Wander through the Wonder on the Pacific Crest Trail (20 years later!)

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When Bend Magazine asked if I would write an article about my thru-hike on the Pacific Crest Trail 20 years ago, I was thrilled to be able to share a few slices of the experience that changed my life.

Even though I feel many miles away from the person I became on that trip, I know she underpins all of what I do and how I see the world now.

Click here to read the full story on Bend Magazine‘s website.

Getting edited for a travel magazine was something new to me, and even though they added lots of practical tidbits to the story, I prefer one of my earlier drafts which I’ll share with you here.

I don’t know if it’s frowned upon to share a draft of an article that becomes something else at the end, but here I am, doing it!

Wander through the Wonder on the Pacific Crest Trail

Years later I still rock out as She-ra. This was my birthday in 2024 shortly before my cancer diagnosis. I’m carrying a lopper I received that day to mark my move into trail maintenance and stewardship. My hiking journey had come full circle.

At the Oregon/California border of the Pacific Crest Trail I found a simple wood-burned sign nailed to a ponderosa pine. That sign, just south of Ashland, marked the transformation my body had taken over the previous 1,699 miles: my calves were swollen to the size of cosmic crisp apples, blisters were a thing of the past, and my thighs bulged out like Superman’s. By the time I walked up to that sign the miles had honed me into an invincible hiking machine, and now, Oregon was to be savored.

Oregon proved to be the indulgent treat I had waited for, especially when I gazed at the fathomless depths of Crater Lake with a water bottle full of wine; I watched the stars wink into being that soft evening and resolved to live this trail life forever. The granite expanse of mountains in California were astonishing, but the standalone chain of basalt and pumice peaks was somehow more welcoming. The trail gently ushered me through the gateway of volcanos, high cool lakes, and the kind of trail where the mind could wander around the wonder of the Pacific Northwest.

To this mid-western girl, the thought of walking the far-away lands of the PCT reminded me of the adventure books I devoured as a girl. Back then I wanted to live a life full of exploration and exploit; I still do. I walked to Canada that year, five months after I left the Mexican border, and my quest to live and work outside the bounds of the ordinary brought me back to Central Oregon two years later; I came back to hike. The trail in Oregon was originally named “The Skyline Trail” before it became part of the PCT, and it was aptly named. Our local tread ushers you along the shoulders of volcanos including South, Middle, and North Sister; past Mt. Washington; Three Finger Jack; and the hulking Mt. Jefferson. 

Nemo approaching Mt. Washington

The PCT was the brainchild of avid outdoorswoman, Catherine Montgomery, back in 1926. I thru-hiked the trail 80 years later in 2006, well before another notable woman, Cheryl Strayed, made the PCT famous in her book, Wild. Cheryl stopped her 1995 hike at Cascade Locks, 455 miles on the opposite side of Oregon from that CA/OR sign, but you need not hike for months to find the respite that she did on trail. Those who want to experience the iconic volcanic section of the Oregon PCT will need a Cascades Wilderness Permit for a day hike or short backpacking trip, but it’s worth it! Gear shops in Central Oregon employ knowledgeable hikers that can help with gear choices or would be happy to pour over maps with you. Ready to head out? From Santium Pass, a short 6-mile hike will find you walking below the summit of Three Finger Jack. At Willamette Pass a 3-mile walk uphill ushers you to the clear blue waters of Rosary Lakes where you can camp and swim. Elk Lake is only a mile off trail, and if you head to the resort for lunch you are sure to see hungry thru-hikers that can’t resist the idea of cheeseburgers and beer so close to the trail. 

In the years since moving to Oregon’s dry side, I’ve discovered that all the seasons offer different excitements. Cooler fall temps mean a lack of bugs, and when permit season ends in mid-October, it’s easy to head up for a short day-hike from Mirror Lakes trailhead or McKenzie Pass; well-trained eyes can spot delicious Chanterelle mushrooms, a welcome addition to any trail meal.

In the winter Ray Benson Sno-Park hosts cross country ski trails along the PCT; I’ve made it a new year’s tradition to sluice through the snow. For backcountry adventurers, skiing into Mt. Thieson’s shoulder to snow camp will give you a thrill every time you peak outside the tent on long winter nights, and a rigorous day-trip could even be made out of the skin-track up South Sister or Broken Top. 

