My thoughts aren’t linear anymore. There isn’t a straight line they follow, leading from one point to another. There isn’t a structure or a outline. They are just thoughts, bouncing from one memory to another, each brushing against each other. Similar scenery leading to old memories, new memories made in the shadows of old ones. We walked yesterday along a creekbed, and Stealth snorted. “I just got PTSD from Laurel Creek,” he said. We’d all three had our worst days around that creek, and here it was again, the memory of it resurrected in the bubbling waters underneath the bridge.
Church Mouse and I have been hiking two months, a number that continues to astound me. Two months, that’s it? It feels much longer than that, like I’ve been here forever. Was there ever a time I wasn’t hiking, wandering through these blue mountains? Simultaneously, the number shocks me. Two months. Somehow we’ve made it this far, without injury or substantial delay. Somehow, we have the blessing of still hiking.
We’ve been hiking with Stealth since NOC, which means at this point, we’ve hiked over 650 miles together. We’ve had our worst days on trail together, split meals huddled together under leaking shelter roofs, sprawled out across cliffs to take in the views. We braved the Smokies, clambered Dragon’s Tooth, hiked with ponies, shared fuel cans and cold-soaked breakfasts. Sometimes people think we’re siblings, once or twice I’ve been asked, “Do you speak English, too?” No, I sign, though I know just enough German to also say, “Nein, aber sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
I can’t hear many birds. Stealth tells me when there are birds. At first, he could keep track of which birds I’d heard before and which ones were new to me. Now neither of us know anymore nor do we know their names. We have the Alarm Clock Bird (which we’ve been told is a Whippoorwill), Aggressive Birds (the loud, unceasing ones in the morning), Annoying Birds (quiet, unceasing ones or ones with irritating songs), Songbirds (songs that are pleasant to listen to), Hawks (oftentimes actually vultures), and Crows. Sometimes, I hear and ask, “One bird?” and he nods and tells me which one. Sometimes I say, “One bird?” and he laughs and holds up ten fingers.
Cold. Shivering. My rain coat wrapped around my legs as we eat lunch in the shelter. I regret many things, like the fact that I had to stop moving, that the wind is blowing straight into the shelter, that there are small balls of ice falling from the sky, that somehow it’s 60° down in the valley even as it’s freezing up here. How was I drenched in sweat just last week?
I showered in a waterfall last time it was really warm. The water was so cold it stole my breath, but I laughed and I scrubbed the dirt and sweat out of my hair. Later we sat in the sun and let its warmth heat us up, letting our aching feet soak in the stream as it bubbled by. That night, I got judged about my food bag, about how big it was, even though I woke up in the darkness, feeling the hunger rumbling in my stomach.
“How are you managing with your hearing loss?” Dad asked me when they visited. I shrugged, not knowing how to respond. “I’m surrounded by good people,” I said, meaning my tramily, and how they keep track of me, keep me aware of my surroundings, of the sounds around me, how they’re aware of what I can hear and what I can’t. I can follow their gaze to sounds of interest. But I’m also realizing that I hear more out here, away from the bustle of civilization, away from the drowning cacophony of cars, doors, computers, people, the hum of existence. I can hear more when the world around me is quiet.
A brown forest has awoken. Slowly, quietly, across the month, the trees have stretched out their limbs and yawned. Buds have formed and grown, the tips of leaves peaking out and expanding, reaching out for the sunlight, the rain, dancing in the rain. The earth splits, giving birth to umbrella plants and sprawling flowers. The bushes are blooming: white, pink, a gentle yellow. Honeysuckle and elderberries dot either side of the trail. Grass is tall enough to wave now, green enough to be soft. At the beginning of this month, I mourned out-hiking spring. Finally, we have hiked into it.
I walked nineteen miles yesterday and felt really good when I got to camp, but today it hurts to walk across the street for a hot drink from the gas station.
I’m learning how to listen to pain. That’s the biggest challenge, the one everyone tells you about. There is a pain to push through to become stronger, and there is a pain that alerts you something needs a rest. It’s up to you to know the difference. It’s learning which hobble means you had a good day, and which limp means you need to slow down. It’s learning to listen to your body.
As girls, we aren’t taught about our strength. We aren’t taught about the endurance we have, the muscles we can build, the power contained within our bodies. We aren’t shown the things we can do, the things we can master, the places we can go. We’re shown instead the ways our bodies are not right: not thin enough, not curvy enough, curved in the wrong places; we’re shown the things we should be interested in, the ways we should be sculpting ourselves. I’m here to tell you: You’re fierce. You’re strong. You’re capable of so much.
I hope you get a chance to climb a mountain. I hope you stand at the bottom and stare up, following the switchbacks as far as you can. I hope you swallow nervously, feel a pounding in your chest. I hope the pack suddenly feels heavy on your back, and your thoughts spiral: I can’t do this, there’s no way I can do this, does this mountain ever end? And I hope you square your shoulders, suck in a gasp of air, and climb. Because you can do it, and you will do it, and I hope you see exactly how capable you really are.
I live for evenings like this. A satisfying day of hiking, a good, grassy spot for the tent, good bear hangs, a fire surrounded with logs for sitting. Diesel the dog is checking everyone out as Farmer puts up his tent. Stealth is making food over the fire. Church Mouse is at the creek getting her water. It’ll rain overnight, a soft pattering against the tent’s rain fly, but it’ll be dry in the morning. The wind is singing in the leaves above our heads.
Sometimes I’m still struck by awe: how did I get so lucky that I get to be here and do this for six months? Two months down. Four months of adventure are left. Who knows where we’ll go from here?
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