5/12

I’m hiking up the side of a mountain in the Olympic National Park on a narrow exposed ridge.  As I hunch forward with each step, sucking air into my face as effectively as I can, amazed that my heart has the ability to beat so deafeningly, I understand what the sign at the trailhead meant when it described the incline as “steep” with a “thirty five percent grade.”  It dawns on me that I am not as prepared as intended.  This is awful.

But as I’m pressing forward, trying to keep balance, making sure not to slide down the drop to my left, I hear something ahead of me.  A familiar rustle.  Footsteps.

I look up from my boots to see a small Asian lady coming down the trail from up ahead.  She ambles along quite quickly, with trekking poles feeling the way before her feet, she arrives in front of me faster than I anticipated and I take the opportunity to stand aside on the ledge of the trail for a break, which surprises her.  She lets out a pleased gasp and smiles at me from behind the bug net draped off the brim of her hat.  Then she looks past me, down the trail, and back to my eyes.  “Ah,” she says, “you are alone, as well.”  And there’s a warmth to her grin, a knowing ease, a settled contentment that makes me want to drop before her white sneakers in tears. Let her know how truly alone I am while hugging her ankles.  Let her know the mistakes I’ve made and relations I’ve squandered.  Let her know how off path I’ve truly gone.

But I just smile, and nod my head.  “Yes,” I say, “alone.”  And let her pass me by to continue my journey.