The Bees, The Bees, Oh! The Bees!

           Boulders littered the sides of the trail and we dipped into the mountains’ sides. The ground felt plush, covered in pine needles and other greenery. East Coast forests couldn’t compare to these Californian pines. The trees were taller than any I’d seen with my own eyes, their branches flourishing higher than the tips of the trees back home. Flourishing crunchy, yet green, bushes grew to the edge of the trail. The amount of green was astounding. Was I still in the desert?

           Every few hundred yards, I was gifted with views one can only appreciate with the work needed to reach them. These weren’t some vistas points along a scenic byway. These were special, just for us. Just for those of us who climbed up to them. Looking behind us to the gray, rocky peaks, and down below to the orange flatlands, I couldn’t help but feel like a little piece of it was mine. 

           I felt a hot spot on my left arch. It stung, and I knew the feeling well. I must have become accustomed to the pain because by the time I noticed it, it was too late. The skin on my left arch was tender and pale. When I touched it, my fingers stuck. There was no bubbled blister to pop or thread, I searched my first aid kit for anything I could use and covered the wound with Neosporin. I wanted to make a barrier between the painful area and my boot. I cut gauze with fingernail clippers and folded it into long rectangles. I put the pieces around the perimeter of my blister and wrapped my hole foot in leuko tape. 

           “I caught the blister in time,” I thought to myself. “I’m learning things!”

           I saw a piece of Tyvek flapping in the air. A white backpack on the ground, a blue Zpack food bag ravaged through; Danielle.

           “Dan!” I yelled.

           She rolled over in her Cliff bar wrapper mess. “Slev! Did you hear about the bees?”

           “Bees?”

           “There’s this campsite up ahead and I was reading the comments, and someone said on Guthooks that there are a bunch of bees two-tenths of a mile before it,” she informed.

           “Huh,” my eyes widened. “I hadn’t read that far yet.”

           “I think we should hike together and like, four-tenths of a mile before that campsite, we should stop and catch our breath. Then just freaking book it until we pass them.”

           I nodded, “That sounds smart. Have people really been attacked by them?” I unbuckled my sternum strap and felt the weight fall onto my hips. My pack fell and I laid on the ground. I put my feet on my pack and felt the blood rush through my legs.

           “The comments are kinda hilarious. Apparently, the bees chase people down the trail for a little bit.”

           “Good thing I didn’t get rid of my full bottle of Allegra, then.” I chuckled. I was so close to ditching the full-sized bottle in Idyllwild but thought about how my grandmother spent twenty bucks buying it for me. How bad could some bees be?

           Danielle walked behind me, always a little too close. I could see her trekking poles cross mine. Her breath was in my ears and her feet mirrored mine. If I had stopped, she would have run into me. We had two more miles of descent before the trail flattened out for a bit. My hips felt disconnected and sore. Going uphill, hikers lost their breath and experienced sore muscles. But going downhill, we felt a stronger pain in our joints with every step.

           I loved looking ahead and seeing the trail ahead, a little line of direction carved into the wilderness. My hips felt like shit, my ankles throbbed, and my blister stung, but the little purple and yellow flowers along trail tried to convince me it was all worth it.

           “Let’s wait up here, Slev.”

           “How far away are the bees?” I asked.

           “Uh,” she refreshed her Guthooks app. “They’re about two tenths away. So, this is probably a good place to stop for a sec.”

           Shade had been sparse, but we found a massive rock on the west side of the trail creating a ideal break spot out of the sun’s rays.I leaned into my trekking poles, first lifting my right foot, then my left.

           Fuck. What was that? I slapped my face beneath the rim of my hat. A little fuzzied something rubbed my hand and fell to the ground. “Ow!” Something crawled on the back of my neck. My hand didn’t reach it in time. I felt something bite down on my forehead.

           “Run, Slev! It’s the bees!”

           I limped at full speed out of the shade and down the trail. I pulled my hat down my forehead and yelled back to Dan, “Pull your buff around your neck!”

           Dan’s footsteps followed behind me. The trail jutted out into the horizon, then turned back into the mountain. With every switchback, we barely gained distance from the nest. I felt the insects crawl over my face and into my hairline. They got stuck in my baby hairs and in the flaps of my sun hat.

           I ran until I couldn’t, for about ten minutes. I ripped off my hat and searched my bag for allergy medicine. Danielle inspected my face and removed a stinger. I popped more Allegra than recommended.

           I heard the tick-tick-ticking of trekking poles. A man with olive pants, an olive shirt, and a military style backpack rounded the corner. “Hey!” I grabbed my first aid kit. “Did you get stung by the bees? I have allergy medicine if you need any.”

           He stopped to catch his breath next to us. “I don’t support big pharma.”

           Alright. He was one of ‘those’ people.

           “How excited are you to get Taco Bell in Cabazon?I see Crunch Wraps on the horizon.” I raised my eyebrows, insinuating the guilty pleasure we all had.

           “I don’t eat that kind of stuff,” he said.

           “Oh, I heard there’s also an In-N-Out.” Danielle added.

