It was so good to see your handwriting. I can’t even describe how good it was.
I still wish I knew how you were doing. I think about how you’re doing all the time. But I understand if you don’t want to tell me. I’m glad you’re okay with me writing, though. Because there’s a story I need to tell you.
The first thing you should know for this story is that I’ve gotten better at hitching. I still don’t love it, but it’s necessary to get to supplies here in the Sierras, and every time I successfully climb into someone else’s vehicle without vomiting, I feel a little proud of myself. And I think about that first hitch with you, to the dinosaurs. Thank you for taking me to the dinosaurs, Ben. I never would have gone by myself.
Anyway, I hitched here to Tahoe City with a woman named Jenn. You would have loved her. She smacked my arm as I was waiting on the shoulder of the highway and said, “You hitching to town? Let me borrow your white male privilege and take me with you so I don’t die alone in some creep’s car.” She called herself a happily fat hiker and told me about all the condescending advice she’d gotten so far on her section hike, how people come up to her and talk to her about dieting before they even ask her name. It made me think about Ryan, and some of the stuff he said had been said to him. Different stuff, obviously, but all stuff I don’t have to experience, you know? Stuff I should think more about.
Jenn told me a lot, too, about some of the racist stuff John Muir said and did, especially against Indigenous peoples. How we should call the John Muir Trail the Nüümü Poyo instead, or Paiute Trail, to honor the native names. Even though I’m done actually hiking that section of trail now, I’ll try to call it that in the future.
I kept thinking about how Carolina would’ve liked Jenn, too. How I wanted to tell Carolina about Nüümü Poyo.
We even got dinner together in town, me and Jenn. She mostly talked and I mostly listened, but she’s funny, kept making me laugh. Every now and then she would randomly say, “I like you, Alexei,” like Dahlia did at brunch that day. It was nice.
Anyway, for some reason I wanted to tell you about it. We probably won’t ever hike together back on the trail; Jenn is, quote, “slow as fuck and anyone who has a problem with that can eat my ass.” And I am doing pretty high mileage these days, at least when the trail allows it. But I’ve been mostly keeping to myself, since I got back, and it felt good to laugh with someone again.
And I wanted to tell you about the John Muir thing, but maybe you already knew.
Okay. I guess that’s all. I have some other letters I want to write, before I leave here.
Tell Delilah I miss her too.
Lex
Sent from Tahoe City
Mile 1,126
***
July 23
Dad,
These last few weeks have been the most technically difficult hiking of my life, and I’ve only survived them because of you.
Knowing how to read a topographic map, how to balance my weight on a thin log crossing a perilous river. How to dress basic wounds. How to stake a tent on difficult ground. How to notice when I’m dehydrated. Recognizing animal tracks. Knowing bird calls.
The last one isn’t an essential skill to survival, but it’s the one that brings me the most joy. And I realized the other day it’s also what drew me to the man I love, and it’s all because of you, and maybe there’s something ironic in there, but it only makes me sad.
I have to admit to myself, at some point, that I’m only here because of you. I told myself, through all the prep I did for this trip, all the training and research, that I was doing it for myself, to help myself find peace and a new path forward. But you’re the one who started bringing me to trails when I was only a kid. You’re the one who brought us to national parks.
You’re the one who constantly talked about your dream of hiking the John Muir Trail.
So maybe subconsciously, I set out to do this in order to prove something. To you, to myself, to God, who knows. I did your dream, Dad. It’s been more difficult than I ever could have imagined, and you will never know about it. Because I know, Dad. There’s no point in me trying to be optimistic about it. I know you’re never going to change your mind.
For so long, I felt empty, and then guilty, and then sad, and now I’ve reached this anger stage I hate most of all, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that it might not ever go away. I might not ever stop being angry and hurt by you, Dad, and that sucks. It’s not fair.
But one thing I can do is stop feeling guilty. About my pain, about your decision. Your decision was yours and yours alone. And I’m not going to punish myself for that anymore.
You would love it out here, Dad. I’ve never been in wilderness so pure. Every day, you feel close to God. I lost him for a while out here, but I feel him again now.
So maybe youshouldhike the John Muir Trail one day.
Because you might have been the one to bring me to church, Dad. But I got to know faith on my own.
And your interpretation of God is a tragedy.
Alexei