You are not excluded from the wonder if you can’t (or don’t want to) walk the dusty miles. Hang out at one of the mountain passes with a cooler of cold drinks or pick up a thru-hiker trying to get into Sisters for a shower and a meal. You will be able to identify them by their skinny, dusty legs (could be dirt or tan) and the tiny backpack. Give a hiker a ride or soda and you just might make a friend for life.

Another reason to explore the PCT is to learn more about this amazing planet we live on. Maybe your interests lie in history, or is geology your thing? Trail guidebooks, apps, and kiosks illuminate specific details about each area, and now in the age of cell-phones, it’s common for hikers to download podcasts or audiobooks about what interests them. Many use iNaturalist or Seek apps to learn the names of flowers and trees around them, and some may even contribute to a community science project about the flora or fauna they find. 

There is much to discover about the land along the PCT, but my favorite part is the connection I make to place. The trail becomes home, and in fact has been home to many since time immemorial. The richness of a life lived outside can be measured in sunrises, in the number of clouds that slowly drift overhead. My wealth increases each time I take a nap under a ponderosa tree, listening to the wind swaying the heavy branches overhead. I smell tangy manzanita in the summer heat and feel the sun warming me into my slumber. I sink into the forest floor and know I am connected to this place. I am part of it. We all are. To hike is to go home.

The Ghost of Me

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It’s a strange place to be, this becoming someone new, especially when I’m not sure of my ability to become at all.

Words have started flowing in what may or may not become a book project, and rather than the paragraphs adding up to a cancer memoir or adventure book, I’m discovering the resonance seems to be in the sticky, dark, murky life found between adventures – in how I’ve made decisions.

I thought the throb and pace of the thing would be found in stories about managing the brown recluse bite on my thigh and surviving a military coup in Ivory Coast, but instead the depths I haven’t plumbed yet are in the cloudy moments when I don’t know what’s coming after the next hike, when I don’t know which direction to turn, or which of the thousands of possibilities is the next best one.

Probably because I’m in that murky middle now.

The difference is I didn’t choose this time. Is that why I’m finding it so difficult to find my footing? I LOVED change before, I used to get so excited for the unknown.

I recently finished reading Maggie O’Ferrell’s Land, and a particular choice in one of the character’s lives hit me: a boy chose to join the priesthood BECAUSE it would require very little decision making for the rest of his life. He would be told where to go, what to do, how to do it, and I realized there is probably a lot of comfort in that for people. In the absence of making decisions, there is a simple doing, and perhaps not much questioning. I am not built like that; I find the idea stifling, accompanied by a dense panic feeling. But isn’t that what cancer has done to me? Taken my choices away? Over the past year and a half I have dutifully followed directions, shown up for my infusions, scans, blood draws; booked the appointments; and tried to untangle the newest pain in my body.

I don’t want to give all my power away to cancer, but it changed me, and I still have that stifling feeling. Do I have choices now?

I recently attended Pacific Crest Trail Days. I’ve been going to PCT days since it started. First to screen print my hikertrash designs onto filthy hikers, then to promote the Oregon Desert Trail, and now, simply to be around community. I realized before I left home for the festival that I would be known there as She-ra, not as Renee. Am I She-ra anymore? Could I embody She-ra for the weekend? The She-ra I used to be was exuberant, silly, fearless, and also carried a plastic sword to Canada, twice. I tried real hard to be that person again. I showed up for the Thursday night dance party ready to lay one down, but a crappy DJ didn’t play anything danceable, or maybe I’m old. I visited, laughed, caught up with friends, but the next day I needed to take a long nap in the morning, then another in the afternoon. I don’t have the stamina to be She-ra for very long anymore. I just don’t think I’m that person right now. So if I’m not her, who am I?

And that is at the heart of it. She-ra chose her future. Renee’s future is happening to her.

I’m a ghost of She-ra now.

Blink and you might miss me.

