By Cara Stolen
@carastolen

My phone alarm pings once in the darkness. I silence it, then roll to my back and let my eyes adjust to the blurry 3 a.m. darkness. My husband, Levi, sighs in his sleep, and I fumble for my glasses before slipping out of bed and tiptoeing to the coffee pot. By 4:15 a.m., I am showered, dressed, and ready to leave—the backpack I spent all week packing waiting by the front door with my hiking boots. 

But when I close the bedroom door behind me, I see my daughter, Maggie, standing in the shadows like an eerie statue, watching me from the bathroom across the hall. 

I glance at my watch, then cross the hall and crouch beside her. 

“Sweetie, what are you doing up?” I whisper. 

Her chin quivers. “I woke up to go potty, and now I can’t go back to sleep. Every time I close my eyes the bad dreams come back.” 

I wipe away her tears with my thumb and lift her tiny almost-seven-year-old frame to my hip, where she wraps her legs tightly around my waist. She nuzzles her head into my neck and I carry her back to bed, then tuck her in and hand her the new Barbie horse book she picked out at the library yesterday. I stroke her blonde, feathery hair and tell her to look at the book until she feels sleepy. But when I turn to go, she clutches my hand. 

“Why do you have to go, Mommy?” She whispers. 

Her face—with my nose and dark eyebrows—is so earnest looking up at me from her pink floral pillowcase. I can feel anxiety coming off her in waves and find myself unsure of what to say back. 

“I’ll be back in four days, Maggie. I promise. Please try to get some sleep.” 

But as I load my backpacking pack, trekking poles, and boots into the back of my car and pull down the driveway, Maggie’s anxiety stays with me. 

Is it selfish to want this time away? Am I a bad mom for leaving? Is asking Levi to take care of the ranch and the kids for four days unfair? 

The guilt permeates the greetings I give my two girlfriends when I pick them up. It shrouds the first view we get of the mountain through the clouds as we pull up to the trailhead three-and-a-half hours later. It settles in my muscles alongside the lactic acid as we head off up the steep incline of the first section of trail. 

But with each mile the fog lifts a little off the mountain, as does the perpetual brain fog I’ve been plagued with lately. My muscles warm to the steep descent of the first day, and my body grows accustomed to my 30 lb pack. I start to notice the earthy scent of the forest, the vibrant wildflowers, and the dew still lingering on ferns along the trail. With each step, my guilt fades a little more, and I settle into the simple rhythm of putting one foot in front of another down a dirt path. Eventually, I laugh at something my friend KayCee says, and am suddenly overwhelmed by how free—how like myself—I feel. 

Stopping dead in my tracks, I turn to face KayCee and Celeste, throwing my trekking poles overhead. “You guys, I’m so happy to be here!” I exclaim. 

“There she is,” Celeste says with a grin. “Only took you five miles to show up today.” 

I turn back to the trail, my heart bursting with not only the freedom I feel but also the gift of being known. 

The section of trail we’re on is part of the Pacific Crest Trail—a 2,655 mile trail that stretches from Mexico to Canada, made famous to hikers and nonhikers alike by Cheryl Strayed and Reese Witherspoon in Wild. We pass thru-hikers (people attempting to hike the PCT in its entirety) all morning, easily identifiable by the permit badges hanging from their packs, but a few minutes after my exclamation we pass a woman who looks to be about my age. I lock eyes with her as we pass and feel what I can only describe as a surge of familiarity and recognition despite the fact I’ve never seen her before. The whole interaction lasts less than three seconds, but I think about her for the rest of the day. 

Later, after we’ve set up camp for the night and wandered a mile up the trail without our packs, we sit in front of Ramona Falls, watching water cascade over moss-covered rocks. 

“Do you ever think about how different your life could have been? How just one or two decisions put you on the path to where you are now? How, in another, not-so-different world, we could have been one of the thru-hikers we saw today?” I muse out loud.

KayCee laughs. “Yep, just a few different choices in our twenties.” 

The conversation shifts, but I keep thinking about the woman on the trail, the peace I feel here in the wilderness, and the dissonance between that peace and the constraints of my daily life long after I snuggle under my backpacking quilt that night. 

Four days, forty-six miles, and 12,332 ft of elevation gain later, when the parking lot comes into view, I’ll be ready for a hot shower and a meal that isn’t freeze dried. I’ll miss my kids’ arms around my neck, my soft bed with Levi’s warm body curled around mine, and the structure and purpose of my days at home. My legs will be tired, and my back will be sore, but my heart will be full, the guilt I left home with long replaced by the joy of coming back to myself. 

When I tuck Maggie in that night, I’ll curl up beside her on her pink sheets and show her pictures from my trip. I’ll tell her about how beautiful the flowers were, and how strong I felt, and how incredible it is to stand on the side of a mountain. I’ll tell her that I hope someday she finds something that makes her feel like herself in a way that nothing else can or does. I’ll kiss her cheek and pray with her that when she finds that thing she never lets it go, no matter how difficult it is to fit it in. 

And I’ll finally answer her question. I had to go so I could get a break. I had to go so I could come back. I had to go so I could remember who I am. 

Cara Stolen is a ranch wife and work-at-home mama of three who lives in rural Washington state. An avid runner and outdoor enthusiast, she loves exceptionally early mornings, pushing the limits of an acceptable day hike, and backpacking or horse packing with her husband, Levi. She believes words have the power to buoy us through the hardest of times, and hopes to make other mothers feel seen with hers. You can find more of her work on her website and Substack.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.