As I continue to explore new places, the overwhelming feeling of deja vu ever grows. Have I been here before? Maybe in a dream, maybe in another life. Maybe after you've seen so many places, they all start to look similar. Or maybe I have just seen this place in a photo that felt too real. Either way, this mirrored lake shore is more home to me than any other place. I've set my tent up in the perfect spot, open yet shaded; a rock and stump that make for an ideal dining table; and best of all, no one else around. I hiked in three miles at dusk, leaving myself just enough daylight to settle in, my pack a constant reminder of the neigh unbearable weight of my necessities. In my defense, a girl should never go into the wild alone without the proper provisions: two blocks of cheese, a camera, whisky, and bear spray.
The next morning, I wake when my body tells me. Slowly stretching out the nights kinks, boiling water for coffee and oatmeal, and heading to the water to warm up in the sunshine. I find a flat rock, half submerged in the lake, where I solute the sun, the moon, and my inner goddess who has been absent for too long. I lay down and notice the suns reflection off the lake on the pine branches above. I like the view from down dog because it reassures me that even though my view on life can sometimes be upside down and blurred, I'm in the exact position I am supposed to be in. I dip my bare feet in the water to see if I am brave enough to take the leap. I'm not. It's an alpine lake, freezing cold, and besides... I am afraid of deep water. After taking in my daily dose of caffeine and reading a few chapters of my book, I decide it's time to hike.
I find the trail and set into my groove. No matter how hard the trail gets, I have to remember that one foot in front of the other will always get me to the top. There is only nature's time out here. My digital clock is useless, and I prefer it that way. I feel I have more time once I stop worrying about how much time I have. Rest when I am tired; read an entire book; drink a moscow mule or two; sit in the shade when I'm warm, and in the sun when I am chilled. I choose a shaded rock to rest on, one who has yet to soak in the days heat because the pines above are greedily taking in all the light for themselves. The occasional plane above reminds me of the real world out there. It keeps spinning, it doesn't miss me at all. And I guess I don't miss it either. It would continue revolving if I never returned to it, and I am tempted. But the fact of a limited food supply and a 14-day camp limit remind me that I must. It doesn't change the fact that this reality is more more real than the real world could ever be. I reach my daily destination, Lost Twin Lakes, where I spend the afternoon reading and taking pictures. When I feel it's time, I head back down to camp.
I spoil myself with a lavish dinner, moscow mules, and a leisurely stroll around the lake at sunset. As I watch it sink below the horizon, I already miss this place. I miss it for the things it has taught me. I miss it for the beauty it has surrounded me with. I miss it like I miss my own sun, setting beneath my soul and leaving a darkness I can only cope with until mornings first light. I make a promise to come back, and I know I will because I already have. Night creeps in and all that's left is me, my shelter, my belongings strewn about, and the loneliness darkness brings. I don't know as though I will ever get used to spending nights alone in a tent, all I know is that I have no other choice.
I wake up early the next morning and slowly pack up. I am in no hurry to leave and return to reality. I cannot look back as I hike away because I know I won't have the nerve to leave. The hike out is beautiful. I see a momma and baby moose who watch me intently, waiting for me to come one step too close. After the breathless mile, comes the easy mile, then the trailhead. It's finally time to leave. Maybe my car senses my hesitation, maybe it really is just a junker, but it only takes me a minute to realize it's not running right. I can't accelerate past 30mph on flat road without reaching the dreaded 4. Luckily enough, the road to Ten Sleep is all downhill, so I am able to coast the whole way down. In town, I ask the gas station attendant if there is a mechanic in town. He secretly smirks, saying "This is Wyoming….on a Sunday….good luck trying to find anything you need." So I call my dad in hysterics, and like the dependable man he is, he comes to save me. Meanwhile, I head to the local saloon and by chance meet a biker group from New Zealand. I talked to them for an hour while I forgot my big red dodge of a problem one hefewiezen at a time. A two hour drive home with Clifford towed in back later, and guess what? He is running just fine. I can't even explain my frustration. But alas, I have to believe everything happens for a reason.
So despite the mild drama, I have returned home with a full-body sunburn, 50 mosquito bites, and a renewed spirit. It was a weekend for the books, folks. And as for tonight, all I plan on is finishing shark week, and a chilled bottle of prosecco.
