Every time I go on a thru-hike, I’m not the same person at the end as I was at the beginning. The trail changes you. No matter what.

I started my Pacific Crest Trail thru-hike with a partner. A partner that I had walked over 1,000 miles with — and would walk another 1,000 through the desert and sierra section of the PCT. And then I finished it without him.

How did it all happen?

Throughout the desert, I would fall asleep under the Californian stars next to my partner. As I watched the wide silver eye of the moon peer above the dry hills, I thought about how much had changed. Moonlight draped the landscape of his face in a cool light. 

It wasn’t so long ago we were both falling asleep on McAfee’s knob for the first time, under different stars on the other side of the country. 

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I felt excited and confused back then. I liked him but… before I met him, I was sure I was a lesbian. I had just broken free from an abusive relationship where my ex would insist transgender and gay people were disillusioned and shouldn’t exist. Then I met my partner on the Appalachian Trail, and he didn’t think that at all. I was curious.

So weeks after that night, we walked together along the Appalachian Trail. I asked him countless questions and found myself missing him when he wasn’t around.

He was like a best friend, my tramily, the footfalls between my own — so… why not a lover?

I always believed that I could love anyone regardless of gender, largely because I couldn’t even figure out my own. 

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So one night, in a shelter, I kissed him. And got even more confused. Shocker. It just didn’t feel… right. It should’ve felt right, right? I thought as I walked the next morning. It felt right, you’re just making it weird. It’s fine. He’s your best friend. You should have feelings for him. Lovers are supposed to feel like best friends… right?

There were too many rights going on. And by then I had taken a right when I shouldn’t have and found myself two miles off trail. I sprinted back up the two miles and told myself to stop. You have feelings for him. He loves all the things you do. Poetry. Outdoors. Art. Music. He’s emotionally open. He’s a great person. Why do you feel weird?! You’re lucky. 

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So on it went for the next 1,000 miles until I became so tangled up with him that I forgot I was tangled up inside too. We walked farther together and I denied the tiny voice in my gut that screamed I was back where I started. 

I started another thru-hike with him, convinced that we just needed to walk together again and the tiny voice would shut up. 

But it wouldn’t. It got worse. 

I could feel it was wrong to keep this relationship going; it was wrong for both of us. That I was gay. And possibly trans. And by staying in this relationship I was closeting myself further. It felt safe to stay with him. It was a natural habit to shove these identities far down inside to protect myself. Heteronormativity is easily learned when you’re surrounded by it every day. It’s not hard to act straight or feminine when it’s expected of you. It’s a lot harder to act like yourself when you’ve been conditioned that it’s wrong. Or perverted. Or weird. 

It was kind of like having an untied shoe that you’re too lazy to fix. It’s easier to just keep hiking and ignore it — but your shoe becomes looser and looser until a shoelace catches on a root and you slam face down into the dirt thinking, why didn’t I just tie that earlier? You can’t hike well when your gear isn’t working right. You can’t be yourself if you won’t acknowledge that something is wrong. And the truth will always come out.

That’s where I found myself on one hellish day in the Sierras. I stood on top of Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. 

My partner stood next to me as the sun set over the foreign landscape of jagged rocks and snow. And I realized I couldn’t stay with him. 

I looked over the strange landscape around me. On one side of Whitney, the desert mountains were low and dusty. Where we had come from. On the other side of Whitney, gray mountains jabbed granite fingers up into the sky. Where I was going. 

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I hated the desert. It was my least favorite section of the Pacific Crest Trail. It had been unlike anything I had ever hiked through before. The new environment of yuccas and red rocks had seemed unforgiving and unfamiliar. 

But as I looked back towards it — I realized it wasn’t the desert I hated. I hated the way I had denied myself. 

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I denied the feelings that I had always felt more connected with women in relationships. That I had continuous thoughts about transitioning. That I couldn’t stand being in a heterosexual relationship that reminded me I was stuck inside a woman’s body. That I felt more loved and connected in queer communities than anywhere else.

With every step, I looked around at the barren landscape and felt the same in my soul. When the wind rattled through the dry chaparral bushes, it rattled through my bones. When the buzzards circled over burnt carcasses in the rocks, I knew there was something dying in me too.  

Standing on Whitney, I couldn’t deny it anymore. Whitney, the great divider between desert and alpine territory. It was as if the mountains were showing me, This is how we change. See how quickly, how starkly. Can you?

For the first time, I realized I could. The whole desert lives its life underground until the night comes. Fence lizards, rattlesnakes, kangaroo mice, all burrowed into small holes as the relentless eye of the sun passes. I felt like I had been burrowed into the ground all these years, not strong enough to show my true self in the light. But night was coming. I could feel it. The sun sank lower behind the western Sierra. It was time for a change. I was done hiding.

Up ahead — I knew there was green. Places where the trees stood naked in front of the sun. Places where ferns whispered in the cool breeze. Places where I could be free. 

I turned my back on the place where I lost who I was and began to walk forwards.