I know it’s not that cut and dried. I do have some choice, right? I decided to travel much of this year and seek out new destinations, but it’s so tiring. It turns out I’m still me when I get somewhere new. I used to become someone new, but now I’m stuck with myself, and am tired…a new horizon isn’t reinvigorating the She-ra that I used to be.

I try to keep planning. I have ideas of long walks I could do with the help of a stroller, or maybe even a modified pack, but I also get tired so easily. I don’t know that I like long walks anymore. Renee has different motivations now.

I’m in the messy middle, and am trying to be ok with whatever it is I’m becoming. Or maybe my becoming is done now, and I’m just existing in the present. The present isn’t a terrible place to be.

I come back to the idea of writing a book, and I don’t want to think of getting published or anything like that. I’m writing to make the days bearable. To give me something to do. To skip ahead and picture the finished book is counterproductive if I’m writing to find out.

Writing so I can think is the thing.

These fine folks help me be both She-ra and Renee. Pouch, NEMO and I all met on the PCT 20 years ago. Their love child, Rewan, is the best of them both!

This In Between Never Stops

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the beach always has me thinking about horizons

I keep thinking I will see a clear path forward, but the horizon shimmers enough that the next step is obscured. This time my horizon was the other side of my first year in remission, but the CT scan I was supposed to have this afternoon has been pushed back another few weeks. Oh yeah, and we are going to do a bone scan too, because the PET scan wasn’t approved. That will happen around the end of the month.

I feel like I’m in the clear. I feel stronger lately; robust is how I’ve been describing it.

I’m sure the docs want to hedge their bets; how closely can they really be communicating all the time, anyway, huh? I mean, how often does my oncologist talk to my nateropath oncologists? Or my acupuncturist, massage therapist, physical therapist, pain specialist, neurosurgeon, second opinion neurosurgeon, neurologist, primary care doctor, pain psychologist, or osteopath talk to each other? I have standing appointments and/or relationships with all those practitioners… not to mention an odd session of free reiki that I get at the cancer center. Other semi-regular appointments include a trip to the gynecologist, feldenkris practitioner, and palliative care nurse…

I think it’s apparent by now that it’s my responsibility to let each doc I see know what the other one said…

But don’t forget to make that appointment. I have been notified that I need to switch from Summit to Saint Charles palliative care, and since I haven’t heard from them since my last appointment, I need to call them. It’s on me…

Oh, and schedule the brain MRI for November too. Get it scheduled when insurance approves it, but remember to call multiple times because no one lets you know insurance has approved it…

Oh, and get replacement air filters for the four air purifiers at home; the wildfire smoke has them clogged all up after the weeks of poison air, and I have lung cancer and all…

Yes I’m feeling better. Yes I started going to yoga again, Yes I’ve made a few fun trips this summer and have a few more coming up, but I feel like I’m sinking sometimes from the sheer effort of it all. Thank god I have a type A personality, what do those of you do who are on your own? I have a loving partner, an engaged and supporting mother, and many close friends who care about me deeply. I know how lucky I am, and even though I’m paying for some of these appointments out of pocket, wow, my insurance sure does cover a lot of it, and I’m so glad my landlords are caring and decent people who have provided an affordable place to live in Bend. I live a simply enough that I can stay here, as the town is quickly becoming a city before my eyes.

At yoga this week I was given the card “Voyage,” and it seems apt. Cancer is a journey. I haven’t survived cancer, I live with it. And we are coming to terms and the world still turns.

There is more right in my body than wrong

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We went to the Umpqua River this weekend; the water color alone brings so much joy.

I fell three times in the last month, but I’m not broken. I have headaches now, are the two related? Maybe, maybe not. No one can say for sure. So many wrongs are overlapping at the same time and I have no idea what preceded what, what caused what, and what are simply coincidences. All of this makes me want to curl up in a ball and throw the covers over my head.

HOWEVER, for the first time I saw through this hazy state of managing my pain when my new pain psychologist said: “There is more that is right in your body than wrong.”

There is more right in my body than wrong.

I don’t have active cancer right now, I have pain.

There is more right in my body than wrong.

