The Other Side of Lost

by Jessi Kirby

  But we don’t. Instead, we begin, and all the way up, I think about how the things that loom large are actually smaller once you take the first few steps of dealing with them, and how Bri has been showing me this from the moment I set foot on the trail.

  The climb is hot and dusty, and we stick together for this part, weaving our way, step by step, up toward the underside of the cloudless blue sky. When we finally reach the top and stand there together, I look over the faces of these people who were strangers to me not long ago, and it’s almost too much, the way my heart swells when I realize that, in the miles we’ve traveled, they truly have become my friends.

  The kind that feel like family.

  Like My Own

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS bring the hard territory Bri wrote about in her note. Each day holds a higher, steeper pass to climb. We rise early in the morning and prepare, mentally and physically, for the challenge of the most difficult section of trail we’ve covered thus far. But, like Bri also said, the rest of the hike has all been preparation for this. Strength, grit, determination. All of those qualities are at our disposal now, and they all come into play.

  First is Mather Pass, a section so steep and technical that it feels more like rock climbing than hiking. The next day we tackle Pinchot Pass beneath threatening skies, and make it over just as the lightning and hail descend alongside us and we have to spend the afternoon huddled in our tents, waiting out the storm.

  The day after that brings a section of trail that takes us deep into a canyon where sheer rock walls tower above us as we wade through multiple tributaries that feed the creek at the bottom. It’s on this day that we have one of the scariest creek crossings of the whole trek. It happens when we reach the north bank of Woods Creek, which roars and tumbles over itself beneath an imposing suspension bridge. It sways in the wind as we all stand at the base of the metal staircase that leads up to the platform, and all I can think is that I can’t believe that someone actually spent the time to build something like this, so far out here.

  “So who’s going first?” Colin asks.

  “I will,” I say. I don’t know where it comes from, but I really do want to.

  Jack lifts his hand for a high five, and I slap it.

  “Get it, Badass!” Beau says. “Better you than me.”

  “And me,” Josh says, eyeing the bridge.

  Vanessa looks at me. “You totally got this.”

  I climb up the narrow staircase and stop in front of the wooden sign at the top of the platform that reads: ONE PERSON AT A TIME ON BRIDGE. And as soon as I step onto the bridge, I understand why. It dips low, then bounces back, and I have to grab the cables to steady myself.

  “Holy shit,” I hear Beau say behind me. “That thing is no joke.”

  The whole bridge sways beneath me with each step I take, and the cables groan with the movement. I look down at my boots on the weathered wood planks, and the churning whitewater far below them. And I realize something important in this moment: I don’t feel like I’m wearing someone else’s boots, or doing someone else’s hike anymore.

  This, all of it, has become my own.

  We camp that night at Rae Lakes Basin, where emerald grass blooms with a prism of colorful wildflowers. We wash our tired bodies in the cold water, shivering and laughing, and feeling alive before we fall into our sleeping bags, exhausted, in the best sort of way.

  Josh and I spend these nights lying together beneath the stars long after everyone else has gone to bed, not wanting to miss a moment of them, or of the time we have left together here on the trail. We talk about our childhoods and our futures, share our most embarrassing stories, and our secret hopes. It’s easy to be ourselves with each other, and I can feel us growing closer in a way that I hope doesn’t stop when we reach the end of the trail.

  I wake early each morning, before everyone else, and take the time to write in my journal. Sometimes it’s a plan for the day. Others, a note to Bri. I tell her how my time out here has changed me, and how thankful I am to her for that. I write down things I want to do when I get back—take photos, travel, spend more time with my mom, keep in touch with these friends.

  I think we all can feel our time on the trail winding down, and because of that, each day goes by almost too fast. On the day we reach the summit of Forester Pass, we stand taking in the stunning view from 13,127 feet with a mix of awe and sadness. We are 199 miles into our journey of 211, and there are just two days left before Mount Whitney and the end of the trail.

  The next morning, we all rise early to watch the hazy pink lift from the mountains as the sun comes up and the day unfolds, cloudless and golden, in front of us. Today, we hike at a leisurely pace, soaking it all up, because this is our last day on the trail before Mount Whitney, and because it feels bittersweet.

  We reach Guitar Lake in the early afternoon, and the sun shines down through water so clear I can see all the way to the bottom of the lake. There is no one else around so we make our camp near the water’s edge, then strip down for our last mountain lake swim. The water is breath-stoppingly cold when I dive in, but I take a stroke beneath the surface, seeing how far I can glide. I open my eyes, and for a brief moment, I can almost see Bri, swimming just ahead of me through the crystal water—vibrant, and full of life and joy like I know she would be if she were here now. And then she disappears.

  Beneath the surface of the water, the pain of missing her is a sharp point in a still-healing wound. But when I come up for air, and I see my friends swimming in the blue of this lake, nestled in the basin of the mountains we’ve just climbed, beneath the endless summer sky, that pain softens around the edges into something different. Something that feels like healing.

