The Other Side of Lost

by Jessi Kirby

  The guidebook says to leave plenty of time to wander and enjoy the five miles through the basin before you reach Muir Pass, but the late afternoon light is beginning to fade, so I pack up and prepare myself to keep going. The breeze has picked up and is becoming more consistent now. To be safe, I take the lightweight windbreaker from the pack and tie it around my waist before I head out.

  The trail skirts the shore of Evolution Basin then continues up a gentle slope that lends an even better view of the basin and surrounding mountains, but it’s not what’s right in front of me that catches my eye, it’s what I see in the distance. The clouds that were so fluffy and white before have multiplied and gotten darker. And closer. I scan the horizon, on alert for any other signs of weather—distant lightning, the far-off rumble of thunder . . . but there’s nothing. Just the rush of the breeze, cool enough now to raise goose bumps on my bare legs. I put my head down and move faster, ignoring the uneasiness I feel every time I look up at the sky.

  By the time I reach the outlet of Sapphire Lake, which is stunningly blue in the guidebook photos, that nagging sense of worry starts to unravel into something else. The wind kicks up whitecaps on the slate gray surface of the water. Up ahead, the sky flickers, and now I know what’s coming.

  I stop and drop my pack in the middle of the trail to dig out the plastic backpack cover I didn’t get to use last time I got caught in the rain with Josh. I work quickly, doing my best to make sure my pack is covered with the bags, and then I put it back on and slip the poncho over my head, so it covers everything.

  And then I keep going, focused on the fact that I know Muir Hut is at the top of the pass. If I can get to it, I can take shelter there, but it’s a gamble that sends me headed right into the storm, on an exposed section of trail.

  Lightning flashes another warning in the distance ahead.

  The hairs on my arms stand in response, but I don’t stop or even alter my pace. I put my head down and keep my eyes on the two-foot wide trail. Brace myself against the stiff, sudden wind that rises all around. Try to pretend that the whole sky isn’t swirling itself into something dangerous right in front of me.

  Thunder rumbles over the barren mountaintops, a low, angry growl that I know in my gut I should heed.

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  The only thing I can do is keep going.

  Alone.

  There is no one coming after me. No one following me into this storm. It hits me hard, this thought—even after all the time I’ve spent by myself on this trail.

  It’s because this is different. This feels like the night that started the whole thing.

  The sky lights up again, and thunder booms in my chest, and the feeling rushes back at me so furiously it stops me right there, just as the first fat drop of rain lands on my cheek.

  I look out over the jagged peaks that loom beneath the darkening sky, and wait for the feeling to pass. But it doesn’t.

  I am just as alone and lost and forgotten as I was that night I posted that video. And the storm that came the day after that is nothing in comparison to the one that’s headed for me right now.

  The wind twists, wild and angry, whipping my poncho up around me and blowing the hood off my head. There’s another flash-boom, and then the sky opens up too. Prickly stars of cold rain sting my cheeks, and ears, and bare legs, and I look around, desperate for something to hide beneath, but there’s nothing. I am completely exposed. My only chance is to try for the hut, which I hope is close but can’t see through the downpour.

  The entire sky and mountain light up electric around me, and the accompanying thunderclap is deafening. With it, the rain grows even louder and more painful, and then I realize what’s happening. It’s turned into tiny frozen pellets, hailstones that cover the ground, and sting my now-freezing skin.

  I run.

  I run with more speed and strength than I knew I had in me. Fear and adrenaline propel me uphill, through the hail, against the wind. I strain through it all, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hut, but the only thing I can see is the rocky face of the mountain and the wall of hail coming down in front of me. It puts a hard knot in my chest, and I don’t have time to think. I have to keep going.

  The lightning flashes again, and this time, I see something. The hut.

  My chest and legs burn, but I focus on the round stone building that is now just a short distance away, and I push even harder. I close the distance as fast as my legs will carry me, and when my fingertips can reach the handle, I fling open the wooden door, and stumble over the threshold. Both knees hit the cold, stone floor with a crack, and the weight of my pack goes over my head, yanking me down to the ground.

  There’s a moment where I try to hold myself up, and then I crumble, right where I am.

  Strong Enough

  I WAKE TO STILLNESS. Somewhere outside, water drips in an erratic rhythm. In the pale morning light, I can just barely make out the stones that spiral upward to create the conical ceiling above me.

  For a second, it feels like I’m in a dream, but then everything comes back—getting lost yesterday, the Fox and his warning, and then the suddenness and power of the storm, and my desperate scramble up the rocks. After I’d made it inside, the storm had gotten even worse, and I’d just sat there in shock, shivering in the darkness of the stone hut, waiting for it to pass. All I could think was that I hoped Josh and everyone else had been smart enough not to try to push up the pass like I’d just done—or that they’d gotten through ahead of me.

  With the storm raging outside, I’d sent up a prayer for their safety, then stripped off my wet clothes and crawled into my sleeping bag in my underwear. I lay there all night, curled in a ball, feeling foolish for putting myself in this situation, and helpless to do anything but wait it out.

  And now here I am. Morning. The storm has passed.

