For 142 miles I hiked, during a record-breaking heat wave in Washington state, through the sweltering lowland forests up to the bare ridgelines of the Pacific Crest Trail, sweating profusely with a 40 pound pack and fantasizing about my next water source, which sometimes was a trickle of a stream dripping off moss ten miles away. I forded two rivers with feet covered in blisters and a swollen knee. At night in my tent, I reassured myself that the noises in the woods were just trees settling into the ground, that even if it was a bear they rarely attack. I was filthier than I have ever been, dirt plastered to my legs and beneath my underwear, open sores on my hips where my pack rubbed.
Out of the dozens of hikers I saw in the wilderness over ten days, there were only three solo female backpackers besides myself.
So what did I think, as I was limping on the last section of trail before I hit White Pass, about to encounter civilization for the first time in over a week? Was I proud of myself for being a strong, independent, single woman?
No. I was crying because I turn 33 next week and can't get myself into a functional relationship. That's where my feminist, women's college educated mind went.
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