Outdoor writing contest first place: A beautiful thing
I hate this.
That’s all I’m thinking as Ethan, Betty and I stand at the crest of some cliff in Dishman Hills we just climbed, looking out at the sun that’s just beginning to rise.
Yeah, I woke up at 5 in the morning to do this. Dew has settled over the sparse grass on the trail, dampening my sneakers. It’s 6 now, the chill morning air causing my breath to puff out in clouds in front of me. Beyond us, the sun colors the canyon grapefruit pink. Betty passes me a thermos of coffee, and I gulp some down eagerly. The warmth of it nearly swallows up the feeling of doom that’s settled in my stomach.
“Natasha?” Betty repeats, and I realize she just asked me a question. It’s difficult to have real conversations when I can’t get out of my head. “I said, how’s school been?”
“Sorry, um, it’s been good.” Good, meaning I’m too distracted to pay attention in my classes because I can’t get over the nauseous feeling constantly stirring up my stomach’s contents, or relying on Sunita to update me on whatever’s been going on in class for the last 10 minutes while I couldn’t stop thinking about death. School has been tough lately; often, I feel like I’m only half-present, nausea bubbling beneath the surface. I feel like I’m going crazy, working myself up over things anyone else would be able to complete easily.
Betty’s my mom’s best friend, and Ethan’s her son. Mom started noticing how withdrawn I’ve been and thought it would be a good idea for me to get out more. Enter: Betty and Ethan, Outdoor Aficionados.
Ethan and I used to be best friends, but we’ve grown apart, as kids do. However, I’m nearly as close with Betty as I am with my aunts, and I couldn’t bring myself to reject her and Mom; they’re only trying to help.
“I’m happy to hear that, hon,” Betty says, and I’m hurled back to the present.
–––
The next Saturday, I’m driving out to the Little Spokane. Ethan and I are hiking Knothead loop today (Betty’s working), and it’s about 7 miles in total, which makes me even more nervous.
When I arrive, Ethan’s already in the lot where we agreed to meet. I park, and walk over to him.
“Hey, I got some banana bread at Rocket,” I say, holding up the bag.
“Thanks, Tasha,” he says, accepting the piece I offer. I startle at the nickname, but he’s already turned, and I run to catch up.
–––
We’re about halfway through the hike when timid drops of rain begin to fall. We ignore it for a few minutes, but soon, the rain ramps up to a full-on downpour. Ethan and I run for shelter under a huge ponderosa, and he drops his bag on the ground, pulling out two black ponchos and handing one to me. I tug it on, trying to ignore the snowballing feeling of dread growing, pricking goosebumps along my arms and restricting my breath. I smooth my quickly curling hair back into a tight ponytail and tuck it under the poncho. I’m dripping wet, my hair is frizzing into a mess around my head, and silence stretches long and awkward between me and Ethan. All of this is loosening my control on the anxiety.
It’s not about anything in particular; it’s just an inexplicable, ever-present feeling of doom and dread. It’s the fear of not being able to control what happens to me.
My hands start to shake. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my pounding heart. I reach for my phone; if I text Mom, she’ll be able to talk me down from this. I press the button on the side, but it won’t turn on. I charged it last night, though!
This hike just keeps getting worse. My knees go weak, and I plop down on a log. Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I cover my face with my hands.
“Are you OK?”
I look up, and suddenly, Ethan is there. He worries his bottom lip in concern, arms crossed. I bet he thinks I’m crazy for reacting to a little rain like this; I know I do.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumble, attempting a bright smile. Suddenly, though, it slips. My face crumples, and a tear – a tear! – slips down my face. But what if this is a thunderstorm? What if there’s a mudslide? What if –
“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting down beside me. “It’s OK. This happens all the time – like, me and Mom went hiking out at Slavin, and I stepped in this pit of mud, and I sank about 4 feet!”
More tears come. “Why do you even do this?”
“Hiking?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve heard mud is good for your skin.” I laugh. “But really? It’s just … freeing. I’m no one out here.”
At my disbelieving stare, he hurries to add, “Not in a bad way, just like … it doesn’t matter who I am, because the trees, the dirt, the flowers – they can’t see it anyway. Nature’s never out to get you; sometimes, a mudslide or a storm will happen, but it’s not because of you – never because of you.”
“Seems terrifying.”
“You never know what’s going to happen.” We look out over the bluff. The rain has let up. Translucent drops have settled like glittering beads on the needles of the ponderosa, and a lavender mist settles over everything. “But I think that’s a beautiful thing.”
Suddenly, I’m not fixating on my frozen toes or my dead phone. The sun breaks through the clouds, and something about this vision puts my mind and stomach at ease.
The world looks different now – sparkling, almost. Like maybe, it’s OK that I can’t control exactly what happens to me. Maybe it’s OK to let the world surprise me sometimes, because then I end up with beautiful moments like this.