Category: Musings

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Anticipation

In April of 2016 I decided I was going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico. The first person I told about this plan was my boyfriend, Keith. We were in our apartment, the two rooms with the yellow walls and the apple tree in the lawn. I let him know that in 2018 I’d be leaving Los Angeles, my job, and our home together. That I’d be chasing this dream that had reached up and grabbed me; a dream I couldn’t shake loose. I didn’t ask him for permission, nor did I exactly invite him to come along with me, I simply stated my intentions and hoped for the best. It was a risk. It continues to be a risk. And I was comfortable in the idea that I could very likely be tackling this adventure alone. Later, to my surprise and delight, Keith told me he wanted to come along on my wild dream, that this was something he wanted us to do together. From that moment on it was our dream.  We had an audacious goal that felt deeply special, like the whole PCT was just for us. Our lives in Los Angeles now operated against a ticking clock – one that would take nearly two years to wind down.

Humans, it would seem, are obsessed with big improbable dreams, the Olympics are certainly proof of that. But what I never reconciled about big dreams, is that they operate on long timelines, years where things could go wrong, months and days where plans can change and fantasies can fall apart. These long timelines are ripe with potential pitfalls, but also quiet moments where one’s mind drifts off to what could be. What it would feel like to stand at the start of an epic adventure, what the daily miscellanea will feel like, and the imagined euphoria of completion. It’s like being a kid before Christmas. Yet, with the perspective of age I’ve come to realize that the anticipation might just be the best part, and it also might be the most damaging part too. Because life attempts to teach us that what we want and what we get are often different, what we hope will be true can mar the experience of what is. Anticipation can loom so large and magnificent that the real experience could never live up to the effortlessly beautiful film reel that plays in our minds. Even the knowledge of inevitable pain and challenge is muted until it is nothing more than a dull ache echoing from a far away place.

The time for us to depart on our hike is rapidly approaching. The little apartment with the yellow walls has been stripped of everything that once made it ours and the anticipation of what is to come fills my waking mind. I’ve stopped living in the present and started living in a distant fictional reality where the world is at once more wonderful and extreme and dangerous. A world, where unbidden to reality, my rapidly spiraling imagination can picture a thousand outcomes replete with detailed fictional characters. Day dreams where I can swap out details and scenarios, replay them until they’re right or wrong or poignant enough to feel almost real. In some, I’m witty and kind, the best version of myself, and thru hiking is an effortless dream scape. In some I’m argumentative and petty or worse, I balk and retreat where I would rather I stand up for what I believe, and I’m ashamed and mad at this future fictional self. In the present however, I know that I am all of these things, which is what makes these anticipatory day dreams so captivating, they’re all based on some granule of truth. Just because something feels real, doesn’t make it real, or even possible, and I fear that my daydreams will cloud my reality to the point where the only outcome is disappointment.

The PCT is one thing – a finite trail,  defined by milage and markers, but it is also a million things – daily struggles and pain and joy and apathy and who knows what else. I’m worried that I’ll meet people on the trail who are as toxic and problematic as they appear on the PCT Facebook page, where casual derision and sexism are par for the course. I’m afraid that when I meet these people I’ll let their behavior wash past me, and I will disengage, using my privilege to retreat to a safe space. At the same time I’m worried that I will stand by my convictions and as a result I will be friendless all the way to Canada, ostracized and mocked and threatened.

I’m also afraid, so afraid, that some unforeseen accident will keep me from finishing the trail. That two years of planning and dreaming and hoping will all be for nothing. I’m afraid that my very body which has carried me through 29 years of not terribly kind treatment will simply fail to tote my brain all the way to Canada. Or perhaps that my tendons will all swell and freeze into place and I will have to admit that hiking, this thing that feels like part of me, is not meant for me. That I won’t be strong or adaptable enough to persevere and that I’ll have to live with the knowledge of that. I’m worried that Keith will hate the trail and I’ll have to carry on alone, or worse, that we’ll fall away from each other and the four years we’ve spent building a life together will cease to matter. That I’ll finish the trail alone, in a new city without a job or an apartment or friends.  

In writing this, I’m attempting to concur another fear – around the very real possibility of public failure. Of stating my plans for this grand adventure, writing about my hike on this blog and then falling short, the embarrassment of having to explain that I failed. There are perfectionist tendencies which roil inside me, and the few things in my life that I’m very proud of are those which were nearly impossible upon the outset. With a finishing rate of around 30%, the PCT certainly falls into the category of things I’m statistically likely to fail at, and while that is scary, it is also what draws me to this challenge.

