Thirst: 2600 Miles to Home

by Heather Anish Anderson

Everything about living in the wilderness seems so terrifying from the comfort of a home. Yet, on the trail, nothing is ever as scary as it once seemed.

At first, I couldn’t quite identify the new emotion, but at last I realized what it was: I felt capable. Perhaps not capable of completing my goal, but at least capable of meeting challenges and solving problems as they came my way. Despite everything, I was still moving forward. It seemed impossible at times, and yet, here I was.

hours. As I walked into the darkness, I reflected on my choice. I’d chosen this challenge for many reasons, and one of the greatest was to face the darkness, both without and within. Daily my body preferred to quit hours before I did. Instead I continued on, because of my stubbornness, yes, but also to allow scars to form when I wrestled with grief, memories, loss, and destiny on a sliver of trail in the moonlight. I was opening myself to true healing by finally dealing with my wounds.

I’d failed to live up to the expectations of my parents. I had not utilized my education in any real way and I’d given up on marriage. For the first time, I accepted that I could not meet the expectations of others and make myself happy at the same time. Being true to myself had led me here—onto a wild trail in the middle of the night—not into a nine-to-five and the creation of my own family. I hated myself for not being able to conform happily. I hated myself for trying and failing. I loved myself for choosing to do what was right for me, no matter the cost. I forgave myself for trying to please others when I knew it wasn’t right for me.

No matter the outcome, I will be thankful for the strength of my body—for the blessing of being alive. For the opportunity to face the night.

my mood had elevated to the heights of the passes I crossed.

Every day I let the irrational emotions spill out while I walked. I cried, yelled, pouted, swore . . . whatever I felt. But I never stopped walking.

This was mountain lion country and every sound made me jump. At last, the climb subsided and the trail leveled off at an

Sawyer filter.

“What happened, happened. Nothing I can do now will change it. Stop wasting mental energy and just move forward. One step in front of the other.”

Most were overwhelmingly positive, but there had been a handful of derisive people who’d read about me somewhere and formed opinions based on their own fears, limitations, misconceptions, and world views.

At least now I knew that my heart was wedded to the mountains—to the wild places. It was there, and there alone, that I was whole, contented, and blissful. No relationship, career, or wealth could ever take its place. I’d tried that path and found myself empty.

Normalcy still plagued my thoughts. I had backpacked seemingly endless hours since the Mexican border. Despite their difficulty, they had been the best hours of my life. Still, questions rang in my head. Why am I not like other people I know? Why can’t I be happy with the things that made my parents, my friends, and my siblings happy? Marriage, babies, the nine-to-five, a home? Why do I like to climb things instead? Mountains. Passes. Trees. Canyons. Why do I thrive on the freedom and adventure out here?

I had never thought that I was good enough, fast enough, strong enough, thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough, or any other “enough.” Nothing I did had ever met my own unattainable expectations of what “enough” was. Is that why I threw myself into the hardest physical endeavor I could think of? Was I simply desperate to do something that would make me approve of myself? I had noticed some changes in myself, some minute and others enormous. In those moments when I broke my body—or more effectively, my mind—I was discovering how “enough” I really was.