A Trail Tattoo
In the fall of 2018, when my bank account was slightly padded and my desire for a tattoo to commemorate my time on the Pacific Crest Trail was no less than it had been three years prior, I made an appointment with my tattoo artist. It felt cheesy when I said I wanted a tattoo for my two PCT hikes, but cheese is delicious and I am okay with being slightly ridiculous, so I swallowed my embarrassment and sent my ideas to Ryan (a tattooist in Portland, Oregon that had long since surpassed the need for my business). How could I best capture what the trail meant to me and take advantage of Ryan’s incredible artistic touch? A trail blaze? Overdone and boring. A map? Not my style or his. Plants and animals? My jam and shit, he’s good. Anxieties around having too much ink on my body (oh my god, I’m covered, does this change me???) and the price tag of a full sleeve influenced the design and I settled on my favorite plant from each of the three states the trail wanders through, California, Oregon, and Washington, along with the first animal I saw and the words that captured the feels of the trail for me.
The tattoo is on my forearm. It’s visible most days. I run hot and can’t seem to wear long sleeves, so people see it and they ask what the meaning behind it is. Most days, I’m happy to share, but not wanting to bore people or feel like I’m bragging, I tone it down, shorten it up, and deliver a nice little synopsis. I’ve said it so many times I have the script memorized. Nice and tidy, an elevator pitch of the coolest thing I may ever accomplish in my lifetime. The problem is, the real telling is buried deeper by each abbreviated description, tucked away until the stories blur and distort and, eventually, are totally forgotten.
The details, the real why behind the images permanently etched onto my arm, are worth remembering and worth being told, so here they are—the images, the feelings, the stories, the lessons…the real telling of the Bunny, Beavertail Cactus, Lupine, Huckleberry, and Wild and Calm.
T h e B u n n y
First animal sighting. Desert cottontail to be more exact. The bun-bun was the first animal I saw on the dry California start of the trail. I honestly don’t think my hiking partner Tom and I had hiked more than a mile from the rusted and barbed border wall, maybe it was two, when we saw one darting away in the bush. I remember being really excited, exclaiming and pointing–BUNNY! So began the high pitched baby voice whenever I saw a bunny- or anything else cute and small and fuzzy. Pika! Marmot! Chipmunk! SQUIRREL! I see them often on desert trails in the Southwest. They always surprise me and I get obnoxiously happy when I see them. There is something about them that tickles me. So cute. Little. Furry. Skittish. They seem like such outsiders in the desert. It’s hard to believe they can make it there, in the unforgiving desert–so pokey, so sharp. And yet, these little fur balls make it their home. They are such a contrast to their environment. Maybe they make me think about life in general. Just trying to make it in a world that can be so unforgiving, yet so beautiful. It’s fitting that the cottontail was the first animal I saw. Tom and I were not unlike the little cottontail. Here we were, new to this trail, looking a bit like the bun-bun–cute, maybe a little anxious, highly aware of our surroundings, and very aware of the fact that surviving 700 miles of hiking in the desert was going to be impressive and rigorous. We set off, soft and pale, carrying slightly too much stuff, surrounded by the unforgiving heat of the desert, the sharpness of the bush, with the drive to keep walking towards water and shade. We didn’t seem to belong there, but we made it our home and we loved it. We loved our life on that trail. We loved walking together as the sun set, casting shadows across the rolling landscape of southern California, turning all things brown into gold, hiking into the night as the moon rose, the trail bringing us to tears not because our feet were sore but because the beauty was too much to take in. I will always adore the Desert Cottontail. Each time I see one, I will love it as fiercely as I loved that new beginning, the way that each day surprised me, those first steps into the unknown, into the place I eventually discovered I did belong.
