Written by McKayla Bull
What a month it has been!!!!!
One month of living outdoors. One month of walking, all… day… long. One month of waking up to sunrises, of drifting into slumber to sunsets. One month of washing my face in creeks, of filtering every drop of water I drink. One month of calling my tent home, of setting it up every night, of packing it up every morning. One month of dehydrated foods and way too much processed sugar. One month of travelling by foot along the Northern California of the Pacific Crest Trail.
So, as my inner dialogue has had nothing but time and space, what has come up for me?
I’ll tell you: July has built my relationship with the outdoors in a new way; deeper than appreciating nature, I have a newfound reverence for it.
Out here, nature isn’t a backdrop for my adventure; it’s the main character, and I am a guest — one organism among billions. I have had to move with Mother Nature instead of against her, adjusting my pace for the heat of the day or the bite of the wind, reading the sky like it’s an ancient, living map.
I feel exposed like never before — there is no house to hide in, no car to hide behind. While I am not in grave danger (99.999% of the time), I am acutely aware that I’m not “bigger than the program”. That I am not more powerful than nature. That a thunderstorm could come at any time, that I will quiver quietly in my tent. That my roommates are now American Black Bears, Deer Mice, Rattlesnakes, and Mountain Lions. That a push of wind could easily blow me over, off a sheer cliff. That edge of fear, that small voice reminding me how fragile I am, sharpens my respect for the world I’m moving through. I bow to our planet.
But it’s not just the wild’s power that builds reverence — it’s its beauty. The kind that stops me mid-step: sunlight spilling through an aspen grove, the mirror of a still alpine lake, a ground squirrel cracking open a seed with tiny paws, wildflowers crowding the edges of the trail like they’ve been waiting forever for me to notice.
And in these moments — when I finally finish an ascent, popping suddenly out of the forest, standing on top of a literal and figurative mountain, viewing a magnificent valley carved by geological forces I can’t fully imagine — I realize just how small I am. Not insignificant in the sense of powerlessness, but small in the way a single drop belongs to, and serves its purpose, in the big blue ocean.
Walking Witness
McKayla Bull
A poem inspired by “A Summer Day,” written by the incredible Mary Oliver
who made nature?
who made the Mountain Lillies & Lions?
who made the White-tailed Deer?
this doe, I mean-
the one who moves like ballerina across sunrise horizons,
the one who is quietly pruning feather grasses,
the one who is seeing me in a way that maybe I have never seen myself - egoless, through trees, on trail.
no bells. no whistles.
now she turns her head, snaps into the decision to gracefully leap away,
dances in arcs of light as a rainbow,
hurdles harmoniously as a melody of the pine forest –
I admire her for more reasons than I can understand.
I don’t know what nature knows.
but that I revere her,
more & more with every mile that passes below my feet.
the neatness in which these trees, fauna, bugs, birds, mammals, are all interconnected.
I am learning how to witness & savor,
how to wonder & smile,
how to play in creeks,
which I have had the privilege of doing all week.
I walk & walk & walk
all day long.
at dusk, I peer through tent’s netting
nodding into deep sleep
I speak with the stars.
tell me, I ask the night sky, tucked into my cozy-down sleeping bag,
“what else do I need to see?”
they twinkle & laugh, crinkling in delight at my innocence.
“remember that everything burns without warning,” they whisper.
“Do what you can with your one free & fiery life.”