Fear, however, is not my only companion on my approach to the PCT, though at times it is certainly the loudest. There is an ache that resonates inside me, that calls me towards the mountains, and I yearn for the opportunity to explore that, to deepen my connection to old places I love and new places I’ve yet to be acquainted with. I’m looking forward to the muscle pain of effort, the euphoria of endorphins rushing between my ears. I want to meet wonderful people and share this experience with them. I want to take on the world with this man who feels like home, and I want us to grow together and become better both individually and apart. The anticipation of cold mornings, boring snacks, suffocating laughter, and  tear inducing frustration, I’ve anticipated it all, I want it all. But I also know, that what I can imagine is not all there is.

How can you possibly anticipate a future about which you know almost nothing? So much of the map, both literal and emotional, is blank. There are vast stretches of this trail which are totally foreign to me, there are people I have never imagined meeting, and yet I will. Experiences I won’t expect to have, and yet I will. There is fear in the unknown, but also the opportunity for discovery, and when I try and think of all the eventualities that lay beyond the horizon I’m awed at the immensity of it. I cannot help but laugh at my audacity, for thinking I could plan out this trip, anticipate everything that could be. The honest truth is that I have about as much knowledge of the next nine months of my life as I do of 1920’s refrigerator maintenance.

Amongst all the things I have tried to anticipate, there is the one thing I’ve tried to push completely from my mind: what would my future look like if everything stayed the same. There is fear in the unknown, yes, but for me there is a much greater fear of stagnation and dull uniformity. What if in my quest for challenge and newness I find nothing so much as the same person I am now? What if nothing changes and I’m spat out on the far side of the Canadian border as lost and wondering and confused as I am now? What if the PCT isn’t a life changing experience, but just another experience in a life? Is it possible to step off the map, only to find yourself on another map, walking down another road and wondering how you got there?

In planning to depart for the PCT I’ve tried, almost certainly in vain, to anticipate what is to come. As though by sheer volume of thought I could safeguard myself against future pain and disappointment. But the time has come to let go of all those thoughts and accept that I cannot know what is coming, and that I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be scared of change, and newness, and doing hard things, but I’m not allowed to not try. In electing to leave behind comfort and stability for something grand and unknowable, I’m accepting that fear is part of the process. But I want to believe that I’m the type of person who can do hard things, and the only way to prove that to myself is to do the hard things, and hopefully, to grow.

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Things I’ve Learned From The Trees

When the world seems a dismal place, I like to think about what we can learn from the trees. The value of silently observing the world as it changes around you. The deep quiet of solitude, loneliness, the simple act of standing witness to the passage of time. Being committed to just one thing: growth. Living in a way that does good for the world; and knowing that even the sentinels of the forest are not without their flaws. For even the most resplendent tree casts a shadow upon the ground that keeps the ferns from growing.That it is impossible to live a life that is devoid of harming others, but, tandemly, simply because something is impossible doesn’t preclude it from being worthy of our attention, our efforts.

After all, it was impossible for man to reach beyond our little blue dot and sail to the mood. It was impossible right up to the moment that we decided to test our hypothesis of impossibility. In doing so we move the bar just that much further, set a new impossible, a vast horizon on which we can build and destroy dreams so grand, that from here, their greatness makes them all but invisible.

When I look at the world and see all the greed and indifference, the shame and confusion, I think of the trees. The old giants.

I like to imagine a stand of soaring pine trees which no man has ever seen. Trees that took root before this great democratic experiment, before you, before me, before anyone you’ve ever had the slightest possibility of knowing came into being. When I look at the trees, not the tame, domesticated blooms that adorn our city street and front lawns, but the wild ineffable misers who live out their lives – which are so inexpressibly different from our own –  away from the prying eyes of humans. When I think of these trees – it feels like the greatest form of hubris that we should endeavor to write our stories on their skin.

These trees don’t strive to have their names written in the pages of our history books. Instead, they are the pages of our history books, the pages of nearly every human story, the true and the tabloid, the sweeping epic and the stereo installation manual. And if tomorrow, we are called upon by some desire within ourselves to cut these giants down; to bring their soaring-ever-reaching limbs crashing down to earth, they will not complain, but simply acquiesce to our desires and we will have lost something grand and powerful, and very nearly the closest thing we have on this planet to the divine. We will have lost a teacher.

For the trees know we are small confused mammals with minds that are smaller still. They accept us and our hubris, our carelessness, our ceaseless errors, knowing that these flaws are simply part of our DNA, and they forgive us. And in their silence they hold space for us to learn. To grow not as they do, but in our own way.

The trees teach us that there is an awesome power in growth, in being huge, fat, bursting in our liveliness, and that it does not do to make oneself small. Conversely, they also show us that the notions of who is better and best does nothing but divide us, and that living only to take is not only cruel, but so beyond pointless that only a silly little animal like a human would spend their one fleeting, glorious life in pursuit of this pyrrhic victory.

