hiking

by Findley Eve Holland

The first rules of hiking are do not wear headphones, bring a noisemaker, tell someone where you’re going.

You came to visit us. Your legal mandated duty. We waited for you at the ferry terminal and when you walked through the glass arrival doors, I called your name and ran to you. You didn’t look at me, or slow down, until I physically blocked your path. Then, you grabbed my hand, got my sister, and walked us to the Greyhound stop.

We live in the same town now, but I hardly see you. When I walk or drive past your house, I look in your windows, seeing if a light is on.

I don’t follow the rules of hiking.

In Canada, there are bears and wolves and cougars and cayotes. Recess would be indoors because a mountain lion is on the field or going through the neighborhood’s garbage cans.

The last time I carved a pumpkin, I was in high school. I was at your house, and I slit my palm open when the knife slipped.

My cat is allegedly an Emotional Support Animal, but she only sits on my lap when I am feeding her treat or sitting on one specific chair.

Lighthouse keepers went crazy. Not all, but enough. Isolation for days or weeks or months on end. Wild weather. Boredom. Mercury poisoning.

In 1873, the Cape Romain Lighthouse keeper murdered his wife. There are other stories of whole families dying in murder-suicides.

You grew up in a lighthouse. Every once and a while, another family would be on the island but for most of the time it was just him, his brother, and his parents. Groceries came in once a month, mail once a week. You did all your education via correspondence.

I once mentioned to your girlfriend of ten years the lighthouse, and she had no idea what I was talking about.

I live in the woods.

Almost every day, I walk through the woods with headphones on, listening to an audiobook or a podcast. The only animals that can kill or hurt me are spiders, snakes, or people. I walk in silence with my water bottle, following the dried-up creek bed or the barbed wire fence blocking off a government research facility. The fence is abandoned—trees growing around it and ivy growing through it. There are holes in the fence you can go through and explore the other side.

When I drive around town, I see you walking. You have a distinct walk that makes you recognizable. Chin pushed forward, arms swaying, feet clunking.

I told you once that I think you care about everyone else before me. Your girlfriend, my sister, your ex-wife, my ex-stepsister.

“That’s not true. You’re my daughter, and I love you,” you said.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that,” I said.

Then, I started crying.

Photo of Findley Eve Holland

BIO: Findley Eve Holland is a writer from Western Canada getting a Master's degree in professional writing from Towson University. When she is not writing, she can be found hiking, skiing, reading, or playing with her cat.