It is freezing cold and windy as we hike over the top of the pass, I have the strings of my hoodie tied tightly around my face to ward off the cold. The wind is trying its best to knock me off balance and push me away from the mountain. The mountain is slate rock and shale, its chipped pieces falling and creating the trail ahead of me of barren rock and dirt. I cling to the windward side of the mountain hoping it will save me from slipping down the cliffside, acting as a support wall.
The wind is rushing past me making me feel off-balance while my fear of heights and anxiety about the tightrope wide trail exacerbate my instability, but instability is not a foreign concept to me. I intimately understand the feeling of having nothing solid beneath my feet.
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“BWAH BWAH BWAH BWAH”. Why would anyone design this as a sound to wake up to? It's the distinct blare of the iPhone alarm that wakes me up at 5 am. It's the sound that makes you feel like your head got caught between two cymbals. Typically, I associate it with early morning classes and having to get dropped off at daycare before my mom goes to work. Or the times when my mother's alarm would blare at 4 am, signaling to me it was time to take grandpa to dialysis because I was too little to be home alone. On a normal day this sound has negative connotations, reminding me of everything I have never wanted to do. But today I did not reach for the snooze button. Today I am eighteen in Whitefish Montana where my aunt Theresa lives. I am snuggled in bed, but the brisk Montana air has seeped into the room through the cracks in the ancient wood and the gaps in the mid century modern window panes. My blankets are pulled up to my nose, like a cocoon of warmth protecting me from the frigid mountain air. Usually I would recede into the cocoon, warding off the flurries trying to get in, but today I spring out of bed welcoming the feeling of my bare toes hitting the icy tiles of my aunt Theresa’s guest bedroom.
Theresa is my “aunt”, which I put in quotations because we aren't actually related. Most of my closest family isn’t blood which I have found makes us stronger. I grew up with her as an aunt, older sister, and friend. From river trips and concerts to family gatherings, I know her as someone who will always be there for me no matter what, and because of that we are very close. This is the first time I have seen her in three years since she decided to move from Los Angeles to Montana and I am ecstatic for our next adventure. I run upstairs excited to get ready for our day in Glacier National Park. It is my first time in Montana and I am excited to explore the nature that starts just out the front door. They call Montana the last best place and as we begin driving towards the national park I begin to understand why.
Being from California I am no stranger to beautiful nature, but the mountainous region I find myself entranced by is a new type of wild I have never seen. The wide open spaces give me a sense of wonder I have never experienced, it feels like this was my very first real adventure, as if a new chapter of my life is finally starting. Growing up in a low-income family with a single mother and four siblings, we never went on “family trips”. National Parks and wild adventures felt so out of reach to me. Thanks to my mothers new job at an airline company, I don't have to worry about the cost of flights, a concept very foreign to me, which gives me the chance to finally visit Theresa in Montana, a trip I have been longing for for years. Theresa has been my role model since I was four years old, someone I have always looked up to. It seems like I am being handed an opportunity to make some of my childhood dreams come true, and I am so excited to take it. Growing up my family and I moved around a lot. This trip to Montana came after move number eight when we moved into the house of my mothers boyfriend at the time
another temporary home and not the last before I graduated. I had nine different “homes” just in my four years of highschool alone due to money issues or some type of conflict. I put home in quotations because “home” as always been a complicated concept for me. My movement, or maybe displacement is a better word, has never been voluntary. It almost never is as a child when your life is a product of someone else’s, but this trip gave me autonomy. Autonomy to engage in voluntary movement, and for once I welcomed the displacement.
Growing up in San Diego I have always experienced nature in different forms; in chaparral hills and ocean views, places that could be a different planet compared to the land I saw now. Apart from the paved roads we travel on and the barriers to keep drivers from falling off the mountain, the landscape looks just as it did before humans decided to take over. I have never experienced anything so humbling. It is my first ever national park and I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as I try to subdue the overwhelming feelings washing over me as I stare out window at the road ahead. I see chords of soft light speared down through the leaves from above, bathing the surface of the road before us in gold. It is glinting with little sparkles, like a thousand diamonds sprinkling through the branches. Magnificent oak trees tower over our dusty Subaru while we stare ahead to the Going-to-the-Sun-Road with the sounds of bluegrass music filling the car. I look out my window where the strings of the fiddles sound in harmony with the swaying of the tree branches. Everything here dances together in a natural rhythm, and the dance feels foreign to me. While I have sat through many car rides staring at an unfamiliar road with no idea what lies ahead, this one feels different. Many car rides have taken me to new “homes”, places I would live in until it was time to leave, always a temporary stay. But as I depart on this new unfamiliar journey that I know will take me to another place I am just passing through, I welcome it. In my past journeys, the brief stays were unexpected. I went in to those “homes” thinking I would stay forever, and I find beauty in this next journey that I know is only for the day.