I like to look to the trees, and know that one day, all of it, all of you, will be gone, as surely and completely as the silence that stood in your place before you arrived. And then what? Just the trees and the dirt will remain, until one day, they too are swallowed up by the gaping maw of space. And we are, all of us, returned to the star dust from which we came.

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I Was a Privileged Jerk and it Taught me a Lot About Inclusivity in the Outdoors

Story time!

This picture has nothing to do with the below story, it’s just a nice sunset pic that I took near my house.

Some years ago, when I was still awkwardly attempting to navigate the Los Angeles dating scene I went on a date with a dude, we’d hit it off moderately well, and arranged for a second date the next week. I had just gotten back into hiking in a big way and thought that a perfect (and cheap) date would be a hike in the Santa Monica mountains above LA. I had everything planned out and texted him the details. His reply: “What does one wear to go hiking?”

Honestly, this totally threw me. I thought that everybody knew what you’d wear to go hiking, it seemed so obvious to me, and downright silly that somebody wouldn’t know. I told him shorts and regular athletic shoes would do the trick. He told me the only shorts he owned were boxer shorts, and then I proceeded to get really awkward and cancel our date.

What I should have done was to pick an easy hike that could be navigated in jeans and town shoes, helped him find a way to participate in the outdoors without spending a bunch of money, and then slowly ease him into something I was really passionate about.

What I did do was to blow him off, then mock him behind his back to my friends. Smooth.

And why? All because he didn’t know how to participate in a sport that is almost exclusively marketed to straight, white, wealthy, able bodied, men. That’s crazy messed up people, and I deserve zero credit for finally coming to this realization! The truth is, that this realization was nearly five years in the making (now that’s embarrassing), that being a good ally is a continual learning process for which you are responsible, not the oppressed and marginalized people. And while I 100% believe that nature is for everyone, I also know that the “outdoors community” can be downright exclusionary.

I grew up in a white, middle-class family, I lived in a city that had easy access to open spaces, my parents had the money and free time to help me get out there and explore, all of which equals one thing: privilege. Privilege I am grateful for every time I step on a trail, but privilege none the less.

Conversely, imagine growing up near downtown LA and trying to visit Yosemite – one of America’s most visited and most popular National Parks.  What if your parents don’t work a cushy white collar job with PTO and ample access to a car? Just to get to Yosemite you’d have to hop a bus to union station, from there you’d take an AMTRAK bus to Bakersfield, CA, then you get on a train to Merced, CA, get on another bus that would take you into the park. All told 10+ hours of travel, and $60-$80 just to get there, and then you still have to get home! With a car it would take 4.5 hours and $30 one way.

So let’s all stop living this collective lie that our national parks are truly accessible to everyone. And recognize that our outdoors media largely isn’t representative of the amazing kaleidoscope of colors/genders/sizes/abilities that make up the human race.

But, I also recognize that me as a white woman talking about how I messed up when it comes to inclusion isn’t moving the ball down the field. Below are a few awesome bloggers from a diverse range of backgrounds who are making their presence in the outdoors community know. Please leave a comment below with any other awesome outdoors folks who have inspired you and are making our natural spaces more diverse and inclusive!

OutDoor Afro – Where Black People and Nature Meet
Outdoor Afro has become the nation’s leading, cutting edge network that celebrates and inspires African American connections and leadership in nature. They help people take better care of themselves, their communities, and our planet! With more than 60 leaders in 28 states from around the country, they connect thousands of people to outdoor experiences.

Vanessa Pamela Freedman – Dramatic But Honest
Vanessa is a bad ass lady hiker and writer who, aside from other awesome things, hiked 450 miles of the PCT this year! She’s a self proclaimed  “queer feminist writer and photographer who is usually based in Portland, OR but is currently traveling around Europe. I’ve got a pink sleeping bag, a pink journal, and a lot of feelings.” You can find more of her on Flex Your Heart Radio in her awesome interview titled “I Walked 454 Miles and I Still Feel Like I Failed” – this interview is definitely worth a listen.

The Blackalachian aka Daniel White
Daniel completed his thru hike of the Appalachian trail in 2017, and is currently in the process of planning a 2018 thru hike of the PCT. His Instagram account is a funny and irreverent look at life on the trail through his eyes. This month The Trek wrote a profile on Daniel, and it’s 100% worth a read.

Jenny Bruso of Unlikely Hikers
Jenny describes herself as “a self-identified fat, femme, queer, writer and former indoor kid who, in 2012, went on an accidental hike which revealed a new life trajectory of healing, self-care and adventure in the outdoors. Through sharing my personal stories and the @UnlikelyHikers Instagram community, I want to bust up preconceived notions of what an “outdoorsperson” looks like and put a spotlight on diversity, inclusion and visibility. I live and adventure in Portland, Oregon.”

