My PCT

I recently read Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild, a book I’d avoided for years because I’m not a backpacker and because the movie (which I still haven’t seen) stars Reese Witherspoon and for some reason I never saw her as much of an outdoorsy type and therefore probably poorly cast for the film. Turns out that that’s the whole point of the book, how freakin’ unprepared she is for this insane adventure, hiking hundreds of miles of the Pacific Crest Trail from California through Washington (or was it Oregon?)! I will see the movie … eventually, when I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of it ruining the book for me, haha! Sorry Reese. Love you in so many movies.

Reading through Cheryl’s arduous journey — and in my humble opinion, somewhat needlessly so given her lack of preparation — was initially frustrating to me. What are you doing going on this insane hike with an overweight pack and ill-fitting shoes? Why did you only put $20 in your delivered boxes along the way?! I would have put $100. At least. It amazed me each time how she managed to stretch that $20. Are burgers and fries really so cheap in the Central Valley?! Maybe a little pricier now … Also, Cheryl, how could you stand being so dirty for so long? And then hope to get picked up by rides along the way … and how scary to be alone, at the mercy of god only knows what serial killers or weirdos drive around in the boonies.

But I couldn’t tear myself away from her day to day woes — the back-breaking trudge up and down true mountains nearly 20 miles a day in extreme weather, the people she would meet — every hiker more prepared than she was, and all so kind — the aloneness she would immediately crave. Living in a packed city and parenting a toddler on my days off work from the hospital, I resonated deeply with that desire to be utterly alone.

And then there was the distraction of physical pain from the torment she experienced after her mother’s death — I realized what insane metal this woman was made of and what an accomplishment this was, to do something completely crazy — wild. And she did it. I thought about the two marathons I’ve run, how at a certain point, you don’t give a shit about the pain, you just keep going, focused on achieving the Finish Line.

Like Cheryl, I was woefully unprepared for my races, but like her, I was not shooting for a first-time finisher. I was simply doing it. Long distance hiking or running can be a painful and gratifying physical challenge.

But my marathons pale in comparison to my most recent “PCT”: bearing and raising a child as a working woman living in one of the most expensive cities in the country and perhaps the world — and I am fortunate enough to do it with a partner! But still, it can be hard. And sometimes harder if your schedules and child-rearing expectations collide! Yet here we are venturing to have another kid, embarking on another Valley of the Newborn to 1 year old. Not to mention the risk of pregnancy and labor at my age.

I sometimes wonder what the fuck we are doing as two selfish, hard-ass working married people adding more challenge to our already blisteringly busy lives. And the answer is this: the pain of it is the reward. The challenge of doing the impossible: accepted. You think I can’t? I’ll show you we can and we’ll be creative in how we do it. We’ll push ourselves through the shredder full-force, just to see what we can make of it. The thrill of the unknown, the impossible. Because you can look at a situation and gauge the types of tools and resources and MONEY you’ll need for it — everything Cheryl packed into that enormous bag of hers — but there’s only so much you can really prepare. Because you haven’t factored in job loss, illness or disability on the one hand, or higher income, family or friends moving closer to provide child care support, maybe winning the lottery! And there’s the providence of God. All variables that could make the journey of adding to our family impossible or easier than we imagined.

The prospect of raising two children is my version of the PCT: the sacrifice of self for the gain of building a family and setting two hopefully great kids loose in the world to make it a better place, carrying forward our love and creativity into broken, beautiful humanity. Two kids who would have each other. Somehow our family would feel a little fuller, more complete. And more complex. And more expensive, trying to keep up. Am I trying to keep up with some desperate societal pull? The perfect two kid family. Is that a thing? Maybe.

There’s a part of me that longs for this completeness, for this added experience, to push myself harder. Why? Why not just be done and enjoy a family with one kid, more resources to travel, to create, to invest in ourselves, our marriage, our one kid? Am I really bored or something? Why not stop while we’re ahead, when we’ve finally reached this point of affording a home, when we’re relaxed in our jobs, in some financial stability, we’ve got a cadence as parents, there’s less unknown. At age 39, I stand at the edge of this precipice. What if Cheryl stopped midway through the PCT? I guess there wouldn’t be much of a book then. I can’t help but want to try for this thing and see what fate or God tosses me in return. It’s the gamble of life, right? The adventure, the what if?