My answer to that question has always been that I like to be prepared for everything that might come up. Cold at night? That’s okay, here’s a thick hoodie and pajama pants and cashmere socks. Picky coffee drinker? Not an issue—here’s how I make it on the road. Not sure what I’ll want to wear ten days from now? Pack everything I own!
Yesterday, though, after seeing Brittany almost fall over the edge, I spent the rest of the hike thinking about how you simplycan’tprepare for everything—some things just happen.
It terrified me. And it made me think, maybe at the root of my desire to be prepared…it’sfeardriving me.
Fear of not having everything I need to be comfortable.
Fear of not having everything I need tosurvive.
Fear of being in a situation where something comes up that desperately needs a solution—and me not being able to fix it.
So many what-ifs.
I thought I was challenging myself by coming out here, leaving behind the things that make me feel safe and happy and whole. And ithasbeen a challenge, don’t get me wrong. In a lot of ways, though, I think I’ve insulated myself from having to deal with the things I fear most. Doesn’t it just prove Caden’s point—that I’m too high-maintenance, too extra, too much in general—if I’m only able to survive out here if I have a backpack full of emotional support items?
Screw it. It’s time.
I keep one pair of pajamas and leave the rest in a neat stack at the base of the Little Free Library. I leave my fuzzy slippers, my wax strips, the remnants of my nail polish. I weed out more than half of my clothes;someone is about to hit the lululemon jackpot, and it makes me want to cry thinking about how much money I spent on all of that just to leave it behind.
It only gets harder from there.
I leave my Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb perfume behind, along with my entire stash of makeup except for a tin of coconut-lime lip balm.
Finally, I unload every last bit of coffee, my pour-over setup, and my one-of-a-kind ceramic mug that miraculously hasn’t been crushed yet—the artist who created it always sells out within minutes, and I was over the moon to finally snag it during his most recent drop.
My pack is a sad, deflated carcass just begging to be fed. I’m tempted to stuff everything right back inside—but then I see the journal Thorn gave me, peeking out from underneathA Hiker Girl’s Guide to Bugs & Berries, the pocket-sized nature handbook Abby gifted me before I left for the airport. It feels important to keep both.
I’ve kept up writing in the journal twice a day, even if it’s just a single line. (See: the entry from yesterday morning, right after Thorn left my tent, that simply readsThorn is a good kisser, and I want to do it again.) Every time I open it, my memory flashes back to what he said when he gave the journal to me:People like you tend to get a lot out of journaling. I think you’d be surprised to read back over it after the trip ends.
I haven’t read back over anything I’ve written, not yet, but I already know he’ll be right.
“What happened here?” a deep voice says behind me, one I’d recognize while half asleep, or probably even after being shot with a tranquilizer dart.
I turn and see Thorn, dripping with sweat, his expression stormy.
“I could ask the same,” I say, gesturing to his soaked shirt. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Did another lizard try to attack you in the bathroom?”
He laughs, though the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t totally disappear. “Needed to let off some steam. Ran three miles.”
“You ran three miles…even though we’re about to hike all day?”
“Maybe not the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he replies. His eyes drift down to the pile of clothes at my feet, then back up to my face. “And…this?”
“My shoulders are killing me,” I say with a shrug.
He softens when he notices all of my coffee stuff. He picks up the beautiful mug, turns it over to examine the happy-face sunrise that peeks out from under the cheery little rainbow, the puffy white clouds, all of it painted by hand.
“You’re leaving this behind?” he asks. “All of it?”
I really don’t want to, I think but don’t say.But I think I should.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I am.”
He’s scanning the shelves of the Little Free Library itself now, pausing to take in the stash of makeup and perfume I stuck in there, when—out of nowhere—he bursts out laughing.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “You hadfourcopies ofWildwith you?”
“What? No!” I protest. “I only had one. The others were already in there, I promise!” The fact that I’m not the first one to bring a copy with me only to leave it behind halfway through a hike suddenly strikes me as hilarious, and now I’m laughing, too.