Latino Outdoors Blog
From their about page: “We bring cultura into the outdoor narrative and connect Latino communities and leadership with nature and outdoor experiences.” Their blog series “Yo Cuento Outdoors” is filled with engaging pieces featuring community members. For additional reading, VOX published an awesome piece titled “The Strangeness of Being a Latina Who Loves Hiking.”

Able Outdoors
Their mission is to bring the entire accessible outside world into one place, to be an information source for everything outdoors: hunting, fishing, travel & all types of outdoor recreation. Their Facebook page is another awesome resource where athletes can connect with each other, share stories, and find resources.

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7 Stupid Questions to Stop Asking The Female Hikers and Backpackers In Your Life

This is me being tired of dumb questions.

I get it, stupid questions are part of the human experience, whether it be from people who are too lazy to google something for themselves, or perhaps they prefer to roll the verbal dice and choose not to think about what they’re saying before it pops out of their mouth. After all, we could all use a little more surprise in our life. What better way to accomplish that than by saying the first thing that comes to mind?

But seriously, if you spend any time in the outdoors, I’m going to bet you’ve been asked these questions before. Maybe from your well-meaning grandma who genuinely has no idea what backpacking even means. Or perhaps, the ever insidious Creepy Guy at a Gas Station who likes to “tell you how it is” despite never having been more than 10 miles from where he’s standing right now. Add to that the radical act of simply being a woman in this world, and I can all but guarantee you’ve been stopped either on the trail, or by someone in your daily life and confronted about the how, what, and why of your chosen hobby.

Below you’ll find the 7 most groan-inducing questions that the lady backpackers and hikers in your life are supremely tired of hearing.

1 – Are you doing this because of that movie Wild?

At the writing of this article, I’m pretty certain that everybody and their mom has seen Wild. And if you saw Wild and it inspired you to get outside and explore, or turn to nature as a means of healing, then I am by no means throwing shade. You do you, Boo.

This question is infuriating because it insinuates that we never would have gone outside if we hadn’t seen a movie about it first.

I find that most people who ask this question are trying to grasp the tiny sliver of information that they have associated with women hiking as a means to connect. When viewed against the scores of movies that feature men going out and tackling adventure, Wild stands very much alone against a backdrop of white able-bodied men. However, I have never met a woman who started hiking because she read or watched Wild. 

2 – You’re going out there by yourself?

Why yes, yes I am. This question falls into the “I don’t believe it’s safe for a woman to travel alone” lie that we’ve all been told by society. And if you’re really worried about my safety, then maybe start speaking up against a society in which men are told that hurting women is ok. Start speaking up about rape culture, slut shaming, and start asking why men are so broken internally that they feel the need to harm women, girls, and young boys. Here, this TED Talk is a good place to start:



3 – Do you carry a gun?

What? Jesus, no! I do not now, nor have I ever carried a gun, a giant knife, pepper spray, or another form of protection. Only once in a very specific situation I carried bear spray, and the insinuation that I need protection while traveling in nature is a tad disturbing.

The biggest reason for this is that I’m not planning on shooting wild animals. Why? Because they’re not very likely to attack me. The second reason is that in the backcountry I’m relatively safe from other people. Real talk, the biggest danger in my daily life are regular people. And beyond the obvious logic of it all, not all National Parks and protected Wilderness areas allow guns, either for carry or for hunting.

While I personally do not carry a weapon on me, some women elect to. That’s their right. Still, don’t go around asking people this.

4 – Aren’t you too old/young/brown/small/female/fat/weak to handle backpacking or hiking?

This is a terribly rude and offensive thing to ask someone. What the fuck are you thinking?

This question translates to: you don’t look like the kind of person I expect to be in the outdoors, so I’m going to tell you that you don’t fit into the stereotype of “outdoorsy people” I’ve built in my mind.

Fuck these people, nature is for everybody. If somebody asks you this, kick them in the shins and walk away. You don’t need those people in your life.

5 – Are your parents ok with this? What about your boyfriend/husband/SO?

This question is belittling and insulting on a number of levels, to which I’ve created a small script you can recite to the next person who asks you this:
“I am an independent adult woman, which means that I am not the property of, nor beholden to, anyone else. What I choose to do with my time is not subject to the approval of my parents or partner.” Enough said. And if they protest, then kick them in the shins and walk away. You don’t need these people in your life either.

6 – What about bears?

What about them?  Have I seen bears? Yes. Normally I see their big furry butts as they’re running away from me. Because humans are freaky scary creatures with a habit of killing bears and encroaching into their territories in noisy ways. Bears are scared of you, and any bear that isn’t has been removed from the North American gene pool years ago.

What this question means in reality is “I’ve heard about bear attacks and I’m scared and you should be scared too, and if you’re not your dumb.” Typically this question comes from people who are both afraid and deeply uniformed about bears in North America. We call this ignorance.