You will notice that I use repetition a lot in these posts, sure it’s for emphasis, but it’s also so I can get the words through my thick skull. I have been repeating her words in my head to myself for days now. I can scarcely believe them. There is more going right in my body than wrong. According to my latest brain MRI, I am stable. I’m still waiting on a Guardant Reveal blood test and a PET Scan to tell me if I’ve been in remission for a year now… but I think I still am???? (BTW, I’m VERY EXCITED for the Guardant Reveal test. It will be my first one and it detects cancer cells smaller than a PET scan can, which is great….so in essence, I think from now on I can get the blood test, and if there is cancer, then get the PET to tell us where it is.)

Other wise wisdom from my pain psychologist includes learning that I’m probably overlaying my emotional trauma on top of my physical trauma, which could explain a lot. Of course the cancer diagnosis was traumatizing. Of course ending up in a wheelchair after not dying was traumatizing. But so was watching my parents deal with a stroke, long-term care issues, late stage Alzheimer’s, their only daughter getting stage-4 cancer, and then my father’s death.

Is the pain in my brain? Most of it started escalating at the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis, which is also the anniversary of all the above.

I DO feel more robust. I do feel like I could be turning some kind of page in my health journey…The fact that I fell three times in the last month definitely helps reinforce that idea. I fell to the ground three times and stood back up again. But, I feel like a toddler, learning to walk again. I’m wobbly. I am not quite sure how to balance in this new world, not sure where the balance is. (Granted, most of the falls have also accompanied the increase in dosage of one of my pain meds, which…wait for it…causes balance issues)

But I am getting stronger. I see that now – that I needed a year in remission for my body to do what it does best: heal. In much of the last year I needed to get out of the way of my body’s ability to get stronger and avoid fall risks. I needed to act as if I’m fragile. I needed to think of walking again like I was a bull in a china shop (I’m both the bull and the china in this scenario.)

I can’t quite start bashing my way through the brush like I used to, but I can try to move in a more deliberate way in the general direction of my former activities. And that is promising!

There is more right in my body than wrong.

I’m voicing these blog posts over on my substack now…if you want to hear me reading these, head on over and give them a listen...I’ll be recording more of my past posts in due time.

Tea

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I’m in the middle of the Fishtrap Writers’ Conference at Wallow Lake (and eastern terminus of the Blue Mountains Trail!) and am absolutely blown away by the level of writing, quality of people, and depth of community I’m finding out here. I want to write more about the week, and the multi-stop trip I took to get here, but first I want to share a bit of one of today’s writing prompts. I’m in workshop with the incredible Ana Maria Spagna where daily she takes us through a variety of thought experiments and writing exercises…one building on the other as each day progresses.

Now I’ve written from writing prompts before, they were usually grudgingly typed out in my home office, alone, and was unimpressed with my efforts: usually lack-luster and boring. Why was it different this time? Well, I’m in a room with ten other writers and we are given a time limit. It’s amazing what a little pressure will do, along with the desire to show up in a room with such accomplished writers. Also, it’s day three of the workshop, so we’ve all started to show a bit of our soft underbelly. This may seem odd to you as I’ve been all soft underbelly since my cancer diagnosis 18 months ago, but when in public, with new people, I’m not usually the first one to jump up and say: “Hey, I’m dealing with cancer, it’s all I’ve been writing about lately.” Instead, I lead with the hiking stuff.

I started sharing more at the end of our time yesterday, but today when given the hermit crab prompt, I enjoyed trying to only show a bit of underbelly. Just a glimpse.

Tea

1992

My mom brews up a mug of tea and I shake my head and fake puke when she asks if I want a cup. “Tastes like dirt” I reply.

1999

All the villagers drink tea, and take great pride in pouring it elaborately. I mean, they pour from two feet up in the air! The brown stream is expertly aimed from one small glass cup into another. They say the hight helps mix the sugar. I can’t refuse their gift; that would be rude. When I try to pour, none goes in the other cup. They laugh.

2007

The office packs lipton tea bags into our resupply. I had to drink it, I mean, I should drink it; it was carried into the backcountry on horseback for goodness sake! I had to be grateful for anything to break up the monotony of warm-water bottle water. Oh yeah, there were definitely BPAs in those old Nalgene’s, especially when we made sun tea and soaked those bags all day in those plastic bottles.

