On Learning When to Turn Back
by Lenore Eklund
Getting my medically involved child through surgery, insurance renewal, an IEP review, an ear infection, and Girl Scout cookie season last month left my brain a puddle of word soup—evident in forgetting an appointment for my own care, showing up to a friend’s reading on the wrong day, and booking a return flight in the wrong month.
I needed a break to quiet my brain, rest my back, tend to myself, spend time with my sister, and return my thoughts to word play and creativity. So I headed to Joshua Tree, California, for Ariel Gore’s Wayward Writing Camp–and something more valuable than gold. An overdue break from caregiving.
The workshop allowed time to hike the nearby National Park, where rock formations take on whatever a visitor imagines, like clouds in the sky, and Joshua Trees strike eccentric poses across the desert landscape–terrain that was shaped by the endurance of time.
Between writing sessions, my sister, Jennifer, and I visited the face-like formation Skull Rock. Later, with fellow workshop writer Kate Dreyfus, we explored Keys View—a sky-high overlook of the San Andreas Fault—and the popular rock-climbing spot Cap Rock, with its precariously balanced boulder worn like a head covering. On the last day, we went to Lost Horse Mine.
A sign at the trailhead gave a brief history of the land claim that hosted the mine, which produced an abundant amount of gold and silver until it ran dry in 1908. Along with information about the territory’s name, mill operations, and ownership changes, there was a small photograph of Prospector Johnny Lang—the first claim owner—with a caption noting he’d spent his final days at the mine. In 1925, his body was found and buried by the road to Keys View.
The prospector looked depleted, his empty eyes peering out from the portrait like a warning. I was glad I had camaraderie on the hike.
The three of us started out at a good pace, talking and pausing to take photos after each steep incline. The trail was uneven and craggy—I couldn’t help but think about how impassable this would be for my daughter’s wheelchair. I missed her in that moment, even as I felt the rare permission to let this hike belong only to me.
About thirty minutes in, our group separated, all of us trekking along at different paces. My sister trucked it—she came all the way from Ohio and she “wasn’t missing a chance to see the best preserved mill in a national park.”
Alone on a desert trail, it’s hard not to think about survival. I paused to take a sip from my water bottle and thought about Johnny Lang and the last moments he spent out here. I wondered what he thought about at the end—regret, relief, or pure exhaustion.
With nothing demanding my attention, memories emerged. Coming out to Joshua Tree felt, in its own way, like survival. The exhaustion deep in my bones over the last nine years brought up memories when we almost didn’t make it. I remembered driving my daughter to an appointment, so sleep-deprived that the parked cars seemed to be moving across the street. I crossed that intersection with a prayer under my breath. Or, another time, desperate for a break, I admitted my daughter into what I later realized was a glorified institution–only to discover later that day she hadn’t been given any water. Even after that was corrected, things got worse, and I brought her home after three days.
A thousand miles away, my mind was still vigilant, on high alert for signs of potential catastrophe, ready to spring into action. I scanned my surroundings as a sudden awareness that mountain lions inhabit the region crept into my mind. Make yourself big. Get loud. Never turn your back on a wild cat. I knew what to do after years of living on the west coast, and I figured Kate would too. But, would my Midwest-rooted sister?
My feet—toes now feeling pinched in my inadequate Converse sneakers—moved faster. I rounded a curve, but didn’t see her on the visible trail ahead. I needed to hustle if I was going to save her from danger.
Desert marigolds freckled the hills, brightening the browns of rock and sand and the pale greens of scattered vegetation. Deceptively fuzzy cacti and the occasional wind-sculpted Juniper tree caught my eye, curiosity slowing me before I remembered my mission.
I came around a turn and caught sight of Jennifer just reaching a bend on the opposite side of the pass. She stopped and waved. I waved back with both arms. She turned and proceeded down the trail. It was too far to yell a clear message. I looked back for Kate once more. I was only met with a cool breeze. I pressed on.
Conditioned from regular running, I could go the distance, but unaccustomed to elevation, my calves began to burn as I climbed a slope up the trail. Just put one foot in front of the other.
Knowing that all I had to do the next day was sit on a plane back to Portland propelled me around the ravine to the spot I last saw my sister. Just past it, I saw her heading down a gradual descent. I used the decline to catch up with her.
“Did you know that if you come across a mountain lion, you shouldn’t turn your back and you should yell and make yourself big?”
“Okay.” And then without another thought, “How long do you think it would take to get up to the top?”
The thick beamed wooden mill squatting over the mine was up another 300 feet. The trail continued before us, ascending with switchbacks. Another hiker bounded straight down the slope on an unmarked, but direct path. My body resisted both options.
While the muscles in my calves were on fire, my thighs felt like jelly. Sitting on the plane tomorrow was one thing, but I needed to be able to lift my daughter to and from her wheelchair in the following days. Turning back felt unfamiliar—and necessary. “I’ll wait here if you want to head up.”
Jennifer gazed up at the mill for a moment, surveying for herself. “I think I’m good.”
“I bet there are photos from the top on the internet,” I said as we turned back, eventually meeting Kate in the parking lot.
I’d spent years proving how much I could endure. That day, we chose not to.
Lenore Eklund is a writer, comic artist, and disability advocate living in Portland, Oregon. She blends storytelling and advocacy to explore themes of access, inclusion, and resilience—all in between IEP meetings and Girl Scout gatherings.
