I kept daily journals for my entire trek of the Colorado Trail, writing up my experiences either on the day they occurred or within a day or two after.
But not the last day. The last day I couldn't bring myself to write.
It's now late October, more than two months since I left the trail. I've finished transcribing dozens of pages of cramped handwriting into this blog, and I'm left with a blank page that just says "8/12".
Here's what I remember of the last day we hiked:
It was hard. I was nauseous that morning, and chilly, and I had to loosen my hip strap on the first big climb. I struggled with energy a bit. I thought, well, so much for my ideas that this trip is getting easier the longer I'm on it. I thought, it's fitting that this trip ends with a few brutal, nauseous slogs up a few beautiful, difficult ascents, since that's a lot of what this trip was about.
The last 7 miles were incredible vistas with green slopes and distant mountains, tiny lakes tucked into the curves of the landscape. We passed other thru hikers, and I eyed them with envy. Granite and I mostly walked together. We didn't say much.
When we reached the last descent, Cottonwood Pass distantly below us, we settled on a rock for a moment to enjoy our last few moments on the trail. We had been here before: this was the section of trail we climbed up in bad weather, when wet, sharp winds and steady rain convinced us to turn around and head back to the road to hitch to town.
But on the last day, there is only a gentle breeze and blissful mountainsides. I feel incredible gratitude for Granite by my side, that we lived this 300 miles together. Even when it was cold or painful or overwhelming, even that one scary day when we were separated. We didn't give up on this trip, or on each other.
Granite is hungry to be home again, misses friends and our lives in the Bay Area. But I will miss this trail like a friend. Glistening damp forests, clouds gathering in the distance, the sound of rain on the tent, waking up in my warm cocoon next to Granite. I will miss these perfect moments so much that I'm grieving to walk away from them.
More than that, I will miss the simplicity of having one task to do every day: just walk. Walk in one direction all day, and the next day get up and keep walking in that same direction. I have rarely felt such clarity of purpose, such peace in movement.
I quiet the little part of me that's still whispering I'm not finished and we stand up to go down to the road together. My battered sneakers take me down off the last mountain, and I look in every direction hungrily, trying to memorize the curves and colors and sounds so they will be with me always.
But not the last day. The last day I couldn't bring myself to write.
It's now late October, more than two months since I left the trail. I've finished transcribing dozens of pages of cramped handwriting into this blog, and I'm left with a blank page that just says "8/12".
Here's what I remember of the last day we hiked:
It was hard. I was nauseous that morning, and chilly, and I had to loosen my hip strap on the first big climb. I struggled with energy a bit. I thought, well, so much for my ideas that this trip is getting easier the longer I'm on it. I thought, it's fitting that this trip ends with a few brutal, nauseous slogs up a few beautiful, difficult ascents, since that's a lot of what this trip was about.
The last 7 miles were incredible vistas with green slopes and distant mountains, tiny lakes tucked into the curves of the landscape. We passed other thru hikers, and I eyed them with envy. Granite and I mostly walked together. We didn't say much.
When we reached the last descent, Cottonwood Pass distantly below us, we settled on a rock for a moment to enjoy our last few moments on the trail. We had been here before: this was the section of trail we climbed up in bad weather, when wet, sharp winds and steady rain convinced us to turn around and head back to the road to hitch to town.
But on the last day, there is only a gentle breeze and blissful mountainsides. I feel incredible gratitude for Granite by my side, that we lived this 300 miles together. Even when it was cold or painful or overwhelming, even that one scary day when we were separated. We didn't give up on this trip, or on each other.
Granite is hungry to be home again, misses friends and our lives in the Bay Area. But I will miss this trail like a friend. Glistening damp forests, clouds gathering in the distance, the sound of rain on the tent, waking up in my warm cocoon next to Granite. I will miss these perfect moments so much that I'm grieving to walk away from them.
More than that, I will miss the simplicity of having one task to do every day: just walk. Walk in one direction all day, and the next day get up and keep walking in that same direction. I have rarely felt such clarity of purpose, such peace in movement.
I quiet the little part of me that's still whispering I'm not finished and we stand up to go down to the road together. My battered sneakers take me down off the last mountain, and I look in every direction hungrily, trying to memorize the curves and colors and sounds so they will be with me always.
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