Feeling Alive Again on the John Muir Trail

I’m not much like Cheryl Strayed, who hiked 1,100 miles on the PCT in 1995 as a way to cope with the death of her mother, a divorce, an abortion and drug addiction. I didn’t start my hike in a state of despair and I suspect my past would bore you. But at one point, I was considered and called “the JV version of Cheryl Strayed,” but that part’s not important. It’s just funny. 

In fact, my trip was shorter, easier and safer than Strayed’s. And more comfortable. I carried an iPhone 6, a GoalZero and a satellite phone while walking alongside three friends.

Drawing wild-eyed wanderers from all over the world, the John Muir Trail has a reputation of unlimited proportions. I was the last one of the four of us to commit and just about 3 months post-ACL surgery. In June, this hike was a pipedream for me but by the end of July, I was committed. I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into.

This hike, this trail, this adventure is on the proverbial bucket list of nearly every serious outdoor enthusiast and is the epitome of adventure. The trail itself is not only a showcase of what the natural world can attain but the landscapes it holds highlight some of the best wilderness left in the United States. 

Day 1: We woke up in darkness. I could’ve been alone in a dark room. I could’ve been alone in my room. I could’ve been in South Dakota. I could’ve been in Oregon. I could’ve been anywhere. I didn’t really know where I was. But I was here, at Horseshoe Meadows– just outside of Lone Pine, California. And as the sun slowly rose above the horizon, I could make out the towering mountains surrounding us, hovering over us like gargoyles. I couldn’t stop to think, to look, to see or to write anything down. But eventually, I did stop. I had to. 

By the time we reached the Pacific Crest Trail Junction, I think I had mumbled every offensive word in the English language. We were unable to get JMT permits and had agreed to hike an extra 22 miles in order to take on this journey. Two weeks ago, I said, “Sure! What’s an extra 22 miles if we’re going to be hiking over 200, anyway?” 

I thought of this as we stepped off the trail to let a horse pack train get around us. I whispered a few more unmentionable phrases to myself while feeling the sweat drip slowly down my back. 

I realized in that moment how quickly things change as society vanishes and the surrounding hills rise to unimaginable heights. How quickly dark thoughts can creep into your surroundings. And how quickly my thoughts raced from “Hell yes, we’re doing this,” to “What the f***?!”

Just over twenty miles later and past some of the most picturesque landscapes, meadows and trees I’ve ever seen, we made our way into camp at Lower Crabtree Meadows. 

Hiking from North to South is the norm for this trail, but all of us are far from normal. We took a different approach. The most difficult one possible, actually. We were hiking the JMT backwards. From South to North. And, looking back now, no one needed to say anything. We didn’t have to. We all had the same shock and bewilderment in our eyes paired with shit-eating grins on our faces indicating that one of the best adventures of our lives was already underway.

Day Two: “No one said how much this would hurt…” -Becky said, referring to the weight of her pack and the way its straps dug into her shoulders like knives. I couldn’t agree more. I just didn’t say it out loud. 

Looking back at my journal now, weeks after getting off the trail, I can still feel the buzzing energy that flowed from the pen and onto the dirty, damp paper in my moleskin.

“Today was hard. Physically and emotionally. Today was everything I thought it should’ve been. Filled with forests and meadows, mountains and fire clouds, hope and despair. Today put life in perspective. It made me feel small, vulnerable, obsolete. But it also made me feel whole, strong and incredibly fortunate. 

My body hurts. All of it. Everything is screaming at me to stop. But my brain is clear and my heart is full. Something visceral is already happening. I can feel it. I can see it and I can hear it. In my thoughts. In my attitude. In my heart. The hardest part of this hike will be perseverance and perspective. And as soon as I can get ahold of those things, I’ll be able to do anything. 

That’s going to feel really damn good. And that’s what I’m aiming for.”

We summited Mt. Whitney with more on our agendas than staring into the horizon. Running ahead, Becky and I got to the top, took a deep breath, howled like wolves and then set up our phones and cameras in an attempt to art direct the most beautiful proposal I’ve ever experienced. 

Matt, down on one knee. Kayleen digging through a backpack and totally unaware. The towering mountain peaks behind her and a wall of rain charging toward us. 

“Hey, Kayleen, will you make me the happiest man in the world?…”

She said yes, we signed the guestbook and howled through rain and snow all the way down the mountain. 

That night, I stared at my bare and bandaged feet. Glued, taped and wrapped tightly together in some places while the skin was flapping and peeling off in others. There were ghostly white lines criss-crossing their way across them– obvious signs of Chaco wear and tear, to which I still hold a striking affinity for. Not just because they saved my feet during our summit of Mt. Whitney. But also because for the first five days and 100 miles, they saved my feet. Also, because I had a new trail name.  

