The Other Side of Lost

by Jessi Kirby

  I step forward and take a deep breath, then I open the door, and all of their heads turn in my direction, and when I see their faces, they look like I’ve caught them doing something wrong.

  But really the opposite is true.

  They’ve caught me. Pretending to be something I’m not.

  I can hear my tear-choked voice still playing on Beau’s phone. “It’s all so fake, and I have been too, and I can’t do this anymore . . .”

  And just like the first time, it’s true.

  Everything I believed I was just a few minutes ago falls away, and all that’s left is the sad truth of my own words. I see it in each person’s face as they look at me. Pity. They feel sorry for me.

  Josh takes a step toward me. “Mari—”

  Vanessa stands. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have—”

  I catch a glimpse of the screen in her hand, a familiar shot of me, in a red bathing suit that leaves little to the imagination. I put a hand up to stop her. “It’s okay. It’s out there, you know? I put it out there.”

  Beau opens and closes his mouth, then stands up and takes a step toward me. “I’m sorry, Mari. I just . . . I was just killing time, and I wanted to see the girl those guys were talking about.”

  “Well,” I say, holding my arms open. “Here I am.”

  It’s quiet. Awkward quiet. Beau looks around.

  “It’s not a big deal. None of us care, right?”

  Colin and Jack both shake their heads. Vanessa too. Josh just keeps looking at me with an expression I can’t read.

  “I, um . . .” I back up toward the door. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he says, taking another step toward me.

  I shake my head. “No. Thanks, but no.”

  He nods without saying a word, and no one else says anything either, so I walk back out the door, down the steps, and take the path back toward the tent cabin. I don’t know where I want to go, other than away. Away from them, now that they’ve seen who I was, and away from myself too. I don’t know why I thought I was anyone different out here. I’ve just been playing another role for a different audience, depending on them to carry me through the part.

  When I reach the tent cabin, I fling the door open, go inside, and sit on the bed. I close my eyes and breathe. Try to focus on what to do. I am mortified. And so ashamed. And I don’t know how they could ever trust me after this. The thought of facing them again makes me want to crawl under the covers and hide—which isn’t an option either.

  I glance at my pack, which is still sitting upright at the end of the bed, next to the resupply bucket. And then I’m up, scooping baggies and packages from the bucket into the pack. It’s haphazard, but there’s space, and I fill my pack with as much as I can from the bucket, then I close it up, cinch it tight, and pull the notebook from the outer pocket. And I write a good-bye:

  Beau, Colin, Jack, Vanessa, and Josh:

  Hiking with you all has been life-changing for me, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You have no idea how much you mean to me, but I need to go it alone from here on out. I hope you can understand. Please don’t come after me.

  Thank you again for everything, be safe, and enjoy the last half of the hike.

  Love,

  Mari

  I tear the page from the notebook then leave it on the bed in the same place Josh’s note was left for me. And then I dig in my pack for my headlamp, heave my supply-heavy pack onto my shoulders, and walk out into the dark.

  I move fast and keep my head down and my light off as I make my way through the ranch buildings, and it’s not until I reach the trail junction and switch my light on that I feel like I can breathe. Which I try to do, along with telling myself that I can make it through this alone. Bri set out to do it that way, and so did I.

  It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but after I sweep my light over the trail in both directions, I get oriented. And then I move. The closest I’ve come to hiking at night was the evening we arrived at Thousand Island Lake at dusk. This is different. There is no daylight left, and the moon is just a sliver, but I move forward through the chilled night air, and it feels right, like pushing through the darkness can somehow redeem me. Because if I can finish the hike on my own, then maybe I can earn back the right to feel good about it.

  I just need to get far enough away that they won’t find me if they come after me, so I push—past the noises in the bushes, and the cracks of tree branches ahead of me. Beyond the voice of reason in my head and the fear in my gut. I don’t allow myself to think of all the reasons this is a bad idea. I dismiss the thoughts of predators—animal or human—as soon as they come into my head. I try not to think. I focus only on the bobbing beam of light in front of me, and following it for as long as I can, for as far as I can stand to go. And finally, when I’ve worked up a sweat, and am breathing hard, and it feels like I’m worlds away from anyone, I find a small clearing just off the trail. In the dark silence, I put my tent up and crawl back inside my lonely little world.