  Next to me, my pack lays open on the stone floor, its contents spilling out haphazardly after the way I’d gone through it to get to my sleeping bag last night. I grab a tank top and pull it over my head, and then I reach for the pair of shorts I’d been wearing. When I pick them up, I see something sticking out of the back pocket.

  I gasp.

  I can hardly believe it. A surge of hope rushes through me as I reach for Bri’s letter. But the moment my fingertips feel the damp square of paper, my heart sinks. I picture the smeared pages of her journal after my fall into the river, and I almost don’t want to unfold the letter. I don’t know if I can handle her words being lost to me again. Especially when it would unquestionably be my fault.

  I hold the letter up to the light, but the folded square doesn’t give anything away, so I take a deep breath. And then I open it, as carefully as I can, and I almost cry when I see her familiar handwriting, still there.

  Hey there! YOU MADE IT!

  Over 100 miles now, which is the farthest your own feet have ever carried you. Be proud! Celebrate! Know that the hardest passes are still to come, but that’s the point. You might doubt yourself and what you can do. But you’re strong enough and brave enough to make it to the end.

  And Mt. Whitney is the perfect way to finish! You’ll leave the last morning, in the cold and in the dark, to a peak so much closer to the sun, to space, than you’ve ever been before. Further into the sky than most of the people that have ever lived have ever walked. That is an amazing thought to me. And that is what you’ll do on the last day.

  This hike is gonna be over before you know it now, so appreciate each moment you have left before it’s time to go back and plan the next adventure. Because like Muir said.

  At the bottom of the page, there is one of her sketches. It’s of a girl standing on top of a mountain, with the sun rising behind her. She holds a tiny flag with three words written on it:

  A lump rises in my throat, and I hug the letter to my chest. I read it again once, twice, three times over, feeling a little less alone each time. It’s hard to believe that she’d meant it for herself, but I guess she kne
w that even she might have her low moments out here. Either way, this letter feels like my savior at the moment, so I leave it open and lay it on the stone bench to dry completely while I come up with a plan for what to do next.

  Last night, I’d been awake for what felt like all night, picturing all of the things that could be happening to my friends. This morning I want to find them—because I need to know that they’re okay, and because there is so much I need to tell them. The problem is I don’t know where to look. I left ahead of them, but there’s a good chance they leapfrogged me while I was lost yesterday and are now ahead of me. If I leave right away, I may be able to catch up to them. This plan feels more right to me than backtracking, so I grab the guidebook to see what’s coming on the next section of trail.

  Every day we hiked together, we followed the same pattern: tackle the passes in the morning, descend, then make camp close to the base of the next pass. I flip through the book until I find the section that describes Muir Pass, where I am right now. Coming up is a descent, and then a long climb that includes the Golden Staircase, which the book describes as “an exposed, 1,500-foot climb up steep switchbacks.” I’d be willing to bet that making it up those switchbacks is their goal for the morning, so I make it mine too. In fact, I take out the journal Josh gave me, and turn to the first page, which is blank, and I write my plan:

  Catch up. Apologize.

  Satisfied, I put the notebook away and pack up without bothering with breakfast. When I step out of the hut, it’s not quite light yet, and I count this as an advantage. Wherever Vanessa and the boys are, they’re probably still asleep.

  I move swiftly and with purpose down the sandy switchbacks to where the trail skirts Helen Lake. After that, it follows a creek that drops down into a gorge lined with dark rock. In many places, the creek flows over the trail, but it’s shallow enough that I plow right through. I make it through the gorge and follow the trail to where the creek spreads out into a meadow full of wildflowers, and with every step I take, I try to think of what I’ll say when I catch up. Aside from saying I’m sorry, I want to tell them that they’ve become a kind of family to me out here. That I can already feel the miles starting to go by faster, like Bri said they would in her letter, and I want to spend this final stretch hiking with them. I want to tell them how much they matter to me. I don’t know if they’ll want to listen to what I have to say, or if they’ll even be able to look at me the same now that they know who I was before, but I have to try.

  So I keep going. Through marshy meadows and patchy forests. Over sandy flats, and dry slopes. The sun rises behind me in the sky, and morning breaks all around as I wind my way along meandering creeks that run through lodgepole forests. I focus on the trail ahead of me, searching as I go, for a glimpse of my friends through the trees. I alternate between hope and disappointment each time I come to a bend in the trail and round it only to find the other side empty. Each time it happens, I tell myself they’ll be around the next one, but as the miles wear on, I have a hard time believing my own pep talk. Still, I pick up my pace. By the time I exit the long stretch of forest and see the sheer rock of the Golden Staircase in the distance ahead, I’m practically jogging.

  And then I see them.

  The familiar sight of their packs bumping up the trail makes me at once relieved and anxious, and I stop where I am, confronted with the reality of actually facing them. I am so embarrassed—about them finding out who I really am after I’d let them believe I was someone different, about the way I reacted when they did, about running away instead of facing it.

  Bri’s words come back to me then—You might doubt yourself and what you can do. But you’re strong enough, and brave enough . . .

