Two years ago I went on a week-long backpacking trip in Isle Royale, a remote national park island in Lake Superior, with seven other girls. This was through my summer camp which I had been going to for six years. For the last three miles of our 50 mile trip we did solo hikes to the campsite. This is the story of my three miles alone.
I left 2nd, and I knew the girl behind me hiked slowly, so I wouldn’t be running into anyone. Before this trip I thought 3 miles was really short, that is until you have a 50lb pack on your back. I was regretting taking the gear as my load hadn’t lightened for the whole trip. My feet hurt, my back shoulders hurt and I could only think about how many miles were left. Hiking with others meant I could distract myself easily, whether it was yapping till the sun went down, or singing camp songs. But now I had no one to talk to, and the silence ate away at my mind.
Trying to distract myself from my own thoughts I looked down at my red, white, and blue tie dye socks, and I remembered it was the 4th of July. I thought of what my family would be doing back home as I hummed the national anthem. They would have a big barbeque, my brothers would be back home and invite all of their friends. Then my two brothers would gather their haul of fireworks in Watts park, that they crossed the state border to buy. They would expose the fuses, light them, and sprint away narrowly escaping death each time. I hadn’t seen real fireworks in years, as I was always at camp. I missed the loud boom and the burst of vibrant colors causing cheers all around.
In my dreamlike state I barely noticed that the trail beneath my feet disappeared, only rock formations sprawling all the way down to the coastline remained. I found a break in the wall that looked man-made, the rock had been broken creating a stair like passage. Once on top of the wall I had another moment of panic, because I couldn’t see the trail on the other side of the neverending basalt. To get my bearings I hiked up to the tallest point where only there I could see a break in the trees on the other side. I descended the rocks headed for that point placing my steps carefully because a fall all alone was dangerous.
As I continued I looked out to the lake. Through the fog I heard a familiar boat horn, it lasted for five seconds and sounded every two and a half minutes. It had to be the Ranger III, one of 2 ferries that brought hikers to the island, and my trip off of the Island tomorrow. While it was nowhere near the same, the boat horn brought me back to Watts park, where I heard the explosions of sound, and where I would beg my brothers to light just 1 firework. I couldn’t see the boat through the thick fog, but it comforted me knowing that something familiar was out there. Slowly my path widened and became gravel, meaning I was close to the campsite. The ferry had just landed as I passed eager groups beginning their hike, and I wished them luck on their way. Stopping at the campsite I shed my pack for the very last time. You aren’t supposed to take it off on the hike as your body swells to it, and each time you take it off it is harder to put back on. But knowing I never had to have that weight on my shoulders again made me the happiest girl alive.
a distant boat horn-
bringing the lonely forest
to life