So it turns out bear spray comes out as a big, puffy cloud of orange. A keychain pepper spray canister, on the other hand, produces more of a concentrated stream, like if you squeezed a water balloon that had a tiny hole in it. These are the things I discovered pulled over on the side of the highway, testing out my self-defense mechanisms after triple-checking that I was facing the direction that would not blow mace in my face.

I was on my way to begin a much-overdue adventure. I had been preparing for Four Pass Loop, a trail that includes about 27 miles and over 7,000 feet of elevation gain, to be my first solo-backpacking trip since three years prior. However, with some running mishaps in 2017, I developed excruciating, relentlessly stubborn patellar tendinitis, causing me to indefinitely, and resentfully, postpone the excursion.

Years of physical therapy and back-to-running programs later, I had not only caught up to my pre-knee-pain point, but I had surpassed it, occasionally running longer distances than I ever had before. I had just graduated college into a global pandemic and was soon to start a remote, corporate job that I dreaded. It was time.

Thankfully, younger Becca had already done most of the planning for my abandoned attempt, so I was prepared to navigate, purify water and shove supplies together in no time. I piled my pack, Big Bertha, in my car, opened my bag of Cheetos (road trip treat), pressed play on a podcast and was off.

I reached the ranger station only to turn around in search for phone service and an available parking reservation that I failed to realize I needed due to COVID-19. No such luck. I returned to the ranger prepared to grovel on my hands and knees, but she very reasonably allowed me to park overnight if there were any spots left. I reckon my finger crossing did some good, because there were.

I promptly filled out my permit and perkily kicked off, in the wrong direction. No matter! I realized my mistake quickly, and nothing could knock my mood. I was soon standing in front of the surreal Maroon Lake view thinking, “I’m finally here! I’m doing the (insert colorful adjective of choice) thing!”

I hiked a skosh of the trail that evening so I could camp at Crater Lake, but not even the swigs of whiskey I swallowed helped me sleep that night. In my mind, every twig break or leaf rustle was a bear or creeper preying on my vulnerable body. By the misty morning, however, none of that mattered. A momma and baby deer visited me while I ate my instant oatmeal, drank my instant coffee and disassembled my not-as-instant tent. I was perfectly content to spend the day hiking alone in this picturesque landscape, soaking up the scenery and stopping to photograph wildflowers or pee whenever I pleased without burdening anyone else.

Powering up to the first peak, West Maroon Pass, filled me with accomplishment, awe and gratitude, but the storm in the distance discouraged me from lingering long. Onwards to Frigid Air Pass!

Mid-descent off the second pass, my knee began to hurt, sparking fear that I would not be able to complete the loop. I suppressed the concern and set up camp just in time to read and nap in my tent during an evening rain shower.

I spent the following morning refilling my bottles and dipping off-brand Pop-Tarts (“poop-blockers” as my mom would call them) in my coffee by a waterfall. The day would involve a lot more climbing if I continued, but I first encountered an offshoot back to society. I thought about how I was only halfway through, how my knee was sure to worsen on the downhills and about bailing. But I also thought about Haruki Murakami’s quote: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” Experiencing pain was the worst thing that could happen. My specific knee pain is no indication of irreversible damage.

Originally published in the Summer 2021 issue

Four Passes, Two Feet, One Big Bertha