Both the trail and the people we met walking along it become increasingly wild with every mile. We crossed paths with an Italian couple– Natalia and Piero– heading in the same direction. After introducing myself and brushing off some seriously rusty Italian, I shook Piero’s hand and hugged Natalia before taking a step back to stare at the two of them in wonder. They’d been together for five years and had traveled the world. I was in awe. And for the rest of that day I spent contemplating the immensity of their journey. 

How do you make a decision like that? And how do you know if it’s the right decision? Some people say to trust your gut or just “do what feels right?” but both my gut and my mind have landed me in some pretty not-so-great situations. But fortunately for me, this trail wasn’t one of them.

For me, this hike had a handful of beginnings. The first came over beers one night while Becky was explaining an epic trip she was taking at the end of the summer. The second was the flip decision to ask if I could tag along and the third was when I was able to answer the question “can your knee handle this?” honestly. 

Yes. Yes it could. Maybe. 

And then there were the two days of panic as I found resupply buckets, enough food to last me a week and the shipping labels to tape onto everything. Next came finding a sitter for Jazz, finalizing a breakup and convincing my parents I wouldn’t get mauled by a bear. 

As we watched the sun rise on August 4th, the beginning was nearing an end because we were finally there. We were actually doing it. And the actually doing it part was quickly followed by the harsh realization that we were actually doing it, followed by the dark thoughts and demons begging me to quit. And while I took what those demons said very seriously, the “you can’t do this,” and the “you’re unprepared, what were you thinking?” or, the scariest of them all, “what if you re-tear your ACL?” All I had to do was look up, take a few deep breaths and remind myself how far I’d come since April 1. 

The refocusing and forward motion that came from God-knows-where at the beginning of this trail, in spite of everything else, was the first step in a never-ending staircase of what got me through fifteen of the most painful days of my life. 

But this was just the beginning. Kind of. Part of me thinks the beginning began a long, long time ago. Part of me thinks it began that morning. Regardless, something had led me to this moment, to these people, to this trail. 

The first week was the most eye-opening, exposing and raw experience I’ve ever had. Every single day was the hardest day of my life and I knew that the next day would be even harder. The days began to blur together as we crossed rushing streams, descended towering mountain passes and scrambled up rocky hillsides. Gorgeous alpine lakes became commonplace. Sweeping granite vistas were expected. And 4,000 foot climbs were eaten for breakfast.

On good days, I’d reread a note to myself from a friend out loud, sometimes three times a day. Sometimes, more. 

“Hi ya beautiful, Right now, stop reading this and look up in front of you. Do you see it? All of it? The trees, the mountains, the dirt, the flowers, the sky? Kristen, you are exactly where you are supposed to be right now. How cool is that? Keep your eyes and your heart aligned, the rest is just keeping you from the moment. The moment you are currently in, and the moment your future self thanks you for going through the adventure you are about to partake. Will it be beautiful? Undoubtedly, you know that. Will it be challenging? Absolutely, you must accept that. When the SUCK happens, and it WILL happen, embrace it. Welcome it. It is no different than the way you welcome the beauty and fun in your life. When you find yourself tired, scared, lonely, annoyed, hungry, cold, hot and uncomfortable– find your peace. Find your freedom. Tap into the pain, frustration and patience from your surgery. Do not let your mind take away from the fun and the experience. Because it will try. And when it does, stop. Look up in front of you. Do you see it? All of it? You are exactly where you are supposed to be.”

On bad days, I reread the same note to myself and to Becky. And on the worst day, I tried my best to look up but I couldn’t. 

My worst day came with a few salty tears, deep breaths and a lot of throwing up. Having Celiac Disease wasn’t something I thought would slow me down on this trip. But after our first resupply at Muir Trail Ranch, I was walking so slowly my knees felt like they were hyper-extending and with each step came a new wave of nausea that dropped me to the ground and made me convinced I had giardia. Fortunately for me, it was just cross-contamination from the donation buckets and only lasted one day. But unfortunately for me, we were on a time crunch and the miles were racking up quickly. 

I spent the entire day horizontal– Sleeping, mumbling words and incomprehensible sentences about being “f***ing fine” to a park ranger who kept shaking my tent to check on me. Becky and Kayleen charged ahead in anticipation of finding Matt at Red’s Meadow. And I went through an entire package of Wilderness Wipes as I drifted in and out of consciousness. 