Once, the second year on the trail, my trail pal Roo and I were hiking late into the night. Somewhere after Mojave, before we reached the Sierra. Old wind turbines creaking. Winding trail in and out of the folds of the earth. Wind. Roo was using his solar inflatable lamp as his light source, had it hooked to his waist belt. Our pace was different that night, sometimes together, sometimes not, like an accordion moving to the rhythm of the folds of the mountains. At one point, I rounded a bend and a rabbit was just there. Sitting and staring. Probably completely confused by my headlamp. Roo came up shortly after and we watched as it looked at us, hopped away, hopped back towards us…it just stayed on the trail contemplating us, moving towards us and then away. Eventually, it led us down the trail a ways, and we followed, amused. The rabbit was our guide. We felt like we were in Alice and Wonderland and we were about to enter into something magical. Who am I kidding. We already were in something magical: Night hiking. Desert air. Together. I think we had napped that day during the midday heat with Tarzan, yet another beautiful Australian hiker. We needed to make up miles when it wasn’t quite as hot. The memories fade. The individual days on the trail blend together to become a story among stories. When we were out there, each day held significance. I could go day by day in my mind, see the trail, and categorize each day as a Very Importance Occurrence--the order being very important. Now, I remember moments and days but I don’t always remember what moment or what day came before or after, it is all just a part of the trail. Which year? I don’t know.
Beavertail Cactus Blossom
California: The birth of it all. Favorite plant: the beavertail cactus blossom. So pink. Vibrant. Stunning. It would stop me in my tracks. Make my heart sing. If I stared at it long enough it felt like I would soak up its beauty, somehow transforming from within. I was always wanting to get the best photo of one, which, if you’re with Tom, will always turn into a silent competition. You don’t even know you’re competing until he proudly points out that he got THE BEST photo. Tom tried to get the best photo of a particularly gorgeous blossom somewhere around mile 600 or maybe 650? In his words, it was perfect. His photo didn’t turn out so well. He stood on an unassuming rock just off trail to get a better shot of the blossom, the rock shifted and rolled, he fell, the rock rolled over the back of his leg gorging it raw and open, and his hike was nearly derailed. We were in the biggest stretch of waterless trail we had seen yet. Forty miles without guaranteed water. A stretch of trail that really can break your spirit. And it did. We were so scared that his injury would put us behind or put him off trail. Would it get infected because we couldn’t clean it properly? I had fallen behind, a rare happening when it came to the two of us hiking, and rounded a bend in the shadeless stretch of sandy trail to find Tom standing there, face full of terror, leg covered in blood. We tried to clean up, using as little of our precious water as possible along with our limited first aid supplies best suited for blister care–not this. Slowly, we made our way down the trail to a place we could rest and wait out the heat of the day. We napped under a Joshua Tree that afternoon to catch the little amount of shade available. Friends also stealing shade shared basic first aid essentials. We were beyond grateful. We cleaned him up as best we could. Assessed. Weighed our options. Made a plan to move forward. I wasn’t caring about how my body looked anymore. Top off. Rolls out. Too hot. Fuck it. Not caring was so freeing. Who was there to see this new me? I remember Tom and Terry. There were others there. Maybe the other Australians? Always so many Australians.
I slept the afternoon away under that same Joshua Tree the following year. It’s not hard to miss, there aren’t many to choose from. Same weird tree, different people. The cactus and rock were still there, too, just doing their thing in the oppressive heat, not feeling bad about the problems they caused us the year before. This time our concerns revolved around how fast we could get to the main road and whether or not there would be a hitch to get us to the all you can eat Chinese buffet and REI. Roo and I settled into the flattest spot on the slanted hillside along with Cheesy and Chips, Burnsides and Rambler. Chips, a tall hairy guy, was wearing Cheesy’s hilariously short shorts. I was thrilled to be forming a silly family to hike the Sierra with and remember telling them all about Tom and The Incident. That was the real beginning of those friendships. A few others rolled up in addition to a RV driven down a bumpy dirt road by a proud dad waiting for his hikers to emerge, loaded up with cold drinks and fresh food, purposefully ignoring our drooling and longing glances.
Was that the day after Roo and I saw the Cottontail? As if it matters. As if the order of the days matter! It’s like the stories your grandpa use to tell about his younger years–he can’t ever get a story finished because he has to keep stopping to recall So and So’s last name or where they lived or what the neighbor’s house looked like–and none of it changes the guts of the story anyway. It matters only to the teller. We want to know that those stories are there in us, all of the details, the feeling, that it all still lives in us.
