Rituals and Baggage

Passage Six, Las Colinas: Mile 88.6 Oak Tree Canyon to Mile 100.3 Lakes Road

Day 11, con't: I went down through Oak Tree Canyon, where sprawling and scraggly trees line the trail. It's not long before the singletrack heads back upward again. Climbing into an ocotillo forest, I feel welcomed by the spindly pipe cleaner shoots. They look healthy here.  I'm not used to ocotillos being in a place that isn't just lifeless baked mud like that of Ocotillo Wells, Calif. Some ocotillos are green, some are not. Some even have flowers and I enjoy my time among old friends. 

It's nice to see something new. I've been waiting for the day when I see more cacti than cow. Gently, the trail does some ups and downs and I'm rather content. 

I do run into a set of cows, but they seem like they're saying goodbye to me and that I'm moving onto some new territory for a while at least. I say goodbye back. 

I feel like I am in a place of transition. That excites me as well as propels me to think about the many transitions I'm going through in my own life. I think about my new ranger job in the Arctic and I dream about what it will be like. I think about how happy I am that my mom is coming to visit next week. I think about my dad and how one of the last things he said to me was that he's planning on visiting me in Arizona. I think about what it might have been like when he lived here and how, in a way, he's here with with me now. Tears begin to well up in my eyes as I hike because I know he would have totally loved this when he was alive and it's all too late now. I'm filled with regret. We should have done more together. I should have come home more. I should have been a better daughter. 

I grieve. I remember all the packages my dad has sent me over the years to every park I've worked at in Alaska, filled with snacks from Trader Joe's. I remember the Brewers games and beers. I remember that my dad and grandma bought me the sleeping bag I'm using every night and have used for the last 5 years. I remember it all and it makes me feel just miserable. I've been lousy in not spending more time and not showing more love. I feel so miserable, I don't even notice the terrain anymore, or that I'm getting thirsty, hungry and tired. 

Just as I'm dealing with some heavy emotional baggage, my right ankle gives out as it is prone to due because I have chronic tendonosis. My right knee then slams hard into the ground with the full force of my body weight and my pack.  Shitshitshit, I think. I can't get hurt, not now for chrissakes.

I slowly try to stand up, using my trekking poles as support. I pick out the rocks wedged in my skin. It hurts. Walk it off, Lewandowski I hear from the high school gym coach in my head. I walk it off. Thankfully, it was no big deal. 

I continue down the trail and now I'm in a full on mental breakdown. I really start crying hard thinking about my dad and this stupid hike and how I'm a terrible person, etc...The crying caused sunscreen to run into my eyes, burning and blurring my vision. I didn't do anything about it because I felt like I deserved the pain or something stupid like that. I thought about how I'll never get to Utah...I thought about how I'm not really cut out for this and that I don't have the discipline for anything big or important...I'm hiking too slow and not enough miles...This is all so dumb I should just give up now and go have margaritas with friends on the beach...This isn't fun, it's been just a bunch of cows and I smell terrible like a cow and this is a big waste of time and energy, etc etc etc...

But I couldn't really just give up and stop hiking because I was in the middle of nowhere. There's no phone service. No one is going to magically swoop down and pick me up. So, I had to keep going. I'm not sure what I would have done if I was near civilization. 

Walk it off, Lewandowski. There are many women way more badass than you. Get to a campsite and see how you feel in the morning. 

So, I walk. I start to feel a little better as I get going and I remember that the brain shoots out feel-good chemicals after you cry as a natural mood stabilizer. I feel resolved.

Well, then...I just had my first long-hike breakdown. It took only 90 miles, but it happened.

It feels like it is a rite of passage. 

[I'm hesitant to share the aforementioned baby moment with the world because it shows how not badass I am and I like to pretend I'm tough. I realize now I basically skinned my knee and cried like a child. Also, I was probably a little hangry.

However, I hope sharing my moment of un-badassness can have some value to someone, someday. There's something beautiful in our raw and vulnerable moments that tend toward self discovery. Our moments of weakness are a part of who we truly are. Perhaps, society is improved when we understand and portray our authentic selves instead of Instagram filtered versions of who we want to be.]

After the meltdown, I hiked up to a saddle and found one good spot to crash. I set up my tent and had 360 views of the area. My outlook had improved tenfold. The sun set and to the north I could see a tremendous orange glow rising up from the backlit mountains...the lights of Tucson.

Day 12: I wake up to the sound of a loud jet engine, seemingly feet above me harkening You're out of the wilderness now, Kara. 

It's 6:30 am and a little stuffy so I open the front door of my tent. Sunrise. Warm, happy yellow and orange light rising from the east. Good morning, indeed.

I'll get an early start today, which is good because it is supposed to be hot. 

The morning backpacking packing ritual: Stuff sleeping bag away, compress; fold up the Z-Lite, attach to outside of pack; place the water bladder inside the pack; grab the day's snacks; pack up the rest of the food, fuel, and stove; brush teeth; dig a cathole; utilize the cathole; sanitize; place trowel and unused TP in toiletry bag, place in pack; change clothes, stuff rest in dry bag, place in pack; put headlamp and other odds and ends away; put on sunscreen and hat; attach other water bottles to pack; locate umbrella and put in a reachable place on outside of pack; put garbage bag on outside of pack; put boots on; grab back trekking pole as I exit the tent; grab other trekking pole; disassemble tent; collect stakes; fold footprint; place tent and footprint in pack; strap everything down; fold over top lid of pack and clip into place; tighten everything; heft pack up; clip hip belt, tighten; clip sternum strap, tighten; grab trekking poles, readjust size for terrain; turn on Explorer tracking, walk; keep walking... 

It looks like a lot when it's all typed out, but once you get the order of operations going, it's not so bad. It's fun to see how you do the same thing everyday but every time, the results are a little different because you eat some food or you have a lot or water or more garbage, etc.

Downhill I go and it all flattens out from there. It's about 11 am when I reach mile 100. I'd been hiking for a few hours so I decided to sit in the partial shade of a tree right by the road. I drink some water because the sun is an inferno. I think about the last 100 miles and how far I've come and how much - so much - more I have ahead of me. 

I decide to take my time and if I don't make it to Utah, who gives a whoop? I'm going to enjoy the scenery and be a tourist the next two months and not worry about getting anywhere in particular. That's much more my style, instead of throwing this far off destination in my face. I feel at ease and relaxed and ready to take on what is ahead of me. 

I sip more water, it's awfully warm from the sun. I'm leaning back and opening up a granola bar when I hear hurried footsteps from behind me...

(To be continued...)