17
When I was seventeen, my dad was dying.
My English teacher, Ms. Clements, took me out to eat pizza to talk about it. She asked how I was doing and I teared up in public. How embarrassing. She listened intently as I mumbled about my dad and his cancer treatment and his wheelchair and his fading memory.
“Write,” she told me. “Write it all down. You’re living through a very important time, and you’ll never be able to remember it unless you write it down.”
19
I didn’t write it down.
At nineteen years old, I was hardly writing anything. My childhood dream of being a famous world traveling author had been tucked away on a shelf for years. Memories of my dad’s cancerous death were fresh and painful to think of. Most of the pages in my journal were empty.
But I still carried a journal.
I was in my first year of college and I had just moved to the mountains in North Carolina where no one knew my family name. Exactly what I wanted.
Afternoons spent on the Blue Ridge Parkway inspired me to pull out my journal, but every time I tried to write about something beautiful like the fall colors, it usually morphed into some dark metaphor of death and decay. Writing usually resulted in tears, so I avoided it.
20
Around my twentieth birthday I got word that Ms. Clements was dying from the same brain cancer that killed my dad. We wrote letters to each other until one day the letters stopped coming.
In honor of her memory, I signed up for a creative writing class in my junior year of college.
With my work ethic, I decided to wait until the day before the first draft of my short story was due. The futuristic story would focus on the last hold out of natural humans left, who lived by a strict rule: no robotic upgrades.
When I sat down to write this story, tears poured down my face and soaked my keyboard.
Six hours and thirteen pages later, the story I wrote was about my dad dying. None of these words had ever been uttered aloud.
A few days passed before it was my turn for a peer review. I sat in my chair with hot flushed cheeks waiting to hear feedback from a room of strangers. I felt naked. No one that I actually loved had read such intimate and honest words. No one in the room knew me or my family. I hadn’t made any friends in that class, I wasn’t interested. I was there to write, not chit chat.
One of the first questions asked from a classmate was, “Is this a book?”
“No,” I shook my head.
“Well, this story read like a chapter from a book,” another classmate said.
The only constructive feedback I got was, “This story could be longer. I wanted to read more.”
Even my teacher agreed. “Keep writing,” she urged.
When it came time for my second draft review, my classmates asked again, “Are you sure you’re not writing a book?”
“This seems like it could be a book.”
“No,” I shook my head, exasperated. This will never be a book, I thought to myself.
21
At twenty one years old, I was still refusing the possibility of writing a book. But I did fall back in love with reading.
I refused to read Wild by Cheryl Strayed because it was popular. I lost track of how many people said the same damn thing: “Oh, you like hiking. You’re a woman. Have you read Wild?” making it the most unappealing novel in the world.
Instead, I got hooked on Becoming Odyssa, a book written by a woman who thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail followed by a big Jack Kerouac phase. Tearing through Dharma Bums, On the Road, Big Sur, and any other title with his name on it. I actually pictured myself as the next lady version of Jack Kerouac.
My dreams of becoming an author surfaced for the first time since I was a teenager.
That summer, I got my dream job of guiding backpacking and climbing trips in California. Muir, Kerouac, and Thoreau inspired me to keep a detailed journal of these adventures. Most entries were full of wonder and awe. I had never seen such big trees or such large mountains. I loved hiking volcanoes the most. My journal read like a series of love letters to the granite domes and alpine lakes.
22
My first big stunt as a writer was right around the time I turned twenty two. It was fall and I had a little less than two months before I graduated. Senioritis hit hard. I was itching to get out into the world and eager to prove that I could learn more by myself once I left school.
Writing still felt like a big fat secret. No one read anything that I wrote, except for the random peers in writing class, who I considered strangers. My college life felt intentionally segmented. My party friends didn’t know I went backpacking when I wasn’t at the party. My backpacking and climbing friends didn’t know I went out partying four nights a week. Neither of the two friend groups knew that I loved to write.
Twenty two was the year of the Banana Blog.
Tired of compartmentalizing, I wanted to break free of all the secrets. It became obvious to me that I was terrified to share my writing because I was afraid of what people might think of me once they read it.
The only obvious way for me to do this was to wear a banana suit every day, all day, for seven days in a row.
I went to class as a banana, I went to work as a banana. I went to the gym and to the bars as a banana. I even wore my banana suit sitting on my couch at home. A lot of people asked if I slept as a banana and I’ll never reveal the truth.
Every day I went home, sat at my desk as a big yellow banana and published a blog post about my day. It was like this big attention grabber trying to say: HEY I’M A BANANA, AND I’M A WRITER.
The Banana Blog was a hit.
“Are you going to keep the blog going?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’m only wearing the banana for a week.”
“But you should keep posting,” people encouraged me.
That thought hadn’t crossed my mind to keep writing. Again, I was in denial. I tried publishing a handful of posts after, but eventually lost interest and deleted the whole blog. I regret this.
When family came to town to celebrate my graduation, I worked up the courage to print my short story about my dad dying and shared it for the first time. The paper copy got passed around my graduation party where my siblings, aunts, uncles, friends and my mom would disappear to the porch or a chair in the corner of the room, engulfed for a moment in the heart wrenching story. I really knew how to throw a party. One room: drinks. The next: twenty pages of death.
23
At twenty three years old, I had been on road in a little four door car that, driving from Virginia to California, where I continued to guide backpacking trips in the Western Sierras for the summer.
“I’m never going back east!” I told myself. Living the damn dream, I parked in unfamiliar places and saw something new every day. Each town that I passed through I thought maybe I could live here, or there. But first needed to check out every other town that existed in the United States.