In the last 20 years there have been 25 fatal black bear attacks in North America, the majority of which have taken place in Canada and Alaska. This works out to about 1.25 attacks each year. Compared to the number of people going backpacking or hiking this works out to a .00000003% chance of being attacked by a bear each year. Want a really scary fact? In 2015, 1.6 of every 1,000 people in America were raped or sexually assaulted. So let’s give the bears a break and worry about the real issues we all face in society.

7- Why?

I honestly don’t know what people are hoping to gain from this questions. Why do people do anything? For many women, getting out in nature is a deeply personal, sacred thing. A better question is “tell me what you love about backpacking.” But if you’re just going to ask “why” with mouth agape, don’t be surprised if the lady you’re asking says “why not?” and walks away.

And if you want to know more about our hiking experiences ask us about our favorite trails and why, what is the best season to get out in, or perhaps when we first realized how delightful and challenging and freeing exploring our wild places can be.

I’m not here to put a stop to you asking questions, every outdoors person I know would love the opportunity to talk more about their passion for the outdoors. What we’re all getting sick of is people trying to impose their own worries and misunderstandings on us instead of trying for understanding.

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I’m In Love with Women’s-Only Spaces and I Don’t Give a Fuck if you Think That’s Sexist

If you create a women’s-only space, you’re going to get blowback.

Typically this comes in the form of a bruised male ego bleating wildly that they don’t think it’s fair to have women’s only spaces. And what would happen if they made a men’s only space? And that clearly #NotAllMen (insert collective female eye roll here) are like that.

Look, brotato, I’m going to stop you right there because frankly, you’ve already missed the point.

The point of single-gender spaces is not to hurt your feelings. It’s not even about you, which, I know is probably somewhat of a shock, so I’ll say it again: It’s not about you.

These spaces are about women.

These spaces whether online, physical, or emotional offer women a chance to be singularly themselves, without the fear of external judgement, baseless derision, or blatant dismissal. They offer a chance to start a question with “I hope I’m not the only one” and have an outpouring of people tell you, “no, you’re not alone, we hear you!” As a woman who has spent her life working and recreating in male dominated spaces, let me tell you that the first time I posted one of these “not alone” questions the compassionate replies I received almost brought me to tears. It feels insane that we live in a world where I even need to write this out but: it’s really nice to have people treat you with politeful respect.

Note, I chose those last two words exceedingly carefully. While I have been part of women’s groups that have been overwhelmingly kind, thoughtfully funny, and endearingly open I believe these are traits that can be present in almost any group setting. However, I believe it’s politeful respect that sets women’s only spaces apart from the general bedlam.

Women’s only spaces aren’t an eternal love-fest of kumbaya singing, ponytail braiding bliss where we all have a collective pillow fight at the end of the night and then drink wine and cry over “Love Actually.” Women fight with each other, we represent a variety of opinions and cultures and sometimes live on opposite sides of seemingly vast political divides. And yet, we are able to discuss these things with polite respect because we view each other as full complete humans.

In a world where the normal is a white,  western, able bodied, cisgender male, everything else is an other. And frankly, I’m fucking sick of participating in groups where I’m viewed as ‘less than’ purely on the basis of my lady bits.

It’s freeing to talk openly about bleeding through your pants while on your period, complain about getting catcalled on a run again, ask for advice from people who know what you’re going through and above all not having to worry about strangers judging you.  It makes my heart sing to have a question met with an enthusiastic desire to help, instead of a domineering need to prove that you don’t belong here; as I’ve been subject and witness to in numerous mixed-gender groups.

I am openly, unforgivingly in love with women’s only groups. I love them! For the simple reason that in the exclusive presence of women I am treated like the person that I am instead of the gender stereotype I fall under.

 

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Sorry I Crashed Your Wedding – Silver Moccasin Trail Part 1

Bright eyes flashed in the forest near me and I immediately froze. Which, side note, is definitely the wrong thing to do for pretty much any predator that you’ll find in North America. Realizing this, I started to get loud and big, waving my arms above me as I shouted “I’m a big scary animal” into the darkness. I mean, it’s not like the animal knew what I was saying anyway. Don’t judge.

Nothing.

Just some big round eyes staring back at me.

Oh god! I thought. Is that what mountain lions do? Is he sizing me up? Staring me down? Am I going to get mother-fucking eaten?!!

I turned and grabbed the largest thing that I could find, a sizable pine-cone, and lobbed it with all my strength into the forest, sending the creature in question bounding into the darkness with the speed and grace of a…. deer.

I had almost shit myself because a heard of deer were grazing in the field I was hiking through. Well. I guess that’s what I get for night hiking.