           “I don’t eat that kind of stuff.”

           Neither of us answered him. It was pointless to have a conversation with someone who didn’t want to talk to us.

           “I don’t eat that stuff because I’m vegan,” he clarified.

           “Oh,” I chuckled. “I was vegan until a couple days ago. I know it’s not impossible out here, but I wasn’t getting enough protein at all.” His lips pressed together in judgement. “What are your go-to foods?” I asked.

           “Quinoa,” he shared. “I cold soak it.”

           “Cool, cool. What else do you eat? I just couldn’t figure it out without adding tuna.”

           “Just the quinoa, sometimes I add some spices or some rice.” His sniffled and rubbed his nose.

           “I’m a fan of Justin’s hazelnut butter. I swear, if you put that on a tortilla, it almost tastes like a chocolate croissant.” I laughed, apparently this guy gets no protein.

           “That’s because after being out here for a few days, you just get delusional,” Dan joked.

           “I can see myself sitting a la café in Paris, maybe with a baguette and a bicycle,” I raised my hands in a picture-it kind of way.

           His face changed from judgement to horror. “Hazelnuts are a carcinogen, and they’ll kill you.” I couldn’t make eye contact with Dan, I’d lose my straight face. He continued, “Most nuts are completely poisonous to humans.”

           “So, you don’t eat any nuts on trail?” I clarified. What was this guy eating?

           He rolled his eyes and started to walk away. “I don’t want to die out here.”

           Dan grabbed my pack from behind, forcing me to let him gain distance. We let him walk a few switchbacks down before we followed him. “Seriously, Slev. Stop talking to strangers.”

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           I ate a Poptart while I walked. I could barely breathe, so hiking while eating wasn’t my smartest move. I knew I needed to eat and get precious calories, but I wasn’t hungry. Every five hours, I swallowed four extra strength Tylenol, two Motrin, and a smorgasbord of vitamins for inflammation. The pills didn’t alter my pain, it was constant. But I feared how much worse I could feel without them.

           I hiked two miles along a spacious ridge. The sun emerged on the horizon and rose above the dark mountains. The world illuminated and I turned off my head lamp. I walked over little baby peaks scattered with bushes and random rocks. It should have felt easy.

           I stretched my legs over streambeds with the help of my trekking poles. My feet got wet, but it was refreshing when contrasted with the dryness of the last few weeks. The oases sheltered me from the morning light. Their trees gave me a sweet solace I had wished for since day one.

           I walked through the canyon with ragged cliffs on both sides of my path. I was making good time and refilled my 2-liter bladder at every stream. Never carrying more than a liter, crossing a stream every mile, and actually being hydrated changed the game for me. I flew.

           The tall rock walls surrounded my walk through the green valley. I took an early lunch break around ten in the morning. Somehow, I had already hit eight miles. I stopped in a shady nook near the stream. I laid my Tyvek against a rock and took out some snacks. I ate tortillas with tuna, Fritos, and olives. I rinsed my Talenti jar in the river and prepared some Ramen for later in the day.

           I limped through the bushes and tall grasses on what felt like unwalked terrain. My legs reached over untouched fauna.

           Through I might have sped through a twelve-mile day, the last mile felt longer than any yet. I took a break every two-tenths, hiding under a bush and pretending it was okay. By the time I reached Danielle, her tent was fully set up next to a man I hadn’t met yet.

           “Yo, still not dead,” I joked and picked a spot to set up.

           “You okay?” Dan asked.

           Clearly not, Dan. Clearly, I’m struggling. Clearly, I’m trying to keep up with you, trying to not impede your journey. “I’m fine,” I sighed.

           The stranger crawled out of his tent, “Hey, I’m Casey.”

           “I’m Sierra.”

           “Danielle told me that you guys are from Maine?” He asked.

           “Yeah,” I didn’t really feel like small talk. I felt dead.

           “That’s super cool. I went to Acadia a few years ago.” He continued.

           “Awesome,” Dan encouraged. “Today was kinda hard, but seeing the horses was exciting. Definitely added something different to the day.”

           “Horses?” I asked.

           “I think I counted eight?” Casey looked to the sky, counting in his head. “Yeah, I think eight. I wonder where they were headed.”

           “Maybe Big Bear like us?” Dan questioned. “I mean, there were only two riders, so they must be headed to a camp or something.”

           I didn’t know what was going on. I was tired and trying to set up my tent. But now, I was spooked. I didn’t see any horses. “What horses, guys?” I whined.

           “Right before I passed you at noon,” Danielle lit her stove in the wind. “Eight-ish horses passed me and they must’ve passed you like fifteen minutes later.”

           “I didn’t see them,” I laid in my tent, much faster at setting everything up than before. “I saw horse shit everywhere, but never saw any horses.”

           “Did you see that massive sandy spot with an oak tree that was like the perfect break spot?” She asked, a little alarmed.

           “I don’t think so.”

           Casey cleared his throat, “Did you see any of the horses?”

           “How often were you checking Guthooks?” Dan demanded.

           “Often enough? I don’t know. I was killing miles, so I didn’t check as much as usual.”