  Back on the Map

  I RISE BEFORE the sun, lingering for only a moment in the predawn stillness before I break camp, which consists only of packing up my tent. There are no morning jokes about the boys’ hair, or team meetings about the course we’ll hike today. No previews of mileage or elevation gain. No journal pages to read. I am on my own.

  I sit on a rock with my breakfast of a protein bar and the last few sips of water in my water bottle, flipping through the JMT guidebook I haven’t really used, looking for this section of trail, and hoping for good news—and a close water source. I pass a section about Muir Trail Ranch, then find roughly where I should be on the map and work on figuring out how my day will go. In the absence of Bri’s journal—and Josh’s daily summaries—this is a new responsibility for me. It makes me wish I had someone to check my plan with.

  According to the guide, the trail will climb for a few miles, and then drop down through Evolution Basin, which sounds scenic and beautiful, on its way to Muir Pass, nearly fifteen miles from here. If I go by the same pattern we’ve been doing, reaching the top of Muir Pass is a tough, but doable goal. It’s a long day, mileage and climbing-wise, but I think we’ve been averaging close to that, and I feel strong. Plus, I know they’ll be behind me, likely pushing to reach the same goal. Which means I might actually need to go farther if I don’t want them to catch me.

  I finish my bar, take the last sip of water, and tuck the guidebook in the outermost pocket of my pack so it’s easily accessible. And then there’s nothing left to do but put my pack on and begin.

  The trail starts with a traverse over open, dry land, scattered with pines and dark-colored rock. I move at a fast pace, through the still-shadowed flats, feeling a little unsettled about not having any water on me, even though I know it’s only a couple of miles until I’ll reach a creek where I can fill my bottle. I can’t seem to focus, though. Every few minutes, I turn and look over my shoulder, half hoping, half expecting to hear the familiar voices of Josh and everyone else gaining on me.

  Or anyone’s voices.

  The trail feels lonelier than it has since I started. And the few miles I figured it would be to get to the next creek are starting to feel long. Too long. All of a sudden, I’m worried. I stop and look around for familiar signs of water, like the green of trees I’ve seen lining the creeks’ banks, but there are none. I strain my ears for the faraway hush of running water, but the air is still. Silent. I stand there, frozen for a moment, beneath the sun that is rising higher in the sky with each moment that passes.

  And then I drop my pack and dig inside for my phone. It’s dead when I pull it out. I tell myself it’s fine. It probably wouldn’t have done me any good out here anyway, but not having it available—even as a long shot—rattles me.

  I reach for the guidebook instead.

  I try to stay calm as I search the pages for the section I was looking at earlier, but all of the descriptions, and maps, and d
istances start to blur into something incomprehensible to me. My hands shake, and my chest tightens as I flip back and forth, just as lost in the book as I am in this moment. All of a sudden I feel hot. And thirsty.

  I close the book, and my eyes, and take a deep breath. And then I take two more, and tell myself that I can figure this out. I open my eyes and look around, trying to think of what to do. If I took a wrong turn somewhere, it’s fixable. All I need to do is backtrack until I find it. I haven’t gone that far, it’s still relatively early, and I will be fine. This is what I repeat to myself as I pop a hard candy in my mouth, turn around, and start walking in the direction I just came from.

  Soon enough, I make it back to the spot where I camped, and I pause to regroup and retrace my steps from the night before. This is where it gets tricky. I stand in front of where I pitched my tent, trying to remember which direction I’d come from, but I don’t know. I’d been so in my head, and in such a hurry to get away in case anyone came after me, that I’d done everything on autopilot. Again, I have to make a decision.

