I recently backpacked the Lost Coast Trail in the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park. It was a peaceful, invigorating enterprise that spanned four days and led to new insights about myself and abilities. Upon returning I found myself tapping out some reflections and revising them into this poem.
On the Lost Coast Trail
I’ll walk now, on my own.
My legs are strong,
my back sturdy.
I’ll heave this pack and learn.
The trail ahead is long
but I understand now.
Each day out I’ll greet the dawn,
cook my meal in stainless steal
and drink strong black tea.
The past is over.
Nostalgia is but a hollow wind,
and I a new-grown wood.
My soul was never in your arms,
but in the high up leaves
of swaying alders,
and in a stone moved loose
as I strode to rustle,
roll, and bound from sight.
And again in the call of an eagle,
soaring below as I hiked
into the haze of its canyon.
At night the stars will sing,
and I’ll listen. In time
no thought will come of you.
I feel now my heart purling
down ferny creek beds
to join the widest freedom,
and sifting through branches,
up storied hillsides,
each rooted thing alive.
I’ll never pass your way again,
for I have unlocked my cage,
and the trail unfolds before me.
Up until now It’s always taken someone else to motivate me into going backpacking. This isn’t because this isn’t what I wanted to do. I’m not really sure why this is. Maybe a lack of confidence in my abilities, that I could go out into the wilderness on my own lugging around a heavy pack and actually enjoy myself.
And enjoy myself I did. In fact, I went a lot further and with greater ease than I would have guessed possible for me. It looks like my several walks a week over the past year of no less than 2.5 to 3 miles has changed my biology some. It used to be very difficult for me to hike even two or three level, or soft grade, miles with a pack, but now I find I can hike six rugged up and down miles, pressing through underbrush and crawling under and over fallen trees with relative ease. I’ve changed in the past few years, and until now I couldn’t have grasped how much.
On my first night I stayed at Little Jackass Creek, about six miles in using a fire-road shortcut I know about. Turns out this is a hot spot for week-enders all around. When I got there, there was only one official campsite left (flat with enough cleared ground to safely operate a camp stove without setting everything ablaze). And a few more sets of people showed up after I did. The second night I spent at Wheeler Camp, four plus miles north of Little Jackass. There is a great lookout between Wheeler Camp and Little Jackass from the top of a flying buttress cliff face called Anderson Point that would terrify an acrophobe senseless. From here you can see for miles both up and down the coast, and of course several hundred feet just about straight down to tidal rock reefs below. The third night, about six miles south of Wheeler Camp, I spent at Anderson Creek, which was satisfying because I was the only person in the area that night. And the next morning I hiked the long way back about six miles to Usal Beach.
And so begins a newness of life that I hope will thrive vibrantly even in the face of certain death.
