How a Six-Hour Hike Helped Me Confront My Control Issues
Without a map or GPS, I was beside myself
While the throngs pose for selfies next to fallen Joshua trees and rock formulations, sporting their aviators and hot pants, I grip a rock 50 feet off the ground. Body covered in bruises and cactus spines when I thought I was supposed to go on a leisurely five-mile stroll through the Park. Angry that just when I’ve gotten my life together, I would probably lose it in Joshua Tree National Park.
There goes the girl in hiking boots and soft pants falling, falling spectacularly to pieces. Head cracked in two. Limbs akimbo. She makes for a terrific piece of art in the sand. A Pollock with Rothko blood.
Our guide, Elizabeth, calls what we’re doing “scrambling” while I’m screaming for a fucking helmet. We’re in hour five of our alleged hike, lost in the backwoods of Joshua Tree. The girl panting next to me offers up half her blueberry buckle because I’m talking about cannibalism.
The Donner party was real, people, I shout as I shimmy my body between two rocks. I’m chanting to myself that the only way out is through, and you’d be surprised what your body can do when you’re desperate to get home. The rocks you’ll climb, the trees and branches and spines you’ll elbow your way through when the sky burns orange…