  I remind myself that I couldn’t have hiked that far last night either. So worst-case scenario, I hike a few miles now, realize it’s the wrong way, then turn around and hike the other way until I get back to Muir Trail Ranch. It’s not ideal, but in my head it works—as long as I didn’t make more than one wrong turn in the dark last night.

  But I can’t think about that right now. I need to move, so I start in the direction I think I came from last night. As I go, I try to pay close attention to the landscape and make mental notes of landmarks I may need to remember and find again if it turns out I’m actually heading the wrong way—a lightning-split tree trunk, a rock pile that looks like an elephant. I focus on these things and try to stay calm and be present as I move. But almost immediately, the memory of last night, and everyone finding out the truth about me, edges its way into my mind—their faces as they watched the video, the pity in their eyes when they looked at me. All of it makes me feel even more like the fraud that I am. I’ve been pretending to be something I’m not this entire hike, and now I can’t even run away in the right direction.

  My eyes start to water, and I want to stop and sit down right there in the middle of the trail, and cry over everything I’ve lost—all of it because I was too scared to just be honest—about myself and my insecurities. My feelings and my fears. First, it was Bri. Then it was any sense of who I really was, or what I was doing with my life. And now, it’s the group of friends that’s become like family to me out here. The only thing worse than losing them is that last night, when my past came rushing back at me, I realized I’m no better off than I was when I began, over a hundred miles ago.

  I still don’t know what the other side of lost looks like. And right now, it doesn’t seem like I’ll ever find out.

  A sudden rustle in the bushes up ahead brings me back to the trail in front of me. I don’t see anything, but I stop immediately. Something is making its way through the tall brush, snapping twigs and rustling the branches as it goes. Whatever it is, it sounds big. My heart knocks against my chest, and I look around frantically for a place to hide. For a second, I debate dropping my pack and making a run for it, but then it’s too late.

  A few yards in front of me, something tall and lean steps out of the brush. It takes a moment for me to register that it’s a deer. A female. She steps onto the trail and pauses when she sees me. We look at each other for a long moment, and her dark brown eyes show no fear, just a gentle kind of curiosity. I stand perfectly still, trying to communicate to her that I mean no harm and am just passing through. A distant sound catches her attention, and her ear twitches the tiniest bit, but she doesn’t look away from me. I don’t know how long we stand there like that, taking each other in, but when she finally decides to move on, she disappears into the bushes without a backward glance.

  I am alone again, but it feels different somehow.

  I remember watching the deer gather in my aunt’s meadow during the twilight hours. To her and her fruit trees, they were a nuisance. But Bri loved them. She was always sketching them, and it amazed me how easily she captured their grace and strength with just a few strokes of her pencil.

  I glance at the place on the trail where the deer had stood, just a moment ago. And then I look up at the sky, blow my cousin a kiss, and thank her for what feels like a tiny nudge of encouragement.

  Then I keep going.

  Almost an hour later, I come to a junction and see another hiker heading in my direction.

  “Hello!” he calls as he approaches. He looks about my age, has a scraggly beard and wild hair, and is wearing a backpack and the craziest pair of pants that I’ve ever seen—they’re a patchwork of bright, mismatched fabric and look more like they belong at some sort of music festival than out here on the trail.

  “Hi,” I say, eyeing them.

  “You like them?” he asks with a slight accent, following my eyes to his pants.

  I smile. “I do. They’re . . . unique. Don’t think I’ve seen anything out here quite like them.”

  “Exactly, madam.” He winks then extends his hand. “I’m the Fox.”

  I shake his hand. “Mari.” I can’t bring myself to say my trail name—especially being that I am decidedly not living up to it at the moment.

  “Beautiful name, beautiful,” he says, smiling wide. I wonder where his accent is from. Germany?

  “Thank you—um . . . This is going to sound silly, but is this the JMT? I think I might’ve taken a wrong turn last night or this morning, and I’m trying to find my way back.”

  “It’s your lucky day, then, because it is indeed. The John Muir Trail. On planet Earth. Somewhere in the Universe.” He spreads his arms out wide, and I can’t help but smile at this happy hippie.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  “Where are you headed?” he asks.