2015

Why didn’t anyone tell me there were herbal teas that tasted like mint and lemon? Yes please. I can finally move away from the dirt.

2020

A little dirt is ok…and it goes down easier in something like a green tea that is mixed with ginger or tumeric. I read that it’s good for me, a scrap of hope in these eternal COVID times? And I think I’m finally used to the earthy taste. I should be, geez, I’m enough of a dirtbag.

2025 – Spring

Now I’m supposed to drink as much green tea as possible. My naturopath tells me to drink at least two cups a day; but more is fine too. “It has immune strengthening properties,” she says. “As if that will make a difference,” I think. 

2025 – Summer

Friends send me green tea now. My shelves are overflowing with the stuff. Word got out that I can’t drink right now, and so red wine is off the list. Tea will never be a substitute for a big, bold red, but the Japanese rice-based tea that Margo sent is ok…

2026

Mom found the green tea I left behind on my last visit and brewed a cup. “Uggg,” she said. “I don’t know how you can drink the stuff.” 

Survival of the Kindest

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The most illuminating aspect of spending decades of my life walking across the world has been welcoming a shared experience with strangers in far-flung places.

Kindness personified…in all these peeps!

When I met Jesse on the Oregon Desert Trail, I could only see an angry rancher with a gun on the front seat of his pick-up until we started talking about the wonders of nearby Orejana Canyon, and we both turned soft and pleasant. Sue and Don rolled up an impossibly rocky road in their ATV while I was deep in the Superstition Mountains on the Arizona Trail; I started my internal grumble at having my pleasant morning interrupted by a noisy gas engine when they offered me a cold drink and fawned over my efforts. And then there was the time I met another Renee – we were both curious about the other: one, a world traveling solo female hiker meeting another: a former nuclear engineer on the remote Lemhi Pass along the Continental Divide Trail.

It all comes down to curiosity and kindness.

I have been offered more cold water, cold beers, and cold sodas by strangers than by my closest friends and family, and that makes me very happy. That gives me hope. That with face-to-face interactions: my humanity looking at your humanity, me in my dirty pee-stained legs talking with you in your fabric-softened jeans, we can laugh together, trade stories together, and marvel at unexpected connections.

I love strangers. Especially strangers I meet when we both have something to give each other: respect.

I am happy to report that my reliance on the world to keep me buoyed in optimism and hope began long before the cancer started. It began when I started traveling.

Even back in my first days in Zogore when I was the first health education Peace Corps volunteer to live in the subsistence farming community, not to mention the first foreigner, the curious and friendly welcome of the villagers instantly broke the initial barriers of language and culture in that sub-Saharan African community. Sometimes that looked like bored teenagers sitting in the shade with me while I waited for the shuttered health clinic to reopen after lunch. The head nurse, Adama, was supposed to return in the afternoons to reopen the clinic, but sometimes he didn’t. I taught the boys UNO – they taught me how to cheat. We drank millet beer out of calabashes and swatted flies as we waited the long wait.

I believe in survival of the kindest. Not survival of the fittest, which has been misattributed to Darwin for many long years. In Darwin’s first book about humans, The Descent of Man, and Selection In Relation to Sex, Darwin argued for, “the greater strength of the social or maternal instincts than that of any other instinct or motive.”

Survival of the kindest.

Why is it that kindness and connection can be easier to find away from home, when you are raw and vulnerable, or bewildered and in need?

Is that why I was transfixed by the United airlines in-flight entertainment when I started watching the Pole to Pole TV show recently?

In the first episode, I became enthralled when I saw Will Smith find a sincere connection to another human. (You must be thinking here: “Is she really referencing Will Smith twice in recent blog posts? Yes. Yes I am.) Talking about depression will do that for you, especially when each and every one of us has experienced its heavy pull before. Will was talking to professional rugby player – turned polar explorer, Richard Parks, in a tent after they traveled on skis over Antarctic ice. The camera zoomed in when both men became teary-eyed. Richard was explaining how he broke his shoulder during a rugby game, and when he couldn’t play anymore, he floundered with an identity that didn’t apply anymore (sound familiar??). Will…well in his case, you probably know about the slap heard round the world and his accompanying fall from grace.