The Going-to-the-Sun-Road stretches from one side of the park and climbs over the mountains, on the way to the sun, all the way to the other side. The road carries us all the way through the park to the trailhead for our hike, Piegan Pass. Theresa has done this hike before and told me it was a breeze, my experiences hiking in San Diego gave me a false sense of confidence in my hiking abilities. She has lived in San diego before too, and she gives me examples of hikes we have both done that are similar. She tells me, “If you’ve done potato chip then you can do this one!”. The bottom of the trail is warm prompting me to take off my synchilla Patagonia sweater and the long sleeve shirt I had layered over my tank top, to protect me from the frigid cold we would encounter on top of the pass. I stuff my layers into my already heavy backpack, feeling confident and well-prepared for the trail ahead. I feel like a local with my thick hiking socks sticking out of my Keen hiking boots. At least I look like I know what I am getting myself into.
The beginning of the trail head is already the most beautiful nature scene I have ever witnessed. Large pine trees line the trail which consists of wet stones leading up to a waterfall flowing into a crystal clear stream. I touch my fingers to the water and see them as clear as day, my fingers brushing against the wet colored rocks. I refocus on the climb and Theresa and I continue our ascent into the wild nature before me. The deeper we get the thicker the tree cover and we were fully immersed in the Montana wilderness. The first thing that truly strikes me are the sounds of nature I have never heard before. Hundreds of cicadas sing individual songs blending into a symphony. Wind blows past the trees adding percussion while the low chirping American Dippers get louder as the forest starts to wake, the crescendo. The forest we entered is oak-brown and primitive. The grasses we step on are crackly beneath our feet because of the recent dry spell. We are in awe of the size and majesty of the trees. Their knotted arms rise ever upwards, as far as my head can lift. They are fortresses and stand proudly. We can see wild Indian paint brushes and white daisies growing freely on the clumpy, mossy mattress of the floor. The simpering wind carries a fragrance with it. It is exhilarating to smell the mulchy mix of the forest’s perfume.
The beautiful layers of sound that fill the forest remind me of everything that lives here. I begin to appreciate that I am in someone else’s home. This idea reminds me of what home means to me and I recognize how similar these creatures and I are. Nomadic beings constantly forced to relocate out of no fault of their own, remaking nests and continuously searching for comfort in unfamiliar places. As I venture deeper into the forest I think about all the times these creatures have had to completely redefine what “home” is, and I try to tell them I know how they feel. I too have had to redefine home so many times that I fear I lack a definition. When I think of the word “home”, no specific place comes to mind, but also multiple locations fill my head and I can’t help but think this is how the birds and bears and mice must feel as well. As I move through another foreign home, this time of my own volition, I feel a deeper sense of belonging than I have in a long time and I hope this divine feeling of belonging in nature can stand as a replacement for the home I can’t define.
As I inhale the fragrant forest air I work to catch my breath. My heavy breathing is attributed to the steep altitude climb which I do not notice because I am too focused on the ground to keep from tripping on one of the protruding tree branches weaving through the landscape. Vertigo transforms the forest floor into a dynamic Van Gogh painting and swirls of greens and browns replace the ground and the mountains around me. I continue on ignoring my new found condition as well as the pounding in my chest that is very rudely letting me know I
am very out of shape. Theresa is a local and is well trained for these strenuous, high altitude climbs. She hikes at a pace I struggle to keep up with, but I try to stifle my heavy breathing so she won’t hear my struggle. I give myself small breaks for water and to take in the scenery until we finally took a lunch break next to a waterfall flowing into a crystal clear river running down the mountain.