  “To Mount Whitney. I started in Yosemite.”

  “Ah. And I, the opposite.”

  “You’ll love it when you get there,” I say. “It’s breathtaking. So beautiful.”

  “Mount Whitney is too, in her own way. But be careful on your own. She can be treacherous too.”

  His seriousness about this makes me nervous now that I know better than to go into things blindly. “Anything I should know—about that part?”

  “Hm,” he says. He absently strokes his beard for what seems like forever, and I wait.

  “Yes,” he finally says, looking right at me. “When you get to the part where you feel you’re scared of going farther, just do. When you feel fear creep under your shirt and grip you from within, know that this is one of those moments from which you will rise stronger and better.”

  He pauses. “Welcome that moment. With open arms.”

  I want to ask him what he means, and what I should be on the lookout for, but he turns to go. “Good luck to you, traveler Mari. Watch the sky today as you go. Those afternoon storms have been rolling in fast in this stretch.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “My pleasure,” he says.

  And with that, he disappears around the bend, and I am back on the map.

  And Then I Crumble

  WATER. I spot the creek I was expecting to see hours ago, and I almost laugh out loud. When I reach it, I fill, filter, and drink one whole bottle, then lie back on the shore to catch my breath. After a few minutes, I sit up. Time is a luxury I don’t have, and I need to make it as far as I can today, so I fill my CamelBak and an extra bottle, then get back up and begin the gradual traverse of the canyon in front of me. It’s deep, the sun is high in the sky, and as I hike, I watch the light dance on the green waters that now flow far below me. Small flocks of violet-blue swallows swoop and dive over the sparkling river, and hummingbirds zip around, taking their pick from the wildflowers that bloom from every crevice available.

  I push on, through meadows full of quaking aspens and pines, and continue upstream to where the trail opens up to a view of
sheer canyon walls and wild waters that flow over dark ledges of volcanic rock. Next is a series of creek crossings, thankfully over footbridges and through shallow areas. There is not another soul around. It’s me and the trail and the animals—for hours that stretch out, long and endless in front of me.

  When I begin the steep climb up the switchbacks to Evolution Basin, I slow down significantly. I pause after the first few turns, for a breather and a drink of water, and the panoramic view in front of me grounds me in the moment. Across the canyon, streams and waterfalls flow down narrow channels so straight in the rocks, they look like they were cut with a sculptor’s blade.

  I wish, for a moment, I’d gotten a chance to charge my phone so I could take a picture, though I know it wouldn’t do this scene justice. Instead, I try to press every detail of it into my memory—the water tumbling down over sheer rock, the endless blue sky, and the almost preternatural quiet in the middle of it all. I remind myself that this is what I’m here for. Beauty. Clarity. Solitude. Perspective. I tuck my water bottle back in the pack, and scan the length of trail behind me one last time for any sign of anyone else, but it’s empty. So I continue on, alone.

  By the time I reach Evolution Basin, I’m tired, hungry, and in need of a break after going for the last couple of hours. I find a place to stop—a good one, because it has a low, flat rock I can sit on to rest.

  After I drop my pack and dig inside for lunch options and the guidebook, I sit on the sun-warmed granite, take a deep breath, and look at the view. I am sitting at the edge of a glacier-carved valley that gives way at its floor to a patchwork of alpine lakes, each shining more blue and beautiful than the next. Off in the distance, puffy clouds gather, towering above the knife-edge ridges of the mountains all around. The air is cooler up here, and I shiver despite the sun shining down on me as I scan the landscape, looking for anyone. But there is not another soul as far as I can see.

  When I was with the group, we marveled at the feeling of being so isolated. But we had each other to enjoy it with. I sit there with my lunch and the guidebook, trying to appreciate this place, and that’s when it dawns on me that this section of the trail is some of the most beautiful I’ve seen, but that also makes it the loneliest, since there’s no one to share it with.