“When you are the center of the storm, the key is to keep moving through it,” Richard said. “We need to be willing to step into the unknown.”

And suddenly I sat up in my cramped airline seat. His words echoed how I’ve been thinking about living a life with cancer. Wait, even before then… even when I didn’t know how to deal with the countless cases of malaria, AIDS, and Guinea Worm in Burkina Faso, especially when the village nurse didn’t come back to work.

I pressed play on the next episode. The next leg of Will’s journey took him to the Amazon to meet snake expert Bryan Fry. Bryan and Will were trying to find a large Anaconda and learn about indigenous ways of life when something slid into place in my brain: If you add our assured mortality to the qualities of curiosity and kindness, meditations on death really rounded out my new way of understanding the world:

We are all curious. We all benefit from kindness. We all die.

Bryan had spinal meningitis as a kid, and when he didn’t die, he decided to devote his life to finding venomous animals that might provide new cures to diseases like his. His purpose and curiosity drove him into deep caves and jungles to find the elusive toxins. I watched as Will and Bryan’s eyes welled with tears in the conversation. Did this TV show mean to reveal what happens when people are vulnerable with each other?

In order to find the really big snake, the two visit Waorani elder Penti Baihua. The Waorani live very close to nature, with very little between their skin, the jungle, and their way of life. It turns out the snake, and in turn the tribe, is threatened by oil drilling. The drilling portends the death of an ecosystem, and Penti then says, “When I walk the jungle is when I feel most free.” Haven’t I said the very same thing? Just without the jungle part?

There are connections here that I’m just starting to pull on with this blog post. If I pull too hard, I’m going to have to write a book about it, so I’ll just outline some things that are jumping out at me.

Documenting this very scene in the TV show and discussing the Waorani’s fight to save their home, even highlighting the activism and political mobilization they are engaged in, is the essence of what I’ve begun to mull over…I call it creative activism. Creative activism is using our particular talents (like the expertise of the National Geographic storytellers and camera people) to help communicate dire social or environmental problems to the world in order to activate others’ curiosity and kindness when faced with death.

What is my part to play as a creative activist? Could it be writing this very blog? For another creative activist I admire, check out Jeremy Collins’ book Eventually a Sequoia.

Ok, before I get too meta about it, I’m going to rein it in and go back to what I learned on the airplane.

Will Smith goes to the Himalayas and meets some strangers to talk about finding happiness (turns out, happiness doesn’t necessarily involve going to this gorgeous mountain range, but, I mean, it doesn’t hurt, right?)

It immediately becomes apparent that in those experts’ eyes, happiness is closely tied to experiencing death. The guide narrowly escaped dying in a car crash. Another had a brother who got advanced cancer. Will? A death of ego.

These folks hiked up to a remote monastery to speak with a Buddhist monk who said, “When you turn your full attention to death, you understand what is important and what is not.”

Will went on to extrapolate, “Staring at death introduces you to freedom.”

Chills.

It’s as if everything I’ve been thinking and processing over this past 18 months now has been summed up in this show. In fact, almost everything I’ve been thinking and living is also outlined here.

The courage to follow curiosity.

How can I be happy versus how can we be happy?

Freedom through movement.

Who are we when we react to death?

The unbearable heaviness of being

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The unbearable heaviness of being…in chronic pain

That was going to be my blog post this week.

That I found out there are no surgical fixes for my damaged spine.

That my only option is pain management.

And this was the song I was going to have you play:

But I’m not going to tell that story. I’m not going to explain how I walked away from the surgeon’s office feeling like a weight had been lifted while at the same time feeling a deep a sorrow pulling me into the ground.

I’m not going to tell you that the doctor had been incredibly empathetic. That he had looked at me with eyes that spoke of regret, regret that his knife couldn’t solve me.

There is nothing surgically to be done.

I won’t tell you that I wanted to drown my immediate feelings in a big, bold bottle of red, but because I’m not drinking, I instead sat in my Honda Fit, scrolling on my phone, trying to find the name of a passable non-alcoholic red wine. I gave up. There are none. Determined to feed my feelings, I heard the call of my next vice: sugar, and drove to the store, walked down the ice cream aisle, and grabbed several pints and boxes of treats. I fought with good cancer patient me who should be avoiding added sugars. The hurting me was determined to drown my emotional chaos in caramel swirls, but good me took control and peeked at the nutrition labels. It was too late, several sweet options were switched out for sorbet and no-sugar-added yogurt treats. This disease haunts me, even when I want to indulge.