After 14 hours of sleep, I woke up suddenly, startled at first by the sheer magnitude of my surroundings. The stars seemed strangely close and the sky was deeper, darker than usual. The Milky Way felt within arms reach and for a moment I thought that if I reached out far enough, I could swirl around the glittering wisps of night sky like finger paints.

I couldn’t help but think of John Muir as I slowly closed my eyes, fading back into the night, the stars glowing high above. 

The next four days were invaluable to me– in both wonderful and terrible ways. I’d read horror stories of women solo hiking on major trails like this– we all have. Before this point, I’d thought all of the machismo, fear and doubt that I’d heard about could be summed up as bullshit. 

But as I was descending a pass, I ran into an older, mid-40 year-old man who was adamant about changing direction to camp next to my tent. I don’t know what it was about him that made me raise an eyebrow. Maybe it was something about the way he ever-so-slightly blocked my path on the trail. Or how his gaze slowly made its way down my body like a price checking gun. Maybe it was his tense body language when I explained to him, again, that my friends were just a few miles ahead and that I was planning on catching them for dinner. 

And then there was the comment, “you’d never believe how many single girls are on the trail this year,” and, “you wouldn’t believe how many people are meeting and hooking up on the trail.” This was all before he followed me to the stream, asked where I wanted to camp and encouraged me to find a place that was “out of the way” so “we could have some privacy.”

I’ve never been so sure that something terrible was going to happen to me. I was so adamant and forward about my level of discomfort. I was so insistent on hiking ahead to find my friends and I was so rude in trying to get my point across. 

Fortunately for me, Natalia and Piero came down the trail about 40 minutes into my attempt to ditch this guy. And fortunately for me, my three years of college Italian classes finally paid off. I quickly explained the situation to Natalia and Piero and they agreed to pretend they were Matt and Kayleen and immediately pitched their tent next to my campsite. 

The man made a few passive aggressive statements, but left soon after that.

This situation made me seriously wonder if women on the trail– just like in so many other environments– are hesitant to speak up about stories that put them up for undeserved blame, i.e. being alone. Because in that situation, yes, I was hiking alone. But also in that situation, I was under control. And I was also afraid. The moment the difference between nice and creepy became clear to me, it was already too late. It wasn’t obvious to me that I was having an experience that was markedly different than my experience with other thru-hikers.

This really upset me. Up until this point I was having the time of my life. My thoughts went from unmentionable strings of words and phrases to, “how and why does that happen and how could anyone possibly think that that is OK?”

Thank God for Natalia and Piero. 

This one circumstance was unfortunate. For me, for my overall experience and probably for a few other women on the trail that day. But actually doing it (hiking alone) was the best thing I could’ve asked for. In spite of my soon-to-be dreading hair, the exhaustion and monotony and pain, the thirst, hunger and the ghosts that haunted me, hiking alone for four days opened my heart to forgiveness and possibility and opened my eyes to everything that had happened in my life so far and had led me to where I was.

After a few days of dealing with those demons, I came to the top of a pass and for the first time in my life understood what I’d both known and should’ve known long before I was here. I distinctly remembered a passage from a book that Cheryl Strayed wrote. She wrote something about the moment she realized that we'll never know what could’ve been– in any capacity. And that there’s no point or reason to put effort or emotion into something that didn’t work out. Because for all we know that whatever it was was – whether a friendship, relationship gone wrong the flip decision to move, stay, or in my case, ski off a cornice or not respond to a toxic situtation – it was all important and beautiful. Sometimes painful, yes. But according to Strayed, those things were also unhealthy and not for me. And wondering what could’ve been was an anchor, constantly pulling me under the crashing waves. So, like Strayed explained, I was watching something similar to a ghost ship that didn’t carry me anymore, something that was always there floating just offshore. And now, in this moment, there was nothing for me to do but take Strayed's advice and salute it from where I was standing and continue moving forward. 

So I caught my breath, took a long drink of water and made the decision. I raised my hand to my forehead the way Strayed said she had and I saluted the metaphorical ghost ship. And just like that, it was gone.

It felt good. I felt good. Better than good, actually. I felt awesome.

Everything became clearer. Everything became bigger, brighter and more beautiful. And I became more aware of my surroundings.

The trees were huge. The feeling they produced wasn’t transferable or even describable. They created both silence and awe and seemed to carry their own light and shade. I kept stopping and staring up at them in amazement. They were ambassadors from another time. I knew I’d keep coming back to them and their energy because I was simply so aware of them. Gazing up into the green expanse, I thought to myself, “What have you seen? How have you grown?” They answered quietly as the tops of them waved down gently in the soft breeze. 

