Pause

My face tilts up toward the sun. Eyes closed. Warmth spreads across my skin as I listen to a snowy waterfall rushing nearby, tucked into a shady curve of the trail.

I’m sitting, pack exploded around me — bags of food, cooking supplies, rain gear, puffy — everything I had to pull out just to reach my stove. I’m cross-legged on my closed-cell foam pad, back curved into that slight hunch they always say not to do. I look over at my hiking companions. Are they almost ready to go?

We had already been breaking for some time, and now I wanted coffee. Do I have time? There is still so much to do.
I start. I pause. I start again.

I pull out a free creamer I snagged from some supply chain event, one of those sample-size packets you toss into a pocket “for the next backpacking trip.” My Jetboil hisses loudly as the water heats. I prep the creamer in my cup.

And I pause.

I’m not thinking about the explosion of gear that needs to be repacked, the water I still need to filter, the seven miles before camp, or the twenty-one miles until we reach the car. I’m only watching the bubbles roll as I sit there cross-legged.

What seems like nothing to everyone else is a bold moment that only I can feel. I didn’t backward-math the miles. I didn’t reorganize my gear. I didn’t plan my next move. I didn’t rush.

I paused.

The greatest gift of this trip has been these tiny pockets of presence — enjoying without overthinking, without worrying about what’s next, without fidgeting with my gear. I didn’t have to be the first one ready.

I paused.

The sun hugged me. The waterfall rushed beside me.

Such a beautiful, seemingly insignificant moment. No one else saw it but me. There, sitting on the Pacific Crest Trail, I sipped my coffee.

And I paused.

Return to home.