It probably started out in some ratty composition notebook that was passed around half a dozen people early in high school—pages of lists, gear and destinations, prices and plans. It moved on, made its way through several more notebooks, scrap paper, homework margins, and online documents. It, this plan, it evolved like this until it was whittled down to two girls, me and my best friend, with not that many plans at all—just our camping gear loaded into the back of our minivan and our fingers emphatically pointed only one way: West.
This worked for awhile, this idea that our freedom existed somewhere in the space between a foot on the gas pedal and the coastline, but faded quickly once we reached the dimly lit, bug-infested hostel at the end of a sketchy San Franciscan alleyway. We were pretty much as far west as we could be from our homes in Allentown, PA. And I was scared. Unsure.
The freedom was dizzying, and we didn’t know what to do with it. Thoughts crept into my mind. Where are we going to be tomorrow? For the next two or three weeks? Where are we going to sleep? We tried to recreate those lost plans we had years ago by drawing calendars in the pages of our notebooks while we splayed out on the brown matted carpet of our rented room, surrounded by park guides, road maps, and an ever-growing pile of orange rinds. What we ended up with after hours of deliberation was nearly unintelligible—some semblance of a schedule hidden beneath clusters of arrows used to rearrange our thoughts.
That night I slept uneasily, worried that the people who doubted us were actually right. Maybe we couldn’t handle being out on our own, but for a whole host of different reasons than they had thought. They were afraid that the big, bad world would swallow up two girls, glowing and fresh out of high school. But no, there I was with the big, bad and beautiful world right in front of my face—I yearned to take it by storm— and yet it floated teasingly just beyond my grasp.
But we continued on. Sometimes it seemed like I was trudging through what was supposed to be the best experience of my life.
We visited countless cities and National Parks over the course of the month long journey, and I found that I was always the happiest when I was being trumped in size and strength. Admittedly, this was quite often. Zion National Park had a particularly tremendous effect on me.
We were hiking The Narrows—a nine-mile weaving trek through a shallow stream at the base of a keyhole canyon—when I was hit with the realization. I took a moment to steady my bare feet on the slippery stones and glance around.
Rocks worn down by water and wind surrounded me. The mountains I’d hiked were formed by conflict. Two great forces slamming together. The appeal of the landscapes came from the struggle between elements.
Informed by this, my idea of freedom changed shape. My fear of it dissipated and turned into a respect for its vastness, its power over me, and the way it toyed with my expectations, desires, and anxieties. Freedom is not easy. Knowing what you want amidst all of your other emotions as well as your environment—these are hard thoughts to navigate.
I thought my freedom would hit me as soon as I hit the highway. I thought it would last as long as I could keep the wheels turning. But it wasn’t enough just to leave the place I’d lived all my life—I had to come back to it with what I’d experienced to finally make sense of it. And I had to make the decision to come back all on my own. I did, with both tears and joy.
About the Author: Ali Greenholt is currently a student at the University of Pittsburgh. She is studying English Writing, Gender Studies, and Africana Studies. She is a chair on the Univserity’s Outdoors Club. The next big trip she has planned is hiking the John Muir Trail.
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