I knew the High Sierras were going to be grueling. Between the tight window of manageable weather and elevations that are significantly higher than the rest of the PCT—let alone anything I’d encountered prior to this hike—the Sierra was more than a little intimidating. Like a specter that haunted thru-hikers, everyone spoke of this section with reverence and fearful fascination. These fierce and majestic stone giants have not disappointed.
Leaving South Lake Tahoe and reaching Kennedy Meadows North marked my entry into the Sierra, an entrance that was punctuated with fresh snowfall and nightly temperatures that flirted with freezing. I began to find myself awakened by the cold each morning, shivering and unable to stay asleep despite my thick quilt and sleeping bag liner. Beginning each day on valley floors, where the sun remained hidden behind hulking ridge lines, I’d be forced to keep my hands balled in gloved fists or nestled into the crook of my armpits for warmth.
It was on one such chilly morning that I began my daily ascent and persisted well into the afternoon without bothering to consult a map. The trail was becoming routine—cross a mountain pass, drop into a river canyon, up, down, repeat—and I was eager to reach the next town. As I climbed a pass, one that seemed especially high if my shortness of breath was any indication, I felt the shooting pain of overuse exploding through the bony knuckles of my feet. Each time I lifted my head to meet the top of the pass, I felt renewed energy and determination alongside the aching in my chest, lungs, and head. I relished the challenge. Yet when I reached the top of the pass all I could see was a clean, undisturbed sheet of white snow. No footsteps. No trail. No way forward.
It occurred to me to check my map and when I realized exactly where I was, I had the devastating realization that I was no where near the PCT. Panicked, I repeatedly refreshed my gps location, desperately hoping my gps had momentarily miscalculated. To my great dismay, the dismal blue dot which marked my location remained alarmingly off course—approximately 12 miles off course.
So what do you do in that moment? When what was suppose to be your final day before a resupply stop has suddenly become an additional day of walking, lost and alone, in the most challenging environment thus far.
For one, you laugh. Both at the absurdity of the situation and at the tremendous disappointment of a day gone seriously awry. You scream. The kind of frustrated, guttural scream that seems to fill the valley walls. You cry in the ugliest and most uncontrollable fashion. As I turned around and began to walk back the way I’d come, I reminded myself to practice acceptance. To accept the course of the day rather than struggle against it. To hold fast the the consolation of sharing my misfortune with you fine folks. To keep in mind that my circumstances were not that bad and that they deserved a good laugh.
But sometimes practicing acceptance means allowing yourself to disintegrate into sobs and angry expletives because at one point or another, haven’t we all ended up some miles off course on top of a mountain we didn’t have to climb? All because of the failure to check the map, to take a moment to be certain of our location or reflective about our choices?
The High Sierra is serious. Spectacular? Absolutely. But this new phase of my hike, where the going is getting tougher physically and mentally, coincides with the moment that my closest friends on the trail have all scattered to the wind, dealing with their own personal challenges and physical constraints. We still weather the same storms, but at a distance, and this can feel impossibly lonesome.
When I finally stumbled into town, a day later than expected, I could find little motivation to continue hiking as I had been. So when a few friends miraculously appeared and shared their plans to quit the trail and hike into Yosemite Valley, I joined the excursion without any hesitation. It was refreshing, to hike with friends for fun rather than with the sole goal of crushing mileage. I surged up Half Dome high on adrenaline and sunbathed by the Sunrise Lakes. It was glorious to see such sights and to be a part of a group for a short time. Though as my friends chatted about their impending returns to their former lives, I readied myself for a long and tricky hitch back to the PCT.
Since Yosemite, I’ve spent a great deal of time appreciating how much my hike has been shaped and enriched by the relationships I’ve formed along the way. Even more so, I’ve been given the opportunity to reflect upon the relationships that carried me to this moment and continue to strengthen me through the hardest of times. You, each of you, have been an integral ingredient to my ability to persist. Every poem, letter, and postcard I have received has lived in my pack as a reminder of the support that surrounds me like a great cloud of witnesses.
When my mom and step-dad Jeff visited in Northern California, opting to camp each night and lean into being hiker trash, generously feeding and welcoming other thru-hikers as if they were their own children. Selby’s dinosaur bandaids which cheered and ornamented my bloodied cuticles. Maddie Sugg’s temporary tattoo stamped proudly on my forearm. Cousin Maddie’s artful poem and touching words which have lived at the bottom of my pack for over one thousand miles. Lane’s cartoonish drawings which remind me of his sweet, impish smile. Vanesa’s lovely, long sprawl letters recounting the contents of her salad in order to remind me vegetables still exist and her personalized podcasts which bring me the most intense comfort when I desperately need to hear a familiar voice. Maria’s neatly lined sheets, covered front to back in insightful details that bring me a taste of Charlottesville. Zoe’s signature abstract paintings dueling for space with her iconic scratchy handwriting. Megan’s thrilling updates on early adulthood as her life takes an inspiring shape that is remarkably different from my own. Doug’s unique way of corresponding via pre-stamped postcard or overflowing book, always absolving me from the pressure to respond and liberating me from having to be the one doing the talking. I cannot thank you enough, dearest friends. Thank you anyways.
Much Love,
SnapPea
IsabellaZHall 