The mountains, imposing and huge, towering over the valley walls made from massive sheets of granite, untouched and on display, were breathtaking. The rock-climber in me stared in awe at their unscathed facade before refocusing on the trail I was standing upon. “It goes, boys,” I said aloud. The quote was out of context, sure, but to me it still applied to where I was, what I’d been through and what I was doing. I figured Lynn Hill wouldn’t mind and might even applaud my effort. 

As I entered the end of the first week on the trail, the days started to blur together again as it became increasingly difficult to separate one rock from the last. The standards of society were long gone. Deodorant was useless. Tooth brushing became less common and my stench grew stronger and stronger with every mountain pass. My feet, which survived the first five days and nearly 100 miles in Chacos began to resemble a construction site while my eyebrows became increasingly erratic. 

After eleven days on the trail my sanity started to waiver as I began to truly understand how all the famous poets wrote so many beautiful things with seemingly effortless grace. Looking at the lakes, the valleys and the smoke billowing over the rim of the mountain passes, it seemed so obvious– when you’re surrounded by so much inspiration it’s so simple to reflect it back onto a piece of paper. 

Day fifteen came sooner than I expected or wanted it to. From our first steps on the JMT via the Whitney Portal to running in all directions through Tuolomne Meadows to secure a cheeseburger and ice cream before 5 p.m. to being deathly afraid of the squirrels and chipmunks in Yosemite National Park who had the bubonic plague and being attacked by Steller’s Jays to sitting in the shadow of Half Dome with three of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. It felt like the entire trip lasted fifteen minutes, maybe. But fifteen whole days? I couldn’t believe it. 

We descended into Yosemite Valley at sunset. And it was such a big deal, but it also seemed so anti-climactic. The hordes of summer vacationers who were day-hiking to Half Dome, dropping gum wrappers, Kleenex and unwanted trail mix, updating their Facebook statuses, filtering their Instagram photos and fiddling on their cell phones had no regard for us or the journey we had been on.

As the sun set we switched on our headlamps and continued down the final, paved path and the thought of leaving the wilderness suddenly began to sink in. It was then that I realized that after such a long time in the wild, it was going to be really hard to leave. 

We finished in the dark, caught a bus back to Matt’s truck and then re-shuttled the cars to Horseshoe Meadows. As Matt drove, I found myself leaning out the passenger-side window, face up toward the sky. The stars seemed farther away now and it was hard to fathom that we were really off the trail. It was hard to believe that Matt was driving again and that the adventure was over. It was quiet. It was hard to understand that we were back to reality. I certainly was not ready, I thought as I hung out the window. I don’t think any of us were. 

At 3 a.m. we pulled into Horseshoe Meadows, said our goodbyes and quickly set up camp–Matt and Kayleen under the stars and me in the back of my car. 

When I woke the next morning, the sun was rising and I could feel the heat of its rays across my face and neck. Matt and Kay were already gone. So I stretched slowly and crawled out of my sleeping bag, determined to use a proper outhouse. And as I limped slowly toward the restrooms, I saw two women– clean, energetic and my age, packing up their tent and walking toward the trailhead. They waved, but I just smiled. I didn’t need to say anything. I could see the same shock, bewilderment and love for adventure in their eyes that I know I had in mine. 

“These are my people,” I thought.

And that was the end of my adventure. But not the end of my story. 

So where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. Because to me, it’s not about the destination or a finishing point. It’s about the journey to said destination and the lessons learned along the way.

Jeremy Collins recently said,  “Sometimes the best journey’s aren’t necessarily from east to the west, or from ground to summit, but from head to heart. Because it’s there that we find our voice.”

So whether your journey is fifteen days, fifty days or five years, it’s entirely irrelevant in my opinion. I learned more about myself in the single moments of inspiration I found along this trail than an entire lifetime of contemplation could have taught me. 

“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: what is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.” -Rene Daumal

And finally, as with any journey, who you travel with is more important that the destination. And when it comes to hiking, running or slurping water out of a creek with a LifeStraw, SideCar, Muddd and Jukebox (Becky, Kayleen and Matt) breakdance it all like no one’s business. I’ve never met anyone with more depth, compassion, humor, intelligence and grit and I can’t imagine this hike without them. From singing trail songs to our late night conversations to washing our hair in frigid, alpine lakes. From sunrise coffee in the tent to mid-afternoon pep talks to keeping me (and everyone else) calm in so many moments of pain and impatience, I am all kinds of thankful for the friendship we have and the adventure we shared together.