I started talking loudly to myself as I plodded through the dark on my way to camp. A late start to avoid, what turned out to be nonexistent, icy snow conditions meant that I would be night-hiking to reach my intended campground. Chilao Campground rested just past the halfway mark of the Silver Moccasin Trail, a 53 mile trail that crosses the entire Angeles National Forest from north to south. Mac and I had started on opposite sides of the trail, her on Friday me on Saturday morning, with the plan to reconvene at work on Monday morning. But at the moment I was just past the halfway point, it was well after 10pm, and I was crashing hard, coming down off the adrenaline high upon seeing the killer forest deer 20 minutes earlier.

Just make it to Chilao I thought. Hike hike hike. Just make it to Chilao. Hike hike hike.

At moments like this, there is really only one course of action. You get on your phone, and you blast the soundtrack to Hamilton.

I am Alexander Hamilton!

That’s right scary forest deer! I am Alexander Hamilton and I’m not going to let you eat me!

Fuck you bears and cougars! I’m Alexander Hamilton and I’m not throwing away my shot!

And so it was, deranged singing, headlamp beam swinging through the underbrush, profuse swearing, and trekking poles flailing that I stumbled into Bandito Group Campground. I checked the map. Nothing was supposed to be here, and yet here was a massive campground. A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans.” A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans” full of 100-odd people milling around in the dark.

To the adrenaline-tweaking night-hiker this can only mean one thing: water.

My initial plan was to approach the closest group huddled around a campfire, eloquently explain my situation – that I was thru hiking and had run out of water – and calmly ask them if they could spare a liter or two.

What actually happened was that I approached the closest group huddled around a campfire, not getting close enough to the firelight for them to actually see me, and with the awkwardness of a pre-teen at a school dance, asked if they had any water.

Silence.

“I’m hiking” I added somewhat lamely, as if that would completely clarify why a strange woman was asking for water, 50 miles from the closest metropolitan area.

Silence. And then.

“There is some water on those tables, near the bridal party.”

Sweet hallelujah! Oh lawd jesus I am saved! With the power of water I can do anything, I can hike all night! Wait… did she say bridal party?

And that, good readers, is how I accidentally on purpose crashed my first wedding.

Approaching the table like some skittish feral animal I scoped out the surrounding environment. Electric candles and discarded cans of PBR littered the picnic tables, drunk humans roved in loose packs all around me, bonfires illuminated the night, and literally not a single person seemed to register my presence. Filling my bottles with dirt-caked hands I only drew attention from one man, who seemed not to register the fact that I was toting a backpack, covered in dirt, and wearing an outfit that could best be described as a “dirtbag-hiker chic.” He grinned stupidly as his eyes roved from my feet, up my body, and finally resting on my face. Which, really should have alerted him to the fact that most wedding guests don’t wear headlamps and trucker hats, but what can I say, enough alcohol and you’ll start to think that boning a garbage can is a good idea. It was at this point in the evening that I retreated into the forest, set up my ground cloth on the outskirts of the revelers and was lulled to sleep by the sweet sweet melody of Shawty feat. T-Pain.

 

If you’d like an article about hiking the Silver Moccasin Trail that’s actually informative, check out the piece I wrote for RootsRated.

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Alone in the Desert

I’m walking by myself in the desert. Walk walk walk. The trail in front of me climbs gently, but relentlessly and I wait to rest until I reach the top of the climb. Around another corner, that must be the top I think, but it not. It’s not the top this time, nor the next time, nor the next. After a while I forget that I’m climbing. Maybe I’ll climb this hill forever I think. Maybe this is what hell is like, I think. Climbing an endless, unrelenting hill in the desert sun.

But it’s not so bad.

The sand is soft beneath my feet, and it’s not too hot yet. Maybe not hell, I think, maybe more like purgatory. It’s not so bad, out here all alone. Alone, but not lonely.

I look at the footsteps of those who have come before me. This trail is rarely traveled and so I can distinctly make out the two people who were here before me. Their footprints overlap, but it’s obvious to me that these people were as much strangers to each other as they are to me. You learn to pick up on these things when you spend lots of time hiking alone in the desert, or the mountains, or anywhere really.

A man in hiking boots, a woman in running shoes, Hoka’s I think. The woman was wearing Hoka’s. I fixate on her footprints as I climb and climb and climb up the hill. I wonder who this woman is, this trail runner, long distance hiker, invisible woman. She feels like a sister to me, this woman I’ll never meet. And now I don’t feel so alone out here, in this endless desert, under the biggest sky I’ve ever seen. Alone, but not lonely.

Unwanted, thoughts of my real life creep into my head and my mind spirals to everything that was left unfinished on my desk. All the people who want some little piece of my time, my energy, some little piece of me. I push the thoughts away, deep down where they can’t bother me anymore and I focus on the footprints of my desert sister.