  That night, we sit around our last campfire, pooling everything we have left to eat in our packs for a trail feast. Colin cooks his best batch ever of ramen for everyone, Jack and Vanessa bring out the last of their vacuum-sealed pesto pasta—their trail specialty. Josh figures out a way to make a “cake” from a box of Betty Crocker mix he found in the hiker box, and I break out the last of my instant mashed potatoes and dried fruit. Beau, of course, supplies a little something for toasting, and we eat to our hearts’ content, and sit around the fire for the last time, way past hikers’ midnight, laughing together until the embers are all that’s left.

  So She Did

  THE ALARM ON Josh’s watch wakes me in the dark. He hits the button before anyone else stirs, and rolls onto his side so he’s facing me. “Today’s the day,” he whispers. “You ready for the summit at sunrise?”

  I’d showed him Bri’s last letter, so we made sure to plan it out just right for us to arrive on the peak with the sun.

  “Yes,” I say. “No—I don’t know.” I nuzzle down into my sleeping bag and look up at the sea of stars. I don’t want this to be over. I finally feel at home, both in the wild, and in myself, and I don’t ever want to go back to not feeling that way.

  “Are you ready?” I ask Josh.

  “I think so.”

  We lie there side by side for a few more minutes before we wake the others, and then it’s time to dress and break camp. Though there’s no one else around, we are uncharacteristically quiet this morning as we get ready. We put on our headlamps and begin packing up our tents and sleeping bags without speaking. There’s no need to go over the day’s hike. We know that the summit of Whitney is about six miles from here—our shortest mile day of the entire trail. But in these miles is a huge elevation gain, to the highest altitude we will have reached. We eat a breakfast of Clif Bars and do one final sweep of our camp with our lights to make sure we haven’t left anything behind.

  And then we begin our final ascent up the rocky trail in the cold dark of night. The moon hides behind the mountains, nothing more than a faint glow illuminating their towering silhouettes against the crystal clear sky. Josh takes the lead, and this morning I walk with him instead of hanging in the back. Beau and Colin follow behind me, and Jack and Vanessa take up the rear. We move slowly,
as a group, with our heads down, eyes on the ground in front of us, taking it one step at a time, as we begin the long climb.

  The only sounds are of boots crunching over the dirt, and our breathing. I focus on my own breath, working to keep it calm and even as we go, because I’m already emotional. I can feel the ending that this represents, and even with all the time I’ve had to think out here, I’m still not sure what comes next when I have to go back to my life. I don’t know what that will look like, only that it will be different from before.

  “Look,” Josh says. He stops for a second and points, and far below us, I can see the bobbing lights of other hikers making their way up the mountain like we are. I feel a sense of camaraderie with the people behind those lights, whoever they are. Each drawn here for their own reasons, but united by this common thing we’ve all decided to do. Maybe that’s the point—not to have figured out life by the end of it, but to have experienced living in an entirely different way. Fully present, and in ourselves, where we have to sit with our faults and find our strengths. One step at a time.

  Who knows how many steps we take, or how much time passes, but in what feels like the blink of an eye, we reach the Whitney Trail Crest Junction sign, our almost there mark. We leave our packs, taking only our water bottles as we join the trickle of hikers coming from Whitney Portal below for the final two miles. I can feel a sense of excitement rising in me now, and I think our whole group does.

  We pick up our pace the slightest bit as the stars begin to fade and the sky softens into its predawn palette. Our first view of the giant, barren slope we are ascending emerges, and the trail grows rockier, the footing more uneven as it curves around to the final switchbacks. We move, up and up, and I feel in my chest how thin the air is at this altitude. Even after all of the mountains and passes we’ve climbed, the strain this peak puts on my body is evident in every step I take. But we are racing the rising sun, so we push back against the discomfort, and the steepness, and we keep climbing. And finally, in a moment I can hardly believe, the stone summit shack comes into view, and we’ve almost arrived. My legs burn and ache with the effort of each step, but knowing I’m so close gives me the energy for the final push over the uneven boulders.

  And then suddenly, I’ve made it. I have reached the summit of Mount Whitney.

  It’s a surreal feeling, to be standing on top of this peak that is taller than any other mountain around, for miles and miles. I stop and take three deep breaths and try to soak up every last detail of this moment that Bri wrote about. This moment that I am standing higher in the sky than I have ever stood before, seeing a thing that most people will never see—the valley that yawns and stretches for miles far, far below us, the sun, blazing and golden as it rises in the distance, bathing the surrounding mountains in soft, rose light. The awed, smiling faces of each of my companions, glowing with the same light.

  And Bri. I feel her all around me. In the sky and the mountains, the light, and the breeze that lifts stray strands of my hair and sets them dancing in the sunrise. I know she’s here with me now, and that she has been all along. Every moment, every step, she’s been there, helping me find my way, pushing me to find myself, and finally leading me here, now, to a place where the horizon is bright, and the possibilities are endless because I know now what’s in me.

  Josh looks at me and takes my hand. “And so she did,” he says softly.

  We watch in silence as the sun rises to its place in the morning sky and that magic, in-between moment dissolves into a new day.

