“I hook this here right?” I moved to clip my water bottle to a convenient loop near my left hip.
“No, I’d put it here. This way it won’t swing and hit you as you walk,” Trev stuffed the bottle down into a mesh pocket on the side of my pack. I made an exaggerated reach for it, wiggling my fingers.
“But I can’t get it.”
“You just ask someone to grab it for you.”
“Every time?”
“Yeah, it’s what you do.”
I was a rookie in every sense of the term—unashamedly green—and I was about to take my first steps into my first real hike. And it was no day trip. We had originally planned to camp in Big Sur, but the fires pushed us east to Yosemite. Then, the promise of a Labor Day crowd nudged us north to the valley’s lesser-known sister, Hetch Hetchy.
Trev’s friend, Damian, had mapped out our three day trek. A true Yosemite native of Miwok descent, Damian was born and raised in the area. Few can lay claim to the same kind of familiarity he has with the park and, as a result, few have seen the things he’s seen.
We hiked about seven miles the first day, winding around the north side of Hetch Hetchy Reservoir towards Rancheria Falls where we picked our spots and pitched our tents. From there we set out to explore the nearby falls. I quickly learned “scrambling” was a term not limited to breakfast-making and that “scrambling” was hard to do in two dollar flip flops. Damian took us across creeks and up and over rocks to several aqua waterfalls and swimming holes, each more striking than the one before. The final set of falls and pools looked like something straight out of Jurassic Park and Lord of the Rings combined.
Nothing quite prepares you for that kind of breath-robbing beauty.
Our packs were stuffed and on our backs again by 8am the next day. The second leg of our trip would be around nine miles, leading us away from Rancheria Falls, through Tiltill Valley, and up to Lake Vernon. Damian warned the first stretch would be a slog—all elevation gain right out the gate and little coverage. And it was just that.
We had a hefty serving of sun and switchbacks for breakfast.
By the time we dropped our packs for our first break, I was feeling it. I mean really feeling it. I’m not a morning person and our first jaunt of the day was a rude awakening. A brass-knuckle punch to the gut for a novice like me. But we kept on and somehow I kept up. Going into the hike initially, I had been incredibly nervous. I think I only mentioned this to Trev—and not in depth—but I really feared I would hold people up and be that awkward and unspoken burden to the group.
After all, they were experienced hikers. I just walked my dog.
It was a huge relief to find my fear completely unfounded. Though it made for a good motivator, it was entirely derailed by the kindness shown to me by the group. Their encouragement, fist-bumps, and smiles were rocket-fuel when I needed it most. And, let me tell you, I needed it. The elevation gain after Tiltill Valley floored me.
An easy stint for most hikers was a tiny Everest for me. It took everything in me to wrestle my legs into a steady rhythm. Once I had it, I knew breaking it would be detrimental.
“Hey, Hannah.” I heard Trev’s voice behind me.
“Yeah?” I one-worded him and kept walking.
“Hannah, stop,” he tried again almost cautiously, as if he knew the danger he faced throwing off my hard-earned groove. I planted my feet and turned around.
What I saw was astounding. It felt like I stood on the back of a giant—the way the landscape in front of me seemed to shrink as I took it in.
“Look how far we’ve come,” Trev pointed.
And that’s when I caught Tiltill Valley, small as a thumb-sized smudge below us. My spirits skyrocketed. If I can do that, I can keep going. From that point forward, I made it a rule to not look ahead. Often what lied ahead—more switchbacks and more elevation gain with no end in sight—put a lump in my throat and strapped doubt like weights around my feet. You can’t do that.
But looking back? That was a powerful thing.
Little by little, I let myself peek over my shoulder to see where I had been—just how far behind me it was. Trev says I practically morphed into the Energizer bunny after that. I surged ahead, skipping out on another snack break, pulling away from the group into the lush shade of the mountaintop, booking it towards the decline I knew waited for me just ahead.
It’s funny, I had Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” stuck in my head as I arrived at a much different conclusion. Looking back had propelled me forward in more ways than one. In a literal sense, the physical landscape shrinking behind me showed me I was capable. But as I brushed past wildflowers and padded over the soft dirt trail, I realized—on a much grander scale—how far I had really come.
I’ve undergone four surgeries in the last two years to combat a chronic disease that at one point caused me so much pain I could hardly walk. At its worst, I remember crying into the carpet at the top of my staircase—having barely made it up the last step—convinced I would never experience normalcy again.
I was on top of a mountain now. The contrast nearly brought me to tears. It was a miracle.
Do look back. Absolutely look back.
Recall those times fear was doused in joy, when courage was had and defeat was dismissed. I guarantee it will put fire under your feet and steady your step and leave what lies ahead a little less daunting. It is what it is, after all. We’ll summit when we summit.
The Hetch Hetchy Reservoir smiled with the most stunning hue of blue-green as we made our final descent. It was a grand “welcome back” and I beamed in return. Dozens of rolled ankles and one bloody knee later, I had found my stride. Twenty-seven grueling and amazing miles were behind me, my first hike snug beneath my shoes. It remains a feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—a reward impossible to explain.
So go get it.
