I wanted to channel my reckless energy into magic. Two years ago, a man I loved deeply took me on my first proper backpacking trip, and ten months ago, I ripped him out of my chest with the ferocity of a Volkswagen colliding with the sea. As our relationship crumbled, my love for the outdoors grew, mud and tree bark patching up my heartsick. Last week, I felt it was finally time to revisit the mountain that started it all, the trail that slingshot my heart into a new phase of life, Alta Peak.
My anxiety is allergic to the outdoors. When I walk for hours along a wooded path or affix my limbs to a rock crag, I don’t think about my weight, or if he’ll call, or biting the inside of my lip. The sticky brain gunk that fuels my visions of destruction and self doubt are obliterated, and I focus intently on the task at hand. I breathe. I climb. I balance.