Thirst: 2600 Miles to Home

by Heather Anish Anderson

The half decade I’d spent trying to conform to society was a charade. Hiking was my reality.

Death and I may have had our first dance that day—a drunken waltz through the desert heat—but my dance card was not yet full. I would live to dance again.

I stopped feeling God inside the church. Or with other people. Or really anywhere except when I was out hiking or moving through a landscape. It was like seeing God with my very own eyes instead of closing them and imagining him.

I would need to envision survival rather than demise if I was going to make it out of the desert.

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.

I crossed yet another ridge, passing a fallen ski boundary sign. Storms of emotion washed over me as I traversed shrubby, green slopes. One minute I was elated, the next I was sobbing. I missed life off the trail. I wanted to lay down and sleep my fill. The up and down feelings that came and went daily seemed to have no real triggers, though chronic sleep deprivation was likely the root cause. I yearned for sleep even more than for food. Yet, I was enraptured by the rolling beauty around me. Birdsong and babbling springs were the only music I desired. Every sunset and sunrise held a special beauty. I was stronger than I had known. I was also hungry, sunburned, and lonely.

“Eat me if you want, but first I am getting some sleep, damn it,” I mumbled as I faded away.

“Perhaps choosing a zebra print for lion country was a bad idea.” I laughed at my own joke. After all, I had passed by the majority of thru-hikers at this point. There wasn’t really anyone else to talk to. I savored the conversations I had already had, replaying them in my mind to keep me company. When I got tired of that, I talked to myself.

I’d grown accustomed to hiking in silent meditation. Now that it had returned, silence felt like a blanket I could cuddle into.

Crater Lake held five trillion gallons of water—and a seemingly equal measure of my heart’s memories. It was a place of subterranean destructive power, where a mountain had once dissolved into an explosive cloud of ash. But it was also a place of healing. The epitome of sacred Earth, it was Shiva-like—both creator and a destroyer.

“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.”

I’d spent fifty days exploring the tip of the iceberg—90 percent of my self-discovery remained. But I had to start somewhere.

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.

My physique, rippling with new muscles, was now unfamiliar. I was still a ghost, but now I was also the lioness—lean and strong. The night was my home. I was enough. I roared into the inky blackness, reveling in my power.

Foraging used to mean survival. Now, it was a way of connecting to the natural world as well as an evolutionary past—a delicious reminder of our wild selves.

Days passed differently off-trail. They had no rhythm and more choices.