  When I’d read that, I’d been thinking of the trail itself, and the obstacles I might come up against. But today, it’s not a mountain pass or a dangerous creek crossing that I have to face, it’s my friends—and myself. It’s what I have to do now. Be open, and honest, and put myself and everything I need to say out there, and then hope that’s enough. It’s a scary thought, but on the trail I’ve learned to push through pain, and weather, and actual mountain ranges, so I should be able to push through my own discomfort about who I am and what got me here. That’s what I tell myself as I head down the trail to meet them, and that’s what I tell myself when, a few moments later, I’ve almost reached them.

  “You guys!” I yell.

  They stop. Turn around.

  I wave.

  “Mari!” Vanessa yells. She pushes past the boys and starts down the trail toward me. I meet her at the bottom of a switchback, and she throws her arms around my neck.

  “Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re okay. We were so worried about you, especially with that storm, and then—how’d you get behind us?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say. And then I stand back so I can look at her. “I’m glad you guys are okay too.”

  Josh and the rest of the guys make it down to where we’re standing. They’re quiet, looking down at the ground, up at the sky, anywhere but at me. I don’t blame them. After what they’ve seen of me, I must seem like a ticking time bomb. Josh is the only one who doesn’t seem uncomfortable in this moment. He looks right at me.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.

  I nod. I am. Especially now that I’ve found them, and have the chance to make things right.

  “I’m so sorry I left,” I say. “I completely overreacted back there, and it was . . .” I pause and take a deep breath. “It was because I was embarrassed. I came out here to get away from who I was back home, and when I met you all, and you were so awesome, and real, and fun, it felt like a fresh start for me. Like maybe I could be that kind of person too.”

  I look down at my feet then take a deep breath and force myself to bring my eyes back up to theirs.

  “So when you found that video back at the ranch, I thought it would change things, or that you’d look at me differently, or think I was a big fake, because that’s what . . .” My voice cracks, and I press my lips together and breathe in through my nose to keep from crying. “That’s what everyone said about me when I put that video up, and I was scared they were right—that it was true, and I was just a big joke, and I guess I . . . thought you guys were gonna think the same thing, so . . .”

  I look at each of their faces, which have all softened the slightest bit. “That’s why I left. And I’m sorry.” I look at Vanessa now. “And I’d like to finish the hike with you guys, if you’ll still have me.”

  It’s quiet for a moment, and then she steps forward. “Of COURSE we will. That’s not even a thing you have to ask—or worry about. Same with everything else. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, but we all get to grow and change. It’s allowed.”

  Beau steps forward, looking like he can’t keep his mouth shut any longer, and I brace myself for him to tell me what he really thinks. But he hugs me instead.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, BA. I didn’t mean to drag any skeletons out of your closet back there.” He pauses. Looks at Josh. “This would be a good time to make your confession, since we’re all laying it out there.”

  Josh shoots him a look.

  “Confession?” I ask.

  He looks at me now. “I already knew about all of that.”

  There’s a long moment, where even the mountains seem to fall quiet.

  “What?”

  He shrugs. “My little sister was a fan of yours, so I knew who you were when I saw you in the Wilderness Office.”

  “But you never brought it up.”

  “Neither did you,” he says simply.

  “But I . . .”

  “I didn’t really think it mattered—except that I thought it was cool that you were actually out here doing what you said you wanted to do.” He lowers his chin so we’re eye to eye. “That’s kinda what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

  I stand there, thumbs looped in the straps of my pack, with no idea what to do or say. />
  “Psst . . . ,” Beau whispers, “this is the part where you do the whole, Oh-my-god-I-didn’t-know-you-knew-that-is-so-sweet thing so we can get going again and hit the Golden Staircase before it gets too hot.”

  That gets everybody laughing, including me and Josh. Our eyes find each other’s again, and he smiles.

  “So are we good?” he asks.

  I look over the faces of these people who have forgiven me more than once now, and I nod. “We’re good.”

  “Thank god for that,” Beau says. “Now let’s go. My legs are cramping up.”

  He steps past us, and Colin follows, stopping to give me a high five. “Good to have you back, Badass.”

  Jack and Vanessa are next, and he pats me on the shoulder as he passes.

  “Josh never said anything about it to any of us,” Vanessa whispers as she passes. “Not that it would’ve mattered anyway.” She smiles. “We all love the Mari we met out here.”

  “And I love you too,” I say.

  She takes my hand and squeezes it before she follows the others up the trail.

  Which leaves just me and Josh.

  I watch as the group makes it around the turn to head up the next switchback, and then I look at him. “Thank you,” I say. “For keeping that secret like you did.”

  “It wasn’t mine to tell.”

  “That’s why it means a lot that you did.”

  “That’s kinda what friends do,” he says with a smile.

  “I guess it is,” I say, and I step forward and give him a hug. “Then I’m happy I have you as my friend.”

  His arms come around me, and he rests his chin on the top of my head. “Same.”

  By the time we make it to the base of the infamous Golden Staircase, the sun beats down, hot and relentless through the thin air of the high altitude. Above us towers not a staircase at all, but a series of increasingly steep, rough-hewn switchbacks that climb the almost vertical mountain wall. Josh tells us how his guidebook says it was the last section of the trail to be completed, and I can see why. I’d put this off if I could too.