Hiking Gear on the Olympic Peninsula Trail

The cedar was wider than her arm span and older than the state of Washington, and when she pressed her back against it she felt the bark through her base layer like a grid of small pressures, each one specific, none of them asking anything of her.

She had counted the minutes since the last sound of boots on the trail. Forty-two now. The ferns stood waist-high around her, their fronds catching the filtered midday light in overlapping greens she didn't have names for, and the silence underneath them was a different quality of silence than the trail — denser, more committed. She had stepped off-path without deciding to. One moment she was walking; the next her boots were in the wet duff and the cedar was at her back and she understood that she had been planning this for the last mile without calling it planning.

That was how she worked. Not permission in advance. Recognition after.

She stood still for a moment and let the forest be around her. The smell of it was everywhere — damp bark, decomposing fern, something green and faintly sharp that she could feel at the back of her throat when she breathed in slowly. Her palms were flat against the cedar's bark. The texture of it transferred into her hands: ridged, faintly damp, not cold exactly but not warm either. The contrast when she thought about her own temperature — the heat she'd generated over three miles of climbing, held now inside her hiking pants, inside her base layer, waiting — made her jaw tighten.

She exhaled through her nose. The exhale came out longer than she'd put in.

This was not transgression. That was the thing people didn't understand about her, and she had stopped trying to explain it. This was the opposite of transgression. This was the forest being used correctly. She had carried this wanting up two switchbacks and across a creek crossing and she was going to do something with it here, against this tree, in this silence, because she had earned the silence and the silence was sufficient witness.

Her right hand left the bark.

She was aware of it the way she was aware of weather — not a decision, a condition. The hand moved to the drawstring at her waist. The ripstop nylon of the waistband was stiff under her fingers, the drawstring cord thin and slightly waxy. She pulled it loose. The fabric shifted. She was watching the ferns — their absolute stillness, the way the light came through them in layers — and she did not look down.

The waistband released. She pushed the pants down to one boot and left them there, the nylon pooled and heavy around her ankle, and the spring air reached her inner thighs and she felt her own heat by contrast, sudden and specific, a warmth she had been carrying without accounting for it.

She pressed back harder into the cedar's bark.

Her right hand moved. It was already warm. The other hand stayed flat against the tree behind her, pressing into the ridged surface, her palm reading the grain of something that had been growing here since before anyone thought to name this place.

She was not yet touching herself. She was in the moment before — hand close, the air between her fingers and her own skin a thin and specific distance — and she held it there, that distance, because she had learned that the moment before was its own thing worth having.

The ferns did not move. The forest held its silence like a held breath.

Her fingers made contact.

The sound that came out of her was short and unplanned, cut off somewhere high in her chest before she'd decided to cut it off — not because anyone might hear, but because the sensation arrived faster than she'd expected, sharper, like the forest had been waiting too.