Theresa and I continue on the hike, it has been about four miles and we have another until we reach the peak. We have just pushed past the treeline and we are met with the most breathtaking view of the glaciers that hug the largest mountains in the park and patches of snow that keep the air brisk and sharp. The landscape is breathtaking, but the trail is becoming more strenuous. We are no longer being coddled by the trees and the soft mulchy terrain of the trail has been replaced by a path of slate rocks. The trail narrows to be just wider than my shoulder width, but my fear of heights and anxiety tell me its the size of a tightrope. To the left the trail drops off the side of the mountain and all I see on the way down are the pieces of slate that have chipped off the mountain over the years, and to the right I cling to the mountain side for stability, my heart and my mind racing from anxiety. Now it really feels like home. This new struggle reinforces to me how similar this place is to all of the places in my past. In the beginning there is a beautiful welcoming facade, giving you the impression that this one will last or that this will be the one to truly redefine what home is. I grew up understanding that you never know what can change. I know what it’s like to yearn for something to count on or for a support wall. I have also learned how to be strong and resilient in the face of a challenge, support wall or not. And even in these moments of struggle, my family remains to guide me, as Theresa takes strides ahead of me I think back to my mother and my siblings who have supported me on journeys in the past. It reminds me of one of the houses we lived in my sophomore year of high school.
My mom’s friend Debbie’s house in a small part of San Diego had a beautiful oasis of a backyard with a chicken coop. The house was small, with just one room for me and my two sisters while my mom shared with my little brother. It was a place so welcoming that looked like it could be a home for us. But of course that is never true because even though I was so excited we were supposed to live in this house for two years, a lifetime to my family, it was cut short. After a short three months of integrating into Debbie's house learning where the dishes and the silverware go or how to turn the shower on Debbie decided she wanted to sell her house and gave us thirty days to move. The shock and pain of losing a safety net is something I am all too familiar with. This is not the first time a situation like this happened, and sadly it would not be the last. The most recent instance gives me deja vu. Just last week the people who own the house my family is supposed to live in for the next two years decided they want to sell and two years quickly turned to four months. Again, the support wall is missing and I add another place to the list. The hike highlights an interesting parallel for me and I recognize how the beginning of this hike reminds me of Debbie's house, the current house, and every other “home” in between. The beautiful beginning that makes the future pain so unexpected. I recognize how over time, after you really know the space and can see all of it from the top of the pass you find that the struggle is inevitable. This revelation makes it easier for me to accept the bad and focus on the good. In the face of moving through multiple homes, the support wall I always wanted was there all along. My mother who sacrifices so much to always find that next location, and my family like Theresa who is always there to provide refuge from the chaos. I see them in the beauty of the nature I am surrounded by as I struggle up the new terrain, where I see refuge in the wildflowers. Symbols of resilience and strength, capable of planting roots anywhere they like.
We continue on the trail, Theresa is walking with confidence and speed as if we are in some city on a sidewalk. I shuffle forward with timid steps, using my hands and knees to climb over the rocks on the path because I am afraid of falling. I think back to how easy the beginning of the hike was, as most beginnings are. Even as welcoming as the nature was, and as much as I wanted this to become the perfect place I could think of when that word “home” penetrates my mind, I realize even here the challenges and struggles arise. The presence of the struggle elucidates the recurring theme of always having challenges where there is beauty, much like in my life. Along with the struggle stand the beautiful welcoming parts of life and of nature, like a breathtaking view or a backyard garden.
Overcoming the challenge of this hike and of my definition of home showed to me what remained consistent in all of these places and that is the people that fare the wind with me. As Theresa helped me climb over the mountain pass I was reminded of the support wall I always had. We weathered the intense frigid winds to reach the top of the mountain and gaze at the beautiful scenery. Just as Theresa was there for me as a guiding hand and a place of refuge, my mother and my three younger siblings were there for every time I redefined what home was. For every definition I now have in my dictionary of homes, my family was always there. My mother teaching me strength and courage and proving to me that you can do it all on your own, while also showing me that you don’t have to. With my little sisters and little brother showing me how important your people are to what home means.
Much like on this hike and climbing over that pass on your hands and knees, overcoming the struggle and the lessons that come with it reap the most beautiful rewards. Like a new respect and admiration for a new place to call home, another addition to my list, or the realization that the definition of home (if there is one) is bigger than what we are taught. The true beauty I
discovered on this journey was not just the views of nature as I traveled on this journey of voluntary movement, but it came from complicating my notion of what home means and learning to be comfortable with my new complex definition.
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