Ben,
Today was really hard. The last three weeks, actually, ever since I got back on trail, have been really hard. I wish you were here, but I’m glad you’re not, too. You would be so stressed. I’m stressed. The scenery is gorgeous, like postcard perfect; I can’t even describe it. Of course Ansel and John liked it here. But maybe they were also a little out of their heads.
There are so many switchbacks, Ben, so many steep climbs. Some of the passes…I’ve survived them, but barely. There is so much snow. And so, so many river crossings. Sometimes it feels like I have to walk forever to find a spot to cross that feels even remotely safe. My feet are wet all the time and my nerves are shot.
I’m so tired, Ben.
What if I die out here?
I don’t want to die here.
I feel so far from God.
It’s made me realize how, even though we never really talked about my faith, you and me, how close I actually felt to it, while we were together. Like God had been hovering over me the whole time, sayingSee? This is love. Like I love you. Do you understand?
And now all I want is for God to talk to me, and I can’t even hear him. Which is strange, because you’d think if there was anywhere I could find him on the trail, it’d be here, where every view takes my breath away, every day a testament to the wonders of this world. But I can barely feel him.
All I can feel, most days, is missing you.
It’s such a generic phrase,I miss you, simple and meaningless.
What strikes me about missing you is how specific it is. I miss your sweatshirt and the smell of your instant coffee in the mornings. I miss the feel of your hands, how you scrunch up your entire body in your sleeping bag so when you fall asleep all I can see is your hair sticking out, the lines of your forehead. I miss the feel of your chin right after you shave. I miss how you smell, the gap between your lower front teeth when you smile. I miss being quiet with you. I miss how you made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be.
I’ve been studying this Portuguese dictionary I bought back in Nashville, at least on the nights I have the energy to. I test myself as I walk.Árvore. Rocha. Céu. Trilha. Pássaro.It makes me feel closer to you, even though I know it’s silly and unhelpful. But it helps pass the time, and honestly it feels good to learn something new, to use my brain for something other than merely walking and surviving.
I am so glad you’re safe in Nashville. You better be safe in Nashville. You better be asleep, in your laundry-warmed basement that smells like lilacs, with Delilah at your feet. Or maybe you’ve moved into a new apartment? Either way, please never leave the house or do anything remotely dangerous ever again. Picturing you safe and happy is the only thing that gets me through days like today.
I came to the PCT to find this new version of myself. But sometimes, since coming back here, I only feel more lost.
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
Lex
Unsent
Mile 917
***
July 8
Lex,
I never told you about Paul Salopek, did I? It’s funny; we spent so much time together, but there was still so much I didn’t get around to telling you.
The truth is, there were lots of reasons why I came to the PCT. I told you about most of them. But one thing I’ve been thinking about lately, that I never talked about with anyone, is when I first learned about Paul Salopek.
Maybe you already know about him. But he’s on this walk called Out of Eden, where he’s walking across the entire fucking world. He started in Africa, following the path of historical human migration. And he’s just…walking, and talking to people. Hearing their stories. Trying to figure out who we are. And then writing smart shit about it inNational Geographicand books and stuff. But I think when I first read about him a few years ago, some part of me thought,I want to do that.I know you went to the PCT to be alone, but I went to hear people’s stories.
I miss it, Lex. I think that’s part of what’s been hurting so much. You left me, like I probably always knew you would, but…you got to go back.
I lost you. But I lost the trail, too.
I thought starting this job, the career I wanted, would finally help ground me. Make me grow the fuck up. And I love it, Lex. I really do. I lucked out, working at this place; it’s such a good facility, such good people. I get to help people. It’s rewarding.
But I still feel restless. All that stress and debt of nursing school, the good fortune of working the exact job I wanted—and I’m still that antsy kid, always wanting to be outside. Always wanting to hear a new story. If anything, I feel that restlessness even more, since getting off the trail. Like instead of getting it out of my system, the PCT only amplified it.
I wish I knew where you were. What you were seeing. I wish you would write me again, Lex.