After the summer plus a few more weeks of traveling, I went back east, go figure. In my brother’s attic I reflected on my year of freedom. It was missing something. All that travel and what did I have to show for it? Pretty much nothing. I hardly took any photos, barely wrote in my journal, and didn’t meet any locals in the woods as I avoided towns.
I set a goal for myself: on the next drive across the country, I’d interview folks along the way and write a book about that.
24
A Subaru got me across the country the next time. I’ll never forget my mom’s embarrassment at the dealership as I laid in the back and asked her to close the trunk in front of the salesman.
“Yep, I fit,” I shouted from inside the car.
Three days before I turned twenty four, I posted up in a coffee shop in Moab after another summer in the Sierras. One latte fueled nearly eight hours of writing. Once again, the story of my childhood came pouring out of me, flooding the page with memories of my dad.
Interviews from the travels were woven into the story of my dad. A book began to take shape.
I remember so clearly sitting at the window of that coffee shop. The only thing that distracted me was watching a gal pull up to the curb and park her van. She opened the sliding door to reveal a good dog sitting patiently. The dog didn’t jump out into the street and wasn’t leashed either. The dog’s tail happily wagged as the lady made coffee in her van and all I could think was I want to be like her.
25
I am writing a book.
I could say this out loud now.
Moving to the four corners area, I accepted a job as a wilderness therapy guide. The schedule seemed in favor of my writing goals. Fifteen days in the field and fourteen days off, every month. Those two weeks off were for writing. I started this blog, posted irregularly, and chipped away at a first draft.
And then I met a tall blonde man who loved the desert as much as I did.
Twenty five was the year of the bike, the year of the desert, and the year of falling in love.
26
The year of progress.
I turned twenty six in the backcountry. Ian and I spent most of fourteen days off on our own backpacking or bikepacking missions. Typing on my computer took the backseat to my journals. Every morning, I wrote in my sleeping bag. Every evening, I wrote by the fire.
In one year, I filled nine journals. A record for me, I was writing more than ever. Every single canyon, ruin, and mountain meadow was embedded into my notebook. Stories of extravagant adventures in the desert southwest permeated every page.
My writing was alive with awe.
Eventually I remembered my goal, the book! and spent one off shift at home. Ian and I rode the thirteen mile dirt road loop most days in between typing up draft one and hiring a writing coach. She taught me about queries and book proposals and asked me questions I couldn’t answer like “Who’s the audience for this book?”
I dunno. Dope ass people?
That’s not a marketable response. With a lot to learn, I couldn’t help but whisk myself back into the backcountry for another mapless adventure.
27
At twenty seven, I was living more dreams than one. I bought a van and lived in it full time (still waiting on the dog). My career in wilderness was comfortable, I’d gained more than 400 professional field days in the backcountry. Add in another 200 personal days in the wilderness, I was tough as fuck. I learned to thrive in winter camping conditions and how to row a 2,000 pound boat down the Grand Canyon. I was in love with Ian and the four corners and the desert and the backcountry version of myself that I’d become.
Ian and I wanted to live close to nature, so we bought a tipi and tried living in that for the winter (it went poorly). Draft one of my book about my travels and my dad was in a good spot, my blog was up and running and some people actually read it. I started writing poetry but didn’t call it that.
My brain was bursting with so many book ideas I could hardly choose what to write. Adventure stories, women in the wilderness, poetry, nature essays, guidebooks, kid’s books, all the books! The clock was ticking though- when would I have the time to write all this??
28
I did not want to turn twenty eight, the age that Ian died. My backcountry buddy, my love, my best friend drowned.
What. the. fuck.
Alone for the first time in my entire life, I woke up twenty eight crying. As I did every morning, I cried while making coffee then I cried while walking my dog then I cried while writing.
When my dad died, I changed my major from English to Outdoor Education. I went canoeing, rock climbing, hiking, and eventually backpacking. I ran away from the technological world and immersed myself in the wilderness to cope with his death.
When Ian died, I was scared of the woods and water. I moved into a house, I had a couch and a desk and a bookshelf and a dog thank God.
To cope with Ian’s absence, I spent time with him every day through writing.
All of our adventure stories I never had time to write down because we were so quickly off to the next, all of the sudden I had the time. The only thing that made any sense through those dark days was to write, write, write.
When Ian went missing, we launched a search for him in the San Juan Mountains. The search was volunteer led by friends and family for twelve days after official search and rescue teams were involved. Now there’s a story worth telling.
Who’s my audience? Outdoor enthusiasts, anyone with a chronic illness (Ian had epilepsy- perhaps the cause of drowning). This time, I could answer these questions. I typed up a query and a book proposal and a first draft and a second draft and I applied to graduate school for a creative writing degree to finish what I never started when my dad died.
29
This year I turned twenty nine at the mouth of a canyon, deep in the Sonoran desert. I woke up to the rising sun with a stack of books and journals next me and a prickly pear cactus.
Confidence flows through my veins. I’m a poet, I’m a writer, I’m working toward a degree. I’m an avid reader, I have a stand up desk now. I’m dedicated, I’m chipping away, I’m motivated. I’m not hiding, I’m vulnerable, I’m sharing my writing.
Self doubt is here too. Am I writing enough? Is this book about Ian coming along fast enough? Do I have enough time to complete my goals? Will I actually make money as a writer? Will all the effort ever be enough?
There is a balance I am striking these days. I don’t live out of my car, van, truck, backpack or under a tarp. I am not as “wildur” as I once was. I still go hiking daily and now I have a writing schedule and routine. I’m growing in my grief and expanding my capacity to write about it.
Whew! What a fucking ride.
I’m hoping 29 will be the year of the book deal. The publishing year.
Thanks for following along.
Beth Henshaw 