we’re all part of the same thing.
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“Are you doing it all by yourself??”
That was the most frequently asked question by far when I told people about my intended thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail (often followed or preceded by the well-intentioned question of whether my boyfriend would be joining me).
Even in 2018, it was still unusual for a woman my age to be doing anything on her own. Or, it was perceived as unusual. We'd been breaking out of our cages and upending expectations for decades by then, but it wasn't exactly something you heard about all the time, not without disbelieving fanfare, anyway.
That strip of dirt, 18 inches wide in most places, stretching from a 30-foot fence in the desert of Southern California to a clearing in the woods where the U.S. meets Canada.
It calls to me, as it has since I first learned of it. Though I’m finished with my first hike of the trail, I know I’ll never be “finished” with the Pacific Crest Trail, and it will never be finished with me.
April 1, 2018. Day Two on the PCT. I’d picked out what looked on the maps like the perfect place to camp that night. Relief and grateful exhaustion exploded in my mind as I reached the bottom of my last descent of the day and turned a corner to find the clearing, right where I expected it, and alive with four other hikers sitting around, chatting.
The others, two couples by the looks of it, welcomed me into our home for the night and introduced themselves. I threw down my pack and surveyed the remaining open space, finally laying my tent out on a semi-flat patch of dirt between two tall pines. As I pitched my little grey and yellow nylon house, Groover, whom I’d met at Hauser Creek the night before, pointed to a patchy use trail leading into the woods and told me, “The road to Poop Town’s that way.”
Music has always been a very personal thing for me, something I turned to when I felt lonely or sad or bored or curious. Music is a tool, a trigger, a connecting thread, a time machine. I can put on my headphones to escape from the din of a crowded room to a private space between my ears. I can put on a record and move the furniture for an instant dance party. Bonding over shared tastes and favorite artists is a quick route to new friendships. Recommending the perfect song or album to show how well you know someone is a fun way to deepen the old ones. Play “Oh Susanna,”* and I’m transported to the living room floor of my grandparents’ old house in Nashville. The O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack takes me on a long road trip in the backseat of a minivan. I have no desire to return to 6th grade, but, if I did, all I’d have to do is watch the music video for “Beautiful Soul” by Jesse McCartney and I’d be back in a spinny office chair, trying to clear the browser history from my family’s desktop so my mom wouldn’t find out about my secret Facebook account.
Dear Papa,
I should be behind a cash register right now, ringing up $14 dresses and $9 earrings. Instead, I’m sitting at my computer, in my office, trying to divert emotions from my tear ducts into my fingertips.
I left during the first half of my shift. I thought I would be OK enough to work today, and for the first hour I still believed I was. Then the second and third hours rushed by in a flurry of sweatshirts and barcodes and “how are you?”s that made me want to jump out of my skin as I responded in excruciating, customer-service-approved falsities.