I wake up and scroll through Instagram, through an endless stream of beautiful pictures, places, people, food, fun, smiles, laughter, all captured in a tiny frame on my phone. I barely notice anymore who these pictures are from. Occasionally I double tap my approval on a picture. Do I even know this person? Does it matter? I open up my camera roll and I add my picture to the digital stack. I crank the saturation, add a vignette, up the warmth, gotta get those likes. It matters, doesn’t it? To finish it all off I type out a cheery phrase, detail where the photo was taken, some quippy remark that I’m certain nobody will ever read. Nobody ever does, that’s not the point. Gotta get those likes.
My photo says: adventure is so fun. It says: look at this effortless beauty. My phone says: travel is easy and carefree and I’m out there living my best life, just look at this photo, it’s proof. And you believe it. Don’t you?
Photo posted, I ease my body out of bed, my left knee is stiff and doesn’t straighten all the way, a holdover from two ACL surgeries during college that flares up after hours of walking. My feet pad onto the tile floor of the bathroom. The cool tiles feel soothing on the bottom of my swollen feet. Nobody tells you that when you walk all day your feet swell up and they’re hard to put into your cute flats for work on Monday. Nobody ever told me that after hiking through the wilderness for hours and hours on end that my skinny jeans would dig into my calves and ankles that are still puffy as many as three days after I’ve come home. Nobody tells you that. I won’t tell you that.
I don’t think I’ve ever told anybody how truly, remarkably, terrible adventure can be. How much chafe was endured just to get that fucking photo that get’s all those little likes. Because when you write it down like that, adventure doesn’t sound fun. And in many ways it isn’t fun. Pushing yourself outdoors, traveling cross country, seeing new things, climbing big hills, walking all the miles for all the hours until it’s dark and I climb into my little tent alone in the dark. It’s not fun. But it does bring me joy. It brings me more joy than almost anything in my life ever has.
We rolled into and out of Cusco without ever seeing the sun. Only once our little cab had begun its winding descent into the valley outside of the city did my sleep deprived brain begin to churn into motion. This is what Peru is supposed to look like I thought to myself. Green valleys exploded in front of us, puffy clouds grey with impending rain scattered across the horizon, mountains in the distance. I’ve lived near mountains my entire life, but my mountains looked nothing like what I saw here. These were not mountains, but massive, sleeping giants that reached into the sky above us. We were nothing compared to these mountains. These mountains were strangers to me, and yet I loved them instantly.
After the cab we climbed into the back of a truck and set off up a dirt road, after the truck we began to walk. We would walk for the next four days.
Our legs carried us up and up through a lush green valley, above us stood these massive white faces that looked down on us. To the Peruvians Mother Earth is known as Pachamama. I wondered if Pachamama was looking down at her little gringo children. I wondered if she thought of us at all.
We climbed. 11,000 feet, 12,000 feet, 13,000 feet. Tomorrow we would go even higher. Tomorrow we would cross over Salkantay Pass which stood at 15,200 feet, more than 5,000 feet below the peak which bore it’s same name.
As we went to sleep that night, buried under fleece blankets to block out the cold, I wondered what it would be like at 15,200 feet. I couldn’t imagine it. I could only wait for morning to come. I guess I’ll find out I thought as I feel asleep.
And then it was morning. Or, at least, it was time to get up. We dressed in the dark, ate our breakfasts, and listened sleepily as our guide gave us the instructions for the day. I really hope I’m understanding him correctly I thought, knowing that I was the only one here who spoke even remedial Spanish.
Later we would come to find out that I actually hadn’t understood our guide fully. But in the grand scheme of things it didn’t really matter. My misinterpretation would cost us a few hours without our bags, about $100 american dollars, and a fair bit of sanity as I attempted to explain a rather complicated situation in Spanish. But then again, what is travel if not a series of memory-creating fuck ups?
Anyway. By 9am we had summited Salkantay pass, and although it was cold and crowded, and blindingly bright, I thought I should never want to leave this place. I feel like I’m being obtuse when I say that I literally cannot describe its beauty. But there you have it, that’s what pictures are for.
