Alexa Babin

June 30, 2020

This week I started reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. I still love the fact that her name is a sentence. Cheryl strayed. And because she did so, she found herself in ways she never imagined.

I remember seeing the movie when it came out and vowing then and there in the theater to read the book. Years have gone by, but here I am, reading. I kept my word to myself. It’s a small gesture, but I’m proud of it. Cheryl’s memoir recounting her time backpacking the Pacific Coast Trail has been just what I needed in this season. It’s been a nice reminder that people go through hard things and people are resilient. We can do more than we think we can.

Last year my roommate and I took a weekend trip to hike San Jacinto Peak near Idyllwild, California. It was my first time backpacking. Because Alison is pretty experienced, I felt comfortable going just the two of us. I had camped before, but never backpacked. And I’d never done anything in the true wilderness without a group of people. Our little excursion was new territory for me. Like Cheryl, Alison and I found ourselves at REI multiple times as we prepared for the trip. We chatted with employees about the best dehydrated food options and other miscellaneous gear we might need. It’s been fun reading about someone who hiked the PCT and sharing some similar moments of preparation along the way. The trail we hiked actually crossed with the PCT for a while. We saw a guy who was on his way from Mexico to Canada. Impressed would be an understatement.

When I think of people who do massive feats of strength and stamina, I often picture them capable, prepared, trained, and almost super-human. There’s a part of me that would love to be that kind of person, but I’m just not sure I am.

Today on my balcony in the fading light of the afternoon sun, I read about the start of Cheryl’s journey. I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t read, but she wasn’t really prepared, she definitely wasn’t trained, and she was undoubtedly a normal level of human. But she was more than capable. She knew what she needed to do, and she learned as she went. Perhaps the most entertaining moment of reading so far was her description of how to physically get her backpack on her body. After all, it had to carry the basics of everything she’d need for the entirety of the 2,650-mile journey. Her water alone weighed almost 25 pounds.

When Alison and I got to the trailhead on our first day of hiking, I hoisted my backpack on, nearly falling to the side with the weight of it. I had practiced putting it on the night before, joking that maybe I should start by sitting on the floor and then working my way up once I was all strapped in. The reality was that it wasn’t all that heavy since we were only backpacking for two days, but I wasn’t used to carrying all that extra weight. It took me a while to get used to the feeling of lugging it around like it was a part of me. And yes, we did this willingly. We put pounds on our back for the sake of travel, adventure, memories, and friendship. We needed some time in the great outdoors, and we were entirely willing to inflict pain on our bodies to do so.

Our two days in the wilderness were beyond wonderful. But we paid the price. We sweated, ached, and had moments of wondering just how much farther the campsite or the peak was. Beauty in its purest form surrounded us the entire time. Every moment offered something gorgeous and unique if only we paid attention. Thankfully, paying attention was easy to do because of the solitude we felt while hiking through the ever-changing landscape. What else would we be devoting our minds to?

In fact, there was plenty to think about. Creating separation between my everyday world and me allowed for suppressed thoughts and feelings to rise to the surface. With each step, new conversation emerged. Undiscovered realizations flooded my mind. I could finally let out all that I had been carrying in silence.

Cheryl’s trip along the PCT was her way of finding the person she lost. Life had torn her down and left her missing herself. She didn’t recognize who she had become in the wake of grief, change, and crushing loss. Backpacking made a way for her to reconnect with her roots and deal with her dizzying pain by inflicting pain of a different type. Her emotional wounds began to heal as her physical ones began. She writes about the blisters, scrapes, and burns. The wrong turns, the misjudgments, and the moments of doubt. But she also writes of the little triumphs.

On the way down the mountain, my knees were killing me. I’m in good physical shape, but the downhill journey with all the weight started getting to me. Alison graciously let me borrow her trekking poles to aid with the constant pounding. Only two days in the wild, and our bodies were tired. Despite the aches, I couldn’t help but think how much better I felt on the inside.

With each inhale and exhale of the crisp, clear mountain air I was reminded of who I was. I remembered why being outdoors is something I love so dearly. Looking up at the towering trees, out at the vast expanse of sky, and over the gently flowing streams told me what I needed more than anything—I am alive. I am here. I am on the move, and no matter what comes my way I can look forward to the next moment on my path. I may not be super-human, but I am capable. I am present. And I will take on whatever is thrown my way, whether mountain streams, sunlit horizons, or terrifying moments of self-doubt.

It turns out that strapping on all that weight in my pack was just what I needed to shed the weight of the world I’d been crumbling underneath just 48 hours earlier. Trading one for the other opened my eyes. Maybe the next time I feel the weight of planet earth on my shoulders, I’ll go throw on my backpack and take a hike instead.