The park road would close soon. The pass was quickly becoming impassable.
As I drove past the ranger station, I refused to turn my head. I was too afraid that even through the heavy snow, I’d lock eyes with a disapproving ranger and lose my nerve to push forward, higher–defyingly–into the Uinta wilderness.
As I pressed hard on the gas pedal, my newly purchased base layers pressed even harder against my already tight hiking pants. I felt like a freshly stuffed sausage delivering myself to the carnivorous denizens of the backcountry.
Door Dash be damned, this was a true Meal on Wheels.
But I wasn’t determined. No, I was angry.
Hours before, I learned that some people can hurt you from 2,000 miles away. He had someone new. And I had a small condo furnished with someone else’s belongings.
Pulling off the road, I stomped out my rage across a disappearing trail and into the wintry woods alone. The Universe had some explaining to do.
The further I hiked, the quieter the world and my thoughts became. Eventually, the tempest inside calmed enough for the trill of the birds to be heard. My downcast eyes eased upward enough to see a snowman sitting near the lake shore. My worries stepped aside just long enough to make room for wonder over a frozen pond.
Though I walked into the woods without a pack, nature faithfully relieved the burden I still carried. I hiked out from under the weight of rejection, resentment, shame, and fear, and laid it at the base of the trees, on the embankment and deep in the snowdrifts.
Nearly a year later, nature would dutifully relieve me again–this time of the illusion that I was less than worthy after a painful breakup. This time, however, it was not the sound of songbirds that caught my attention; it was the stories of the women who walked with me that caused the pause.
Around the fire, they shared their own stories of heartbreak and hope. In the tent, we helped each other fix broken sleeping bag zippers while sharing our deepest fears. On the side of the trail, another would force me to repeat, “I am strong, I am capable, I can do hard things, I am worthy,” until I at least sounded like I believed it.
Until I did.
And I do.
And that’s why I hike.
