In Lak’ech: You are my other me

Before starting the PCT, there were many questions to be answered. Some by me, ones that can only be uncovered by my footsteps north. Many by others, by curious friends and family to whom this adventure is often incomprehensible. Of all the questions I have been asked about this trek, from gear to food to “how to’s” in the woods, one question has stuck with me: “Have you ever met anyone on trail you didn’t like?”

Hiking in 2019, I could affirmatively say, “Yes. I have met people I didn’t like on trail.” I thought that was that, it’s natural to not like everyone, right? But as I have been thinking about it more and more this time around, I realize how untruthful that statement is. The more I meet people, the more I understand that the stirrings and swellings of distaste, disgust, jealousy, irritations, or anger are never actually toward the other person. They are toward some part of myself I see in them that I am unwilling to accept, to hold, to see. I have never met a person on trail whom I didn’t like, but I have come face to face with parts of myself I don’t like.

Not liking someone has never sat well with me. I hear all the time the sentiment that “they are just not for me,” or “I’m just not for them.” I’ve tried so hard to make this statement work for me. Those that do seem to have an air of ease, a secureness to themselves that always eludes me. I feel torn inside, shredded apart. A scattering and shattering that stretches thin.

The desert is not really “for me.” The spiky buckthorn scratches at my legs. The sun is hot and the shade is thin. Water is scarce and wind whips dirt up into my eyes and covers every inch of my body. Hypervigilance wears thin at my mind as I search for slight stirrings in the grass and listen for hints of a rattle.

The creosote blooms and sends cascades of sweet smells into the wind for it to swirl around my nose. The sun adorns me in freckles I used to be endlessly covered with in childhood. The bewicks wren sings trills and blesses my ears in joyful melodies of the day. The silence of night calls me closer to the loudness of my own breath and heart. The desert pokes holes in all of my fragilities, scratches my sunburns, and forces me to look deeper into the moonlit sands of my time on this earth. The desert is for me.

Everyone is for me, and I am for everyone. Inside each person is part of myself, the parts I love, and the parts I try to shove aside and hide. When I hear the bragging of miles, the nonchalance of speed, I see the part of myself that just wants to be seen and know I am enough. The part of myself that always feels the need to prove that I am worthy and tries to pull it out of others because it is buried too deep within myself. When I hear the battering and debating of facts I see the part of myself that wants to feel certain, assured, like I am right or doing this thing called life, right. I see the part of myself that knows the shame of being “wrong” in a world that calls smart or intelligent being “right.” When I hear the talking behind others’ backs, I see the part of myself that just wants to be seen and belong, the part that is hurting from having been excluded or invisible. When I see armor, I see the part of myself that is scared to let love in. When I see you, I see me.

I don’t always see this, but I know this is true. Sometimes my ego or fear or anger gets in the way. But when I allow myself to open to you, light always

shines through the cracks. You are my other me.

How much more beauty might you see if you looked to find yourself in me?