The beavertail cactus blossom. Yet another symbol of something soft, beautiful, and bold in a place that is anything but soft. It’s lovely, too, that my favorite blossom is also the name of one of my favorite hiking pals from 2015—Beaver. He wasn’t named for the plant, rather for all of the building he did on trail. Beaver was so handy. Made the best camp fires, found the best ways to collect water from nearly dry seasonal sources, and he was always spending his down time creating some sort of rock tower. They were amazing. Taller than he was. Probably fell on a few aggressive chipmunks. Beaver. He named me Moonshine and I named him Beaver. I like the bond that forms from the naming. I named a few people on trail. Beaver. Roo. Pepe, also known as the very tall and handsome Pepe Lepew. Tom and I named Jim, “Terry.” He hated us for it. “You can’t name someone just another terrible name!” I digress. Still, this digression only highlights all that is connected to this bright and stunning blossom. What a gift. This blossom makes me think of Tom and our journey together. I think of how vibrant the desert was and how easy it was to love it even with all of it’s brutality.
Friends! Newness! Surprises! Challenges! Happiness.
L u p i n e
Oregon. Oregon. Home. I had walked home. It was different than I thought it would be. When I thought of Oregon, dreamt of walking through it after months of backpacking, I saw in my mind the lush forests of Mt. Hood, the thick green ferns of the Gorge, everything moist and dripping with morning dew, the sun streaming through the needles of the tall, gorgeous pines. Instead, much of the earth was scarred from wildfires. I would wonder as I walked long, 30 plus mile days, what the place would have looked like before you could see through tall stands of bare and burnt trees. Would I have loved it as much? Oddly, there was something very moving in the burn areas. You’d think it wouldn’t be, after experiencing so much death, destruction, loss. You’d think it would be just…sad. It made me think about those things, and seeing as there wasn’t anything to do besides think and walk, I went to places in my mind that most wouldn’t have time to go to. And in thinking about them, I would see that they weren’t nearly as scary as they make themselves out to be. Death. From it comes life. Even my death will foster more life. My body will feed the soil that grows magnificent things.
But the lupine! The lupine were beautiful. The purple fireweed as well. They were the first to visit the freshly burned land. The charred earth brought out the most beautiful flowers. They were this perfect little gift, a small reminder, that in all change, as hard as it might be, after such loss, as devastating as it is, there can be and will be beauty. Good can come after. Beauty can come after. Something so admirable can arrive that you may even be thankful that the fires came through. I still see them, waving slightly in the wind, no trees left to block its flow, this gentle little reminder of tender new birth after loss. If I’m being honest, there is a tinge of sadness in the beauty, but I’m realizing it’s okay to feel tender and to remember the loss while embracing the beautiful work of regrowth ahead.
H u c k l e b e r r y
Welcome to Washington. When I think of the huckleberries I think of being in love. When people ask me about my tattoo though, I rarely say that. Instead I say, “The huckleberries were my favorite plant in Washington! We would walk the trail and just pick them as we walked. I loved the color of the berries against the deep green of the leaves.” That’s true. Really, though, they mostly remind me of being in love. Often I like to just keep that to myself.
The huckleberries. I fell in love on that trail. I think of Him ambling down the trail eating the berries as he walked, singing and dancing, not worried about the miles we had to make in order to get to camp before dark–a darkness brought on by the shortening fall days and dense forest. I think of his sweetness, not unlike that of the berries. I think of the joy I felt walking that last state with him, together, knowing we would be at the monument together, knowing there was love, knowing we walked through some of the most amazing wild landscapes…together. And yet, also on our own.
We met the day before the hike even started, in the safe cocoon of a trail angel’s home, sharing a meal with anxious aspiring thru hikers. Both of us set on this solo adventure being just that- a solo hike. I was drawn to his kindness and vulnerability, his playful spirit, his smile dimples newly displayed on his freshly shaven face. We arrived at the Southern Terminus together, I having already shed tears in front of him, tears filled with overwhelming gratitude to be back where I longed to be. Each day we were camped together represented another day we chose to be together. There was no pact, no obligation, no commitment to start together nor to end together. We did not have to keep the same agenda or the same pace. We didn’t have to hike the same mileage. And yet, it kept happening. Day after day. More tears shared, anxieties discussed, families dissected, past loves pondered, endless laughter, hard day’s closing with kind words of encouragement and a warm embrace. Back scratches and early morning snuggles evolved. Friends. Occasional benefits. That was all. Hiking pals. But solo! Not together! Bodies moving in the dappled forest light, a pairing expedited by the intensity and freedom of the trail, growing closer…me falling, falling, falling into love, although I denied that to myself. He was too young and I was too old and he was from far away and we really were just friends, right? Hiking pals! Solo!
