Trail Tears
My first trail tears came within the 1st mile of my hike. We set out from the car, already above timberline and enjoying fabulous views of mountains and wildflowers in every direction, oohing and awing aloud when the thought came to me “I can’t wait to share this with my mom.” Then rapid realization kicked in that she is gone, and I cannot share this with her, ever. I cannot call her or show her the photos or tell her about it. I walked along with joy and tears intermingled for the first several miles.
Mom died in March, just three months before my PCT began. For whatever reason, my grief process seemed blunted as I prepared for the PCT. Tears did not come easily, and I could think and speak about the events of her death without feeling much emotion. I knew there would be more to come, but I didn’t know when. It has been out here on the trail that the tears found me. On the third night of this trip, I woke to a vivid dream of my Mom. She was standing in a room I did not recognize wearing blue, as she often did, looking very real, but also very angelic. There were no words between us. I went to her and hugged her, and I really felt her there. We held each other, but she was comforting me.
Everything in me softened after that dream, and I find that now I cannot think of her or speak of her without the tears flowing freely. I feel the clean, raw sadness of missing her, the longing to go home to her again. She has come to me in my dreams multiple times now in these first few weeks on the trail. I guess Trail life has created the space and simplicity I needed to feel the full impact of the loss of my mother.
It seems strange to me that she is so present with me here. She was never a hiker or a backpacker, but I find myself walking through my past, the places of my childhood and young adulthood, and she is part of all of that. I walked past the mountains that we could see from her front porch on San Juan Island. I walked across Highway 20, the North Cascades Highway, which would have led me to the ferry that could take me to her house. How I long to hear the crunch of gravel under the wheels of my car as I drive down her lane and to see her run out the door to greet me wearing blue.
I am careful not to get completely swamped by sadness and memories and to attend to the present-moment beauty that surrounds me. I remind myself daily “This is your PCT Susan. This is it” and yet the present moment is mixed and mingled with memories of the past. Some of these trails, I hiked on long ago, some of these mountains I have climbed. Most of what I am seeing today I will almost certainly never see again.
Looking back over my shoulder, I am walking through mountains of memories and valleys of grief. Looking forward, I am listening to bird songs of joy and taking in wildflowers with wonder. I walk alone. I walk with grief. I walk with Mom.
This is my PCT.