Suddenly, I’m at a road crossing and a man in a white SUV driving too fast on the dirt road shoots past me. He has on big black Oakley sunglasses and looks angry in his big white car. I scurry away into the desert, further away from the road and the trailhead and the people. I didn’t come out here to be near other people.

For the next two days I’ll only see one other person on this trail. A man, covered in dust, with too big of a backpack going in the opposite direction of me. We smile, but neither of us slow down, we don’t stop to talk, that’s not why we’re out here.

I follow my desert sister’s footprints out onto a big plane that stretches out in every direction and falls away into the enormous blue sky. Out here I can only hear the wind, and the dry brush. The sun overhead is brilliant white and so powerful. But it’s not too hot today. And in between the breaths of wind it’s so so quiet. I’m all alone out here, just me and the desert wind, and my sister’s footprints. Alone, but not lonely, for the quiet is my home.

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In Short, I’m Lying to You

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.

But, nobody ever tells you that either.

 

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Your Adventure Doesn’t Need to be Sexy

 

Look at this fucking shit! You could go see this! For real!

I recently told my boyfriend that I harbor a secret fantasy. One in which every young person I see driving a Sprinter van, or a Ford econo-line is a total dirtbag, living out of said van and traveling the world, and that I’m incredibly envious of these fictional people that I’ve created in my mind. He was kind enough to burst my bubble and inform me that no, these people are probably just working delievery jobs and that not every 20-something is living the #vanlife and traveling the country. But it sometimes feels that way, doesn’t it? How many times do we check into social media only to see beautiful images of professional athletes in remote countries, or that one friend who just #wokeuplikethis to a stunning view of the Grand Canyon? Isn’t everybody traveling to some remote place without me?

The answer is simple: no.

And it’s probably for the exact same reason you’re not quitting your job, traveling the world and giving the proverbial middle finger to this capitalist quagmire that we’ve told ourselves is so important. It’s because they have debt, jobs, and responsibilities that they have to attend to. And besides, who has time for a real adventure like that! I mean, doesn’t every true adventure require quitting your job, or at least getting a job where you get paid to be a talented athlete and travel?

Again, the answer is a simple: no. Actually, it’s longer than that. It’s a fuck no, and I’m going to tell you why.

The internet is full of the best and worst versions of humanity, but what people tend to really fixate on is the best. Instagram and Pintrest are especially good at propping up every beautiful person who is #livingthedream in their #vanlife with their #adventuredog. These people are aspirational sure, but they’re also not real, or at least, they’re not honest. In the same way that the abs on whichever actress is on the cover of Glamour this week are not real, nor are they an honest representation of what that woman looks like. Those images are nothing more than the best snapshot of an event, with some heavy-handed photoshopping or filtering done before you get to see it.

The problem with these social media adventurers is that it gives us the impression that you have to chose between an epic adventure and an average life. That small adventures aren’t worth it, and that you as a “regular human” can’t attain them. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Your choice isn’t between climbing Everest and watching Netflix at home. Your choice isn’t between quitting your job for six months to hike through the Amazon, and sitting in a cubicle working forever. Your choice is as simple as choosing to go home and watch Netflix, versus hiking up a local trail and spending the night camping. It’s not all or nothing. It’s something attainable or nothing.

These small, everyday adventures are just as valuable as grand expeditions for one simple reason: you’ll actually do them. And better yet, you can do these small adventures and still be home to watch your kids soccer game. Yes, they will require some sacrifice, typically in the means of time, money, or energy, but if a small investment is enough to put you off of trying something new, then have fun beating level 12,456 of Candy Crush, we’ll be sure to put your high score on your tombstone.

Still reading? Cool.

Think about the time you have that isn’t already dedicated. The time before and after work, the weekends, the moments you spend watching TV or playing garbage games on your phone. What could you be doing with these moments instead? What could you accomplish if you forced yourself to do something new every weekend, or every day on your way home?

And look, I hear you life is complicated and hard and it takes planning and maybe you don’t have every weekend free, maybe you’re a mom with kids and you can’t get away that frequently. But just because you can’t get away every weekend doesn’t mean that you should never try.

Change is scary, trying something new is scary, stepping outside of your routine is scary. But you know what is also scary? The idea that you’re on this planet for a very short time, and that your ultimate goal should be to conform as strictly as possible. That’s a crazy fucked up idea! When was the last time you even looked around at how beautiful, how insanely incredible this planet is?

Let’s just take a moment to appreciate the fact that you live on a planet that has elephants, and ice cream, and pizza, and freaky fish with lights on their heads, and also giraffes, and balloon animals, and flowers that smell good, and fruit that smells like ass but somehow still tastes good, and blue skies and fuzzy slippers, and grass that just grows out of the fucking earth like a giant green carpet, and you’re telling me you’re fucking bored? That you’re “too busy” for adventure?

