I am sobbing and hiking. Snot and tears and sweat are running down my face. A few blobs of wet stuff fling themselves away from my eyes and end up droplets in my sunglasses, marring my already smeared view.
I just passed a few hikers I haven’t met yet, and I keep hoping they won’t pass me as I am breaking down.
I am a swirl of raw emotion. Anger, fear, pain, sadness, loneliness, emptiness, numbness, love, wonder, hate, jealousy all merge and float and riff of one another. They mingle and separate, blur and solidify. I am lost. I am helpless.
I think about how stupid I am acting and make myself stop crying.
I hike on, blowing my nose a little on the safe corner of my pee rag.
Then it all hits me again, the overwhelming wave of tiring torment that crushes my will to keep it together. I stomp my feet, flop my arms, let out huge wailing cries.
Boomerang calls, worried at my emotional texts, and I collapse into shade. I suddenly realize that I am so very hot. I am super tired. I am very hungry.
I drink some of my precious water. I eat another bar (please save me from these endless bars that are my tastebuds’ tormentors). I let myself rest a little. I realize, talking with someone outside my head, that it will be okay. This will pass. Everything passes.
We make a plan: two nights in a motel. Two nights in one home. One day where my stuff stays in one place. Where I stay in one place.
I get off the phone, book the room, and my mood changes. From desperation, I feel elation. I am bouncing down the trail. I am listening to music and feeling pure, unadulterated joy. This is the good life.
And then I remember: this too shall pass. But for now, I will ride this wave all the way into town.