He left the trail for a break after 1,000 miles together, and in so doing, left me. I thought that was it. He was over 100 miles behind me and I wasn’t slowing down or changing my hike to wait for someone to be with me that didn’t choose me. I had more pride than that. New chapter. New hiking pals. That was fun, those romps in the woods, weren’t they? Moving on, moving forward. Furiously hiking without a break. Exhausted and collapsing onto a boulder overlooking Echo Lake, folding into my sobs. Get up, get moving. You are solo, you are strong. To Canada! But then, three weeks later, there he was. He chose to catch me. He didn’t have to hike into the night and leave his newly found solitude. And so, wrapped in his arms, quietly and tentatively talking about our next steps on the trail, my heart bursting, we chose to be at the finish line together. It’d be a shame not to, eh? So the huckleberry, the prominent plant of southern Washington’s fall, reminds me of my love for Him. A love to be enjoyed in the moment, just like the berry. We could have walked by them, but we stopped and ate. Laughed. Enjoyed the natural, delicious wild flavor. I could have walked past this love knowing it would end, that we were literally walking to the finish line of Us, but I dove into the moment. I was there. Wildly in love, foolish to think it would end at the monument without any pain. Just because you are no longer indulging in the berry doesn’t mean the taste, the texture, the intoxicating beauty doesn’t stay with you.
I pride myself in not being a liar, but I am lying when I say my favorite plant in Washington was the Huckleberry. It wasn’t. As far as plants go, my favorite was the Larch. What an incredible tree! What the huckleberry is, is a vivid reminder of falling in love on a long hike, the playfulness and sweetness of that love, and ultimately, that all things must come to an end. Oh, it was so good to have tasted it.
W i l d a n d C a l m
My hikes ended and I went back to life off trail. I found that I couldn’t just close the door on the trail, though. In doing so, I would crack. It was tempting to try and forget about my life out there. Was it even real? It seemed like it would make reintegrating back into city life less sad, less frustrating, and it would be easier to get back into a routine that involved adulting and rent and traffic and bills and work if I could just forget it. Forgetting wasn’t even close to a realistic option, so instead, I had to feel everything. There were such huge feelings surrounding my experience that I couldn’t put into words and so many lessons that I hadn’t yet fully learned. I needed time to figure out what the trail meant to me, I needed words to describe the feeling of it all, and I wanted them to be with me as a constant reminder of all that it was…all that is possible.
I have Spencer, my dear friend, to thank for the words I could not find that would carry the meaning of the trail experience forward with me in my life. Wild and Calm. My take away. My guiding motto. The trail, the whole experience, the feeling of it and the lessons it taught me is captured by these words. Wild and calm. How incredibly wild to abandon what you know and walk into the wilderness. How wild to be free, dirty, climbing mountains, slogging through the desert, and tasting the sweetness of the springs. How wild to not know what is around the next fold in the earth, but to keep moving forward anyway, to not know if you are capable but to believe in yourself just enough to conjure up a bravery you didn’t know you had, to subject yourself to the elements and animals, to accept the kindness of complete strangers, to dive into vulnerability, to love, to face your thoughts and past. Yet, it wasn’t wild paired with insanity or anxiety or chaos. It was paired with calm for the perfect balance. The calm of the granite boulder fields, the calm of the grass swaying, the golden light dancing its way across the landscape, the grandness and strength of the pines, the beauty of young budding plants growing out of a dying oak. Even with all of the wild, the beauty of the land, the rightness of it all was like a deep breath relaxing your body and soul. You, in the thick of all that is wild, completely filled with a sense of calm, knowing you are exactly where you should be, even when you don’t know how it will all play out.
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