Well fuck that.

 

 

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Do it Yourself – Build Your Own F–king Fire!

 

 

From the saddle above Romero Canyon near Santa Barbara. SB is a great area for beginner bacpackers.

Last weekend I built a fire. And it burned, nicely. And I put it out. And it was great. And I was very proud of myself. Very proud. Stupid proud.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because, if I’m camping with my boyfriend, 90% of the time I’ll let him light and tend the fire. And until recently, I used to let him pick the routes we hiked, I’d follow his path when we needed to route-find, even after learning that he’s not very gifted when it comes to a sense of direction (sorry babe, but we both know it’s true). Even in all the situations where I knew I could lead, I would simply let him do it. This fire was one of the first I’d built and tended myself in years. Years people!

But, why?

The answer is simple: because there was nobody else to do it for me.

Looking south along the coast on Romero Road.

I grew up in a household with a strong and fiercely intelligent mother, she was the breadwinner in our family, and she worked to show my sister and me that we were no less competent, intelligent, or valuable than our male peers. My father was also instrumental in this process, teaching us how to fix things around the house, as well as how to cook for ourselves. However, as I grew up and made my way through the world I quickly learned that my parents feminist views were not universally shared. Going through highschool and college I gravitated towards male-dominated careers, and it was here where societies little standards began to creep into my head.

My male peers often assumed I was less physically able, weaker. That they were inherently more talented than I was. I even had a male subordinate tell me that I needed to “show him more respect,” and that by expecting that he do his job without complaining, I was somehow shattering his worldview in which he was the center of attention. Society has told men all their lives that they had the right to be leaders, the privilege to speak for the group.

Meanwhile society told me, my sister, and every female friend I’ve ever had that we should be seen, not heard. Women are meant to be consumed in our society, we’re meant to be pretty, quiet, passive little creatures. And slowly without realizing it, I began to accept these views as truths. I began to let my boyfriend light the fires, even though I was no less capable or knowledgeable.

And this my friends, is where I get to the point. I think women need to take every opportunity they can to be placed in a position to lead. Whether that be through solo adventures, or with groups of women. This is the real power of solo female travel, and female-only spaces and events. They’re not meant to be exclusionary to men, they’re intended to show women how much power and competence they have. When you’re by yourself, or surrounded by other women, there are no societal pressures to cede your power to a man, you have to learn to suck it up and become the leader you already are, use the skills you already have, build the fucking fire you already know how to build!

Heading into Blue Canyon and the true backcountry.

So Wait, How Do I Actually Build A Fire?
Building a fire is really not as hard as people make it out to be, but it does take some practice to get right. Here are the six steps I follow every time:

Fires are cool kids. Just remember to put them out fully.

1) Prep.
Look around your campsite and gather the following: kindling, in the form of dry leaves, small dry twigs, and or dry pine needles. Why do I feel the need to keep saying ‘dry’? Because it’s going to make this whole process a heck of alot easier and faster. You’ll also need second stage burners. These are sticks that are about a thumb thick, and 7-18 inches long. Last you’ll need your big logs, think larger than your forearm, smaller than your thigh. Gather lots of the above… and by lots I mean double what you think you’ll need.

2) Build your base.
I know everybody wants that picturesque tee-pee fire like you’re used to seeing on TV, but it’s not a very effective way to start. The easiest way is to build a lean-to fire. Take one of your big logs that will fit in your fire pit and lay it flat on the bottom of the pit. Next pile your kindling next to the middle of the log in the bottom of the pit along with some small sticks propped up against the log. This gives your kindling air-flow, and positions a big log to start burning right away.

3) Light your kindling.
Have your matches/lighter and your kindling as well as small sticks and second stage burners all on hand. Light a small section of your kindling on fire and blow to spread the flames.

4) Move fast.
Once your kindling is lit, you want to start throwing on lots of kindling quickly, followed by the second stage burners, and one big log. One of the biggest bits of misinformation I hear thrown around is that you’ll smother your fire. You won’t. Your fire is more likely to go out because it didn’t have enough to burn. Throw a bunch of your little sticks and kindling in there, and once those are lit throw on a few of the mid-size sticks. The kindling will burn bright and hot, but not for very long, so you need to take advantage of the burning kindling to ignite your larger logs.

5) Time for the Big Guns.
Once your mid-sized sticks are fully burning, throw in one or two of the big logs, using the base log in the bottom of the pit to prop them up, to allow air to circulate, and give the fire someplace to go. (Remember: Fire burns up, not down).

6) Tend.
A fire isn’t a one and done. You’ll need to be placing new logs on the fire, moving the existing ones around, and tending to it. The good news is, as an over-stimulated millenial, this will give you something to play with since your phone won’t have service to refresh your Twitter feed.