This isn’t the story I’m telling you because it changed when I got home. I put the ice cream in the freezer – unopened, then popped the tab on a can of watermelon flavored La Croix. Something shifted.

This is where the story starts:

My body is my home.

The news that I have to accept my back’s limitations didn’t come as a surprise. In the month since I wrote that I wouldn’t stop until I got surgery on my spine, I had secretly considered that my current limitations might be permanent. That driving down two-track roads which disappeared into a sagebrush horizon would forever be out of reach; that the washboard rattle in my vertebrae would be too painful to endure.

Instead of the news prompting another round of grieving for what I lost, I stopped. I sat. I stared at the wall.

This is my body now.

This is my life now.

In the great pause of the afternoon, I got several texts from dear friends. I received a phone call from a radiant soul checking in on me in the exact moment I needed someone to check on me, and I knew I could let go now. That my friends can carry me, that my peeps got me, the world will catch me.

The final message was when I decided if pain was to be my constant companion that it didn’t matter if I was in pain at home under a heating pad, or in pain on a trail, out in the world. Yes, I had been living this way all along, walking the camino last fall, going on rafting trips, and snorkeling adventures, but I FELT it now.

This is my body now.

I looked up the yoga schedule at my local studio. I haven’t done yoga since January when I thought I was falling apart. I wasn’t physically any different now than I was then, other than I understood that I was going to have to exist in my body as is. This is as good as it gets. I might as well start doing yoga again.

Then I saw it. Joanna was teaching the 6am class, the class I had started taking 16 years ago. The class that had seen me through career changes, thru-hikes, and confronting an aging body. Joanna is a member of my cancer support group along with Pam, who just happened to be my first teacher at that 6am class on a murky morning in November. THIS was a sign. It was time to go back to yoga. It was time to find out what this body is capable of, without thinking a magical cure might appear out of my future’s uncertainty.

I entered the warmed air of the studio, eased my body into it’s first child’s pose in a very long time, and breathed as Joanna explained today’s theme was: Your Body is Home.

Tears welled behind my closed eyes.

My body is home.

This is my body now.

This is my life now.

There is certainty in that. I have a future I can work with now.

This is the song I want you to play now. Close your eyes, sit back, or better yet, lay down in the grass and let it sink into you.

Oregon Coast Trail Story Map

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Update: the story map doesn’t work on ohines now (or at least my android). Why does tech need to get obsolete so fast???? 😖.

Speaking of the Oregon Coast Trail (see my recent post), some of you who have been with me for years will remember the story map I built in the painful wake of my first injuries and prior to my cancer diagnosis.

In October of 2024, when I realized that I would not be hiking the Oregon Coast Trail, I decided to go ahead and do it anyway, but from home. I would embark on a pretend journey and imagine that I was out plodding through the sand and feeling the rain sting my cheeks in groves of old-growth trees that rim the bluffs over the Pacific Ocean. I would virtually hike the Oregon Coast Trail.

This creative endeavor was my attempt at keeping sane in the new insanity of my body…and you can see that as the days progress in the story map.

My process that month was to wake up early each morning, read the guidebook (shout out to Bonnie Henderson and her excellent resource), reference the FarOut app for real-time updates from other hikers, study the weather, decide how many miles to walk, where I would camp or find lodging, where I would eat, what interesting things I’d see during the day, and how I would navigate the many gaps in the trail. I wanted to turn the virtual hike into a visual journey as well, so I created the story map by publishing each new day on the platform as I would on an actual thru-hike. The Oregon Coast Trail is a logistical mélange of hazards like high tides, which make certain sections un-doable, or eroding cliffs from a perpetually stormy sea. I wanted to experience those hazards, even if remotely, and decide how I would proceed if I were actually there.

Story mapping had become another passion by this point, and over the past few years, I had been creating them professionally for other organizations. The medium harkened back to my college days where I dove into multi-media projects, combining images with prose, sounds, and even videos.

