb Donohue Pass, the first big one of the hike.

  To say I’m dreading it is an understatement.

  The snow patches along the trail have become larger and more frequent as I climb higher, which only adds to the general sense of foreboding I feel approaching this first pass. And the switchbacks. I hate them. The effort of crisscrossing the face of a mountain, especially when the “trail” is all broken granite slabs with sandy passageways through them feels like a special kind of torture.

  But soon enough I find out there’s something even worse. I reach the pass, where the mountain stands up even steeper. Far below is a jagged ravine. At the bottom of which, a rushing ice-blue river churns a stark reminder to tread carefully.

  I know what one wrong step can do.

  I stop to take a deep breath, because my heart is racing, but also because at this point the trail disappears into snow. In every direction, everywhere I look is a blanket of white, broken up only by steely colored rocks that jut out of the snow in defiance. Beneath the midday sun, it’s blinding, even with sunglasses on. I raise my hand to shade my eyes as they sweep over the sea of white in front of me.

  This can’t be right. People don’t do this. I can’t hike this.

  And then, from a distance, I hear something I haven’t heard in a whole day. It startles me at first, but then I realize what it is. A voice. Someone is yelling.

  I scan the snow to see where it’s coming from, and there’s a loud whoop, followed by several shouts. When I follow the sound with my eyes, I find them—the tiny dots way up the mountain. People.

  I don’t know whether to cry tears of joy or call out to them for help. They’re too far away, probably wouldn’t hear me, but I try anyway, desperate for contact, or confirmation, or both.

  “HELLO!!!!” I yell. My voice sounds foreign to me, and it bounces back off the snow and the mountains.

  The only answer is my own.

  I wave my arms and try again. “HELLO!!!”

  Some sound must reach them because one of the spots waves back, and then they all do.

  “HELLO!” a faraway voice yells back.

  I cup my hands to my mouth again, ecstatic. “HOW . . . DID YOU . . . GET THERE?”

  There’s no answer at first, and I imagine my words being unintelligible sounds by the time they echo off the mountain walls and reach them.

  But then a voice comes back, loud and male, the words spaced out like he needs to take a breath between each one:

  “FOLLOW . . . THE . . . TRACKS . . .”

  I glance down and search the bright whiteness for anything that resembles a track or footprint. It takes me a few back-and-forths over the snow, but once my eyes adjust to looking directly at it, I think I see something. I follow the faint, barely discernable lines that cut an indistinct trail through the snow until I lose them. It’s not much, but it’s more than I had just a moment ago.

  “THANK . . . YOU!” I yell back up.

  The response comes a few seconds later. “WELCOME!” is all it says, and I’m a little disappointed. I don’t know what I was hoping for—an invitation to join them? For them to say they’d wait for me?

  I feel that pitiful, lonely feeling again. That, and envy. Envy that whoever they are, they’re not alone, and that they’re far above me on the mountain. I sigh. Once again, I’m faced with the choice that has been my constant companion on this hike: turn back or keep going. I’m too far in for it really to be a choice, but I take a minute like I’m deciding anyway. I breathe, sip some water, and try to mentally prepare myself to tackle what looks like it is going to be the hardest thing I’ve come up against yet. Then I attach the crampons to my boots, like Corrie showed me.

  Looking at the vast snowfield in front of me, I understand what Bri meant about enjoying the trail before the real challenges start. And right away, I realize she was right. The very first step I take onto the snow pitches me forward when my boot sinks and throws me off balance so that I have to catch myself with both hands. The snow is rough and prickles against my palms, and I crouch there, trying to push myself up. It’s only by some miracle that my pack doesn’t go over my head and topple me altogether, sinking me deep into the snow that feels like quicksand around my boots, even with the crampons attached.

  It bogs my feet down, makes them impossibly heavy. Not to mention the cold that starts to sink into my boots. It’s a strange sensation
when the rest of me is sweating with effort beneath the high August sun. The heat beats down from above, and the snow pulls and pulls at me from below, and every step is a whole new circle of hell.

  I make my way at a snail’s pace, losing and finding the tracks, alternating between disbelief and flat-out hatred for what I’m doing. Every so often I stop to rest and look back at the sobering view of the steep mountainside and icy blue river below me. At first, my progress is barely visible, but after a while I can see that I really am climbing this snowy mountain. I am moving myself, albeit achingly slowly, up its steep face with my own two feet. The realization doesn’t make me hate it any less, but there is a small measure of satisfaction in it. Never in my previous life would I have imagined doing this, or even thought it possible. And yet here I am, inching my way to the top.

  I look down at the tracks in front of me and concentrate on my breathing, which is labored and thin this high up. I know from the guide that the top point of the pass is just over eleven thousand feet, and I must be close, because I can feel the altitude in every breath I take. Together with the crunch of my boots, my breathing makes up a pathetic, uneven non-rhythm. I’m so focused on it, so in my own little world, that when a voice speaks to me, it takes a second to register.

  “You have something against using trekking poles?” the voice asks.

  I raise my eyes slowly, too spent to be startled. Standing a few steps in front of me is a guy who looks vaguely familiar. He holds out a set of poles like the ones I’ve seen so many other hikers carrying.

  “Wanna try ’em?” he asks. “We’re almost there, but this last bit’s no joke.”

  He smiles, and I know right away where I know him from. The Wilderness Office. The one who cleared the way through the group of hikers, for me to get outside.