I woke up in the back seat of my car, just as the sun started to creep over the granite faces that marked the entrance to Sequoia National Park. Now, this probably sounds like opening to a story where I confess that I’ve become homeless and destitute. But I promise that’s not the case. Instead I was casually sleeping on the side of the road so that I could get to the ranger station early in order to secure my backcountry permit. I had been looking forward to this trip all week: 30 miles and nearly 10,000 feet of gain, up and over innumerable passes in Sequoia’s Mineral King backcountry. Just me and my backpack. For this trip I wouldn’t even have a tent. Actually, you know what, that does sound a little bit like homelessness. Sorry mom.
9am found me on the trail, steadily climbing up into the mountains. Away from the friendly rangers, away from my happy little car, away, in a sense, from safety. I knew this trip was going to be hard. I had planned this trip specifically so it would be hard. I wanted a real challenge, and to strip away everything I thought I could do without. I knew the only way I’d make my goal (finishing the entire loop and making it back to my car before dark on Sunday) would be to go as light, fast, and lucky as possible. I was really, really excited.
I get a lot of praise and incredulity from my mountain exploits. Just as often as people tell me I’m amazing or badass, they also tell me I’m crazy. And then, without prompting, people love to tell me they could never do what I do. That they’d be too scared of bears/snakes/the dark/getting lost/whatever, to hike alone in the wilderness. Do you want to know a fun fact? That’s true. And no amount of being told how safe the wilderness can be, or what steps to take to protect yourself will convince those people otherwise.
Now, I can hear what you’re saying what kind of crap is she getting at? and that’s not very inspirational! And yeah, you’re correct. But you know what is also correct? That you can’t logic yourself out of fear. In my experience, the only way you get over the shit you tell yourself you can’t do is to do it. Sorry buttercup.
It was 5pm when I sat on a blackened log in the middle of a recent burn area. The scorched earth matched my mood as I dutifully stuffed calories in my face. Just hours before I had been frolicking through a Disney-esque mountain landscape irrationally happy and fueled with gluten free oreos. Now, I was having a low moment. This is supposed to be hard I told myself, that’s the point. Strangely that helped me feel better. Good, I thought if it’s hard, and it sucks, then I’m doing it right. Heaving my bag onto my shoulders I slogged down the trail. I walked, and I walked and I walked. Up and over mountains, past lakes.
And I kept doing it all the way into camp. Oh my god, I have never been happier to see a camp. And eat food, and sit down and know I don’t have to move for several hours. Funny how the little things can seem so luxurious.
Look at this Disney shit! How is this even real life?
Hammock camping had proved to be a complete disaster as every little breeze made me think that a bear was swatting at me like a meat-piñata. But morning had finally come, and despite my sleep deprivation I was ready to get on the trail. A breakfast of too-sweet coffee and s’mores ensued, and soon I was summiting the first pass of the day. I felt incredible, let out a primal yell of joy incredible. Do a dance on top of the mountain incredible! I practically ran down the backside of Black Rock Pass, thinking to myself it’s all downhill from here. And then it started to rain.
And this is the best part of backpacking. Which I know sounds like crap, but bear with me. The part of the day where you realize you’ve miscalculated mileage. The part of the day where you realize the final pass you have to climb is 2,400 feet up, not 500 feet up. The part of the day when it starts to rain and then hail on you but you don’t have a rain jacket because you thought you’d be back at the car by now. Those parts are freaking awesome.
I cannot even right now! Just look at this, it’s so f–king majestic!
Why? Because when you’re on the trail, the only way out is through. And when things go to crap, you have no choice but to get your shit together and hike your soggy butt over the mountain. Because, literally, there is no alternative. Well, I guess you could curl up under a tree and live like a squirrel for the rest of your life, but I know personally I would miss things like electricity and warm showers, so you should probably just keep hiking
And look, eventually I did make it out. I didn’t have to fashion a laptop out of twigs and pinecones in order to write this blog post. Eventually I got back to my car, and it was still daylight too. And as a result I’m pretty sure I’m a stronger person for it. And I know for a fact that I’m a heck of a lot more appreciative of the little things. Like sitting on soft stuff that isn’t rocks, and not smelling terrible. Seriously though, deodorant is pretty incredible.
So maybe give yourself some credit, and try something you think you can’t do. Because what is the worst that could happen, you get eaten by a bear? Ok, yeah that probably is the worst case scenario. But when you wake up in the mountains and you realize you haven’t been eaten by a bear, and you didn’t die, or wake up to find a gaggle of hillbillies have made you their bride, you’ll probably be pretty proud of yourself, and realize that maybe nature isn’t such a big, scary place.
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