By the second week, my creative act had become oppressive, given the sheer amount of time it was taking me to create each day’s exploration. The added weight of my painful body didn’t make things much easier. After my morning creation, my days were filled with appointments. They ranged from sessions with a physical therapist, massage therapist, chiropractor, acupuncturist, and my primary care doctor, with little result. I could barely move. 

I kept going because that’s what I do, and I finished the project on October 31, 2024 to mirror when I would have finished in real time.

Because the story map software is constantly undergoing changes, I’m not sure how long this project will be available (the version I used to create this has already been discontinued), so check it out if you are interested:

And here is another story map I’m particularly proud of:

Maybe I’ll make a story map of all my hiking stories too?? The possibilities are endless!

Insignificance along the Oregon Coast Trail

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As I’m working on writing stories from my decades of hiking, I decided that I will share some of them here periodically…I’m sure these will probably look a bit different in their final form, but I find it’s great fun to share what I have now, rather than waiting for that “one day.”

Insignificance along the Oregon Coast Trail

October 2023

I walked up to Elk River in a panic. The tidal water looked too deep and dark for me to cross. Despite hiking as fast as I could through the damp and dark early hours, it looked like I might be out of luck. Low tide was another ten hours away, and if I had to wait, my day was shot.

I knew hiking the Oregon Coast Trail would be a challenge, but it’s really not fair how tides and swells and eroding cliffs throw up the gauntlet. Other trails don’t behave like this. Other trails are obedient in their stabilized soils and rocky steps. The trail out here doesn’t care that I have to walk through deep sand and journey into the night if I can’t cross this river. She doesn’t care if I slip, splash, and dunk myself on the way across, or if my shoe is sucked off into the sifting sand. The audacity!

I didn’t see a choice, so stepped into the flow.

My crotch is wet!

I panicked while resisting the pull of the ocean. The sea was hungry, but my thick thighs prevailed and hoisted me through the last of the current and onto the sandy bench above the flow.

I peeled off the pack and spread out my tyvek ground cloth. Not much point in it though, I was already soaked, and sand had snuck into every crevice; I felt new chafe on multiple levels.

Socks off, feet out. I lay spread-eagle on the ground and listened to my breath slow.

In. Out.

Inn. Ouut.

Innn. Ouuut.

I watched the clouds move along their own current overhead before closing my eyes to the brightness.

One thing became clear: I am not the most important thing here. I am not important at all.

There was no one around to have witnessed my panicked crossing, and I laughed at the absurdity of it all.

I don’t matter. None of this matters.

The ocean does that: puts me in my place.

I thought: this is what forever will feel like. It will feel like the ocean, where I am a drop in an unfathomable depth of the unknown. Suddenly, I could take anything that came my way. The thoughts that weighed on me minutes before seemed lighter against the backdrop of the sea. Anxiety about starting my new business? Doesn’t really matter. The last argument Kirk and I had? Nah. My Dad’s dementia? What?

I’ve felt this way before: when looking at pancake layers of rock in Utah, when surveying the mountainous horizon from the summit of Mt. Whitney, when gazing up at the Milky Way from the Alvord Desert. That abyss? That’s deep time, and I’m here in it.

I thought about Rumi saying, “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” It took me a minute before the concept set up in my mind…what helped was pulling out a scene from a late 90s movie.

Remember the part from Men in Black where alien blasters Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones realized the cat they had been toting around had a glass marble on its collar, and that glass marble was what the aliens had been after all along? The closer you looked at the marble, the deeper it went. There were stars and galaxies inside, and the magic of cinema zoom showed us that an entire universe was contained within that sphere.

The grain of sand between my toes used to be part of a mountain. That mountain used to be the sea floor. The sea floor used to be covered by glaciers. It doesn’t end, so maybe I won’t end either? I’ll become a part of it all, if only a scrap of food for a tree that will preside over the Deschutes River, and then get covered in lava the next time South Sister erupts.

It’s all good. I’m all good.

I shaded my eyes from the intense sun as I struggled to place myself.

Lunch. That’s it. It’s time for lunch.

One of my favorite illustrations by False Knees