           “Slev… I think you got off trail,” Dan drifted off.

           “No way,” I laughed. “You guys went through that field of like, tall grass and it was overgrown and crazy, right?”

           “I didn’t,” Casey shook his head and looked to Danielle.

           “I don’t think you killed miles, I think you skipped them.”

⸙     ⸙     ⸙     ⸙

           I woke up at five in the morning to pack up and beat Danielle out of camp. Before I could leave, I rubbed Neosporin over my foot. The blister had rubbed raw the day before and became a bloodied wound. I couldn’t just leave, I had to wait and hope nothing got infected.

After sleeping in another half hour, I tied my boots and pulled the laces tight. The pressure gave me stability but caused serious discomfort. I lacked grace as I walked and stomped my feet into the beigey, powdered ground.

           “I need to quit,” I thought. “Something is actually wrong with me. I’m hurt. I can’t do this anymore.”

           These thoughts crept into my head and wouldn’t leave. I tried to listen to music, it didn’t work. I tried audiobooks and podcasts. Nothing inspired me. I had been out here for six weeks. Six weeks of my life hiking, limping, and crawling through the American desert. I wasn’t hiking the trail in the way I thought I would. I wasn’t getting my trail legs and pushing forward. I was hiking with an injury and I couldn’t grasp how bad it might be. Maybe I was being a wimp who couldn’t handle the pain. But maybe the trail was causing permanent damage to my legs and joints. And maybe, this trail wasn’t worth it.

           I stopped every twenty feet, tears brimmed in my eyes. I was fucking proud of myself. This hike would have been hard anyway, but I pushed myself farther than I ever thought I could go. My time was coming to leave.

           I needed to forgive myself. The trail kicked my ass. It taught me exactly what I needed to know. The trail offers everything it its twenty-six hundred miles. But each hiker only takes what’s meant for them. We take what we need from it. I couldn’t walk every foot, but I received lessons and gifts I never knew I sought. The trail striped us down to our bones. It took away the distractions of real life; the clean clothes, makeup, fancy jobs, and showed us who we truly are.

           But out here, I was surrounded by the community I was meant to be with. When shit hit the fan, we embraced each other without judgement. I didn’t need the approval from people who weren’t in the desert with me. If they chose to challenge my experience, I decided early on not to care. The trail tore me down, crushed me into a million pieces. But when I got to camp and played cards with strangers, it built me right back up.

           We entered the San Bernadino National Forest. And as exciting as it was to enter a new area and ecosystem, this one was a downer. It was a newly opened burnt section. The trees crawled into the sky, lacking leaves and bark and growth. The crisped wood seemed eerie in the desert landscape. How easy, it must be, for a wildfire to destroy such a delicate and special place. As the elevation grew, so did the foliage. The char turned to lush, and we were back in the shade of the high desert. I saw Danielle on the ground ahead and I plopped down next to her. We laid in silence for more time than we had ever been quiet around each other.

           “I thought about quitting during this last mile,” she admitted.

           I sat up, overcome with relief. “You did? Me too.”

           She leaned her body into her pack and looked up at the sky. “It’s just too much.”

           “Mentally, I can’t tell if I can physically handle it.” I sighed.

           She shrugged, “I just don’t know if this is what I want to be doing.”

           “That’s not it for me,” I exhaled. “I want this so bad.”

           We sat in those spots on the side of the trail until the shade no longer covered us. We moved with the sun and positioned ourselves with our upper bodies in the shade and our legs in the warmth. I fell asleep on those pine needles.

           Danielle and I talked about all the things we would rather be doing, like working at a sub shop and dealing with angry customers. Our moral was low. Both of us were low. Sometimes, though, moral just has to be low. Sometimes, the pits of an experience need to happen. 

           “I want a soda stream,” Danielle shared.

           “Oh my god, me too. And we can make seltzer all the time.”

           “It’ll be good for the environment and our wallets,” she decided.

           “My only goal when I get home is to find the perfect pair of overalls,” I admitted, and she laughed. “Hear me out, they’ll be a lighter wash with holes in the knees and kinda baggy, so I can cuff them.”

           “I can totally see it.”

           “What if we just die here? I wouldn’t be mad,” I joked. “I’ve lived long enough.”

           “Dude, same. I’m okay with it.”

           “I want to get all kinds of new apartment stuff. I want to go to the thrift stores and buy mismatched dishes and cups. And I could find some antique cloth napkins.”

           “Ooh,” Dan mocked. “You’re such a hipster.”

           “I’m really not.”

           “That’s exactly what a hipster would say.” Danielle moaned, “You know, Slev? I’d rather be at Chili’s. I would rather be at a fucking Chili’s.”

           “You mean you’d rather be at Spicy Applebee’s.” I repeated back to her.

           She scoffed, “Spicy Applebee’s?”

           “Yeah, I feel like all those places like Applebee’s, Chili’s, Friday’s, and so on all have the same menus. Chili’s just adds a little kick to it.”

           She burst into laughter. “Yeah, I guess. I’d rather be at Spicy Applebee’s.”