  Behind us, there are voices, and I turn just in time to catch the awed look on the faces of two female hikers as they make it over the crest and realize they’ve reached the top. When they see us, they give an excited wave, which we return, but nobody says anything. Instead, we walk the ridge slowly, with a quiet kind of reverence before we step up to the summit building to take our turns at the trail register and add our names to the long list of hikers who’ve come before us.

  The group gestures for me to go first.

  When I step up to sign it, my chest tightens, and the pen shakes in my hand as it hovers over the book. I close my eyes for a moment, then open them and take one deep breath, and then another. Tears spill down my cheeks with the third one, but I don’t wipe them away.

  I bring my fingers to my lips and blow one last kiss to the sky.

  And then, with a steady hand, I write Bri’s name.

  Next to it, my own.

  I look at our names there on the page, proof that we were here, that we did this together, and of one thing I know for certain—if we have the courage to make the journey, the other side of lost is a place where life, truth, and undeniable beauty are waiting to be found.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve been asked many times why I write stories about grief and loss, and in the past my answer has always been that what I’m actually writing about is life, and how beautiful and sacred it is. This still holds true for me, but there’s more behind this one.

  When I had the idea for this story, it was at a time when a dear family friend of ours was making her way across Europe, experiencing life and the world in a way that was incredibly inspiring to me. I wanted to weave her adventurous spirit into Mari’s journey, so she became the inspiration behind Bri.

  Originally, the two girls were going to do the hike together, and this would be the story of how they rediscovered each other and themselves on the trail. I loved the idea of writing about adventure, empowerment, and the bond between them. I can also remember being happy that it would be my first story that wasn’t somehow tied to grief or loss.

  But a few months later, this friend who had inspired me so much was in a car accident that took her life. It was a long time before I could sit down to write, and when I did, the story had changed. I wrote this book in a time when I was still deep in grief over the loss of her, but I didn’t want it to be about that. I wanted it to be a celebration of all she taught me about living, and a thank-you for touching my life in such a profound way.

  And so my deepest gratitude for this story goes to Sabrina Jensen. Sabrina, thank you. You touched us all with your light and joy and big fiery spirit. You taught me to be braver and more adventurous. You showed me how to live with an open heart. Still, you remind me to see beauty all around, and to cherish each day, because they are all precious. Thank you. And thank you for being with me, word by word, page by page, as I wrote this story, which I hope honors the gifts you’ve given me.

  To Sean Jensen and Sandra Ruffini, thank you for the gift you gave all those who knew your daughter and for so graciously allowing me to weave her words into this story. It fills me with love and gratitude to see them on these pages.

  To Noah Van Goa, thank you for sharing your love and your stories of Sabrina with me. I cherish them.

  To my own family, thank you for being there throughout this process as you always are, with so much love and understanding, patience and support, and of course, chocolate and coffee.

  And speaking of support, I couldn’t make it through the writing of any book without two amazing writer friends. Morgan Matson, thank you for your title and tagline genius and your willingness to talk plot and help me find my way out of the woods. You are always the brightest spot of sunshine. And Sarah Ockler, thank you for gently being there for me as I wrote this, and for the care, insight, and sensitivity you brought to your reading of my drafts. You understand my heart in a way I am so thankful for.

  A special thank-you goes to Kymba Bartley, who gave me the amazing opportunity to climb Mount Whitney in the middle of all this. Thank you for inviting me, for believing in me, and for pushing me farther and higher than I realized I could go. You are a truly inspiring woman, and I am so, so proud to call you my friend.

  To my agent, Leigh Feldman, thank you for always having my back, and for your continued support, encouragement, and moxie, which I love.

  To Alexandra Cooper, I can’t believe it’s been six books now! Thank you for helpi
ng me, once again, to find my way to the story I set out to write. I treasure your guidance and insight.

  Thank you to Alyssa Miele, associate editor, for all that you do, and for making me feel like I always have someone there.

  I feel incredibly fortunate to be part of the Harper family and work with an amazing group of talented people who love what they do: Rosemary Brosnan, Kathryn Silsand, Mark Rifkin, Katie Fitch, Erin Fitzsimmons, Kristen Eckhardt, Vanessa Nuttry, Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, Olivia Russo—you are an incredible team. Thank you for your dedication and hard work. And to Annica Lydenberg, thank you for the cover art, which is so perfect for this story.

  And finally, thank you to all of the readers out there. It is a generous thing to pick up a book and choose to take the journey with its characters, and it means so much to me that you do. Thank you for reading. Thank you for writing to me. Thank you for sharing your love of stories with such joy and enthusiasm. You are amazing, and I am so grateful.

  About the Author

  Photo by Sarah Ockler

  JESSI KIRBY is a writer for young adults whose first book, Moonglass, was named an ABA New Voices Pick. She has also written four other novels—In Honor, Golden, Things We Know by Heart, and The Secret History of Us. Jessi lives in central California with her husband and two kids. You can visit her online at www.jessikirby.com.

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  Books by Jessi Kirby

  Moonglass

  In Honor

  Golden