We're here. We're big.

The only thing to do on my first Christmas alone was hike. I first wanted to go far, to the Smokies, to another state, somewhere I had never been. I wanted to get myself as far removed from home and aloneness as possible, to place myself on an unknown mountain and make myself climb it, to discover something new in the world and, perhaps, in myself.

But I was tired and didn't want to drive for hours, and I didn't know how much stamina I (or Scooter) had for a lengthy hike. I also wasn't excited for the hike like I would have been a year ago. Oh, how those first six months in Spartanburg were defined by hikes and exploration. That's all I wanted to do on a Saturday, my one day off. I'd get up at 6am and set out for the Blue Ridge, usually alone, for a challenge. I'd look forward to it all week. I'd say, "I'm rugged. I want to get scrapes and bleed because that will be proof I'm rugged." I'd call Jedsen from the summit. I'd brag about my strength and moxie like I was surprised to find them every time--and I was, and I wanted him to be surprised (and awed) too.

As I was preparing my backpack for the hike Sunday morning, I realized I'd forgotten to get anything to take for a lunch, and all I had was a KIND bar. I packed a bag of treats for Scooter, several pairs of gloves, an extra hat, and the usual emergency provisions of stun gun, pocket knife, folded foil blanket, and matches in a waterproof pouch. We set out just before eight, and the sun was a peek of bright through streaks of clouds. We headed toward Table Rock State Park in the far western corner of South Carolina. I tried to sing a journeying song to Scooter, but it came out in weak hums. About five miles down the highway I realized I'd forgotten my trail shoes, electing to wear my favorite blue Nikes for the drive. So I had to turn back.

I ran in and got the shoes and backed out to start again. Then I stopped and ran in to get one of Scooter's blankets to put in the backseat with him. And then we finally left, headed west. I don't remember what we listened to on the hour drive, though part of it was NPR. I don't remember thinking on the drive, just feeling saddened, reluctant but determined to go on this hike. I was relieved when the Table Rock State Park gates were open, and I was glad to remember the way. But when we pulled around to the large parking lot at the trailheads, the one that had been nearly full on my previous hike in the park in March, was completely empty at 9:15 on Christmas morning. Not a soul was around. And I was instantly afraid.

Yes, the main motivation for hiking on this day was to get away from society, from people, even from friends I couldn't talk to about what I was feeling on this first Christmas without Jedsen, so close to what would have been our seventh anniversary. But I'd told myself all those times before Scooter in those first six months, "I'm going by myself, but I won't be alone." I always chose trails that were popular, where I was sure others would be even if I wasn't with any of them. There would always be someone to run into, to say hello to, to come along if there was trouble. And there always had been. Not this time. This time as we crossed the first deck and bridges to the divergence of trails, as I filled out the card that said my name, age, trail, starting time, and emergency contact, I was actually alone. Scooter can bark, but he's small. Scooter can smell, but does he know the scent of bears? Bears. They were my fear.

Bears were all I wanted to see when I first started hiking. I dreamed about coming around a bend in a trail and looking over to see a black bear serenely loping up the mountainside. Nature, I thought, that's when I'll know I'm really in nature. Because it was difficult to believe that I could actually see a waterfall by driving to it or hiking a few miles. Growing up in Kansas, waterfalls, mountains, and bears were fantasies, things I longed for. They were mythical, subjects of fairy tales and epics. Suddenly living in close proximity to them made them, in a way, more mythical--or made me reside in some happy dream land whenever I was near. But it was that hike in March, on the last day of winter, on the Pinnacle Trail, Table Rock's neighbor, that I found fear. I wasn't alone--I knew there were others ahead of and behind me because the parking lot was full and it was a gorgeous day--but there were times when I could see no one yet heard large rustling of leaves. All I could think about was that the bears were waking up; it's bear season, and they're probably everywhere, and they probably have cubs. And I'm alone. I kept going, though, because I knew the bears would sense there more a number of people out and stay away from the trail. I reached the summit of Pinnacle Mountain that day, the most challenging hike to date, and I practically ran down the 4.5 miles out of relief.

When do bears sleep? Where do they sleep? Do they know to always stay away from the trails?

The creek was rushing, and the trail was muddy. I had Scooter on the 16-foot retractable leash so he could feel like he was walking off leash and so I could feel less immediate responsibility for him. I looked up into the bare trees, down to the creek, across to distant slopes of leaves, looking for the black bulge of a bear. I blew my bear whistle in short bursts every minute or so, hoping the sound was non-organic enough to keep a bear away while at the same time worrying that it would wake a bear up if it was sleeping. I at once wanted to make sure every creature on the mountain knew we were there and wanted to slip by unnoticed.

I made myself sing, at first holidays songs like "Deck the Halls" and Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas," but they'd quickly fade because I didn't want to be singing, and I didn't want to be talking. I didn't want to hear my voice. I wanted to be silent in my sadness, to keep it within as I always do. I wanted to only hear the wind and the leaves. I wanted to see. I'd be silent for a while and then have to just start talking aloud to ensure I was making noise. I started writing this as I walked, as I came upon what looked to be prime bear caves and nearly began crying in fear. I began composing my journey into an essay as it happened because I realized this was a journey about multiple fears. Bears, yes, and being alone, yes, and being exposed, and trying to get back to something that was once fulfilling. Hiking, nature, the climb, height, the achievement of reaching a pinnacle. The fulfillment of completion.

Over the last few months, I've learned that Scooter only cares about toys and treats that he can finish. As in, a food-filled Kong that he can empty, a stuffed squeaking mouse that he can chew through to the stuffing and squeaker, a bone that he can gnaw all edible matter from. He doesn't care about balls or fake bones that are only meant for chewing. Where's the reward in that?

I can't remember now how I completed all of my homework in school, but I certainly don't remember having much fun. Each assignment, each class, each A, was another step up the mountain of success, at least when it came to school. I understood school, the steady movements toward an end, a degree, and a new start. What that new start would be I was never sure until it was upon me, but it was the completion that was satisfying, and the completion with all A's. I kept going until there was no longer anywhere to go.

I blew my whistle every few feet as we climbed higher. I yelled, "We're here. We're big."

I saw movement up ahead but couldn't focus on it. Then I saw round creatures running up: wild turkeys. Thank god. Then Scooter saw them and switched into hunter mode. He barked and yelped and pulled me a head toward them, and I just kept saying, "You cannot eat the wild turkeys. You cannot eat the wild turkeys." It took him several minutes for him to listen, for them to disappear over a ridge.

He's so good on rocks, even with his small frame. He never tires. He runs uphill. "Wait," I'd yell, and he'd stop for a moment, until the leash was no longer taught, and then go again. "Stop," I'd yell louder, "I need you. I need you to stay with me."

Whenever he would stop on his own and turn his nose to smell the air, I thought bear. I thought, he's smelling something knew, something large and wild, and he's trying to understand it. I thought, let's turn back.

I thought let's turn back the whole way. I thought it when we hit the first mile marker, thought that a two mile hike was at least something. I thought it when we hit the shelter past 1.5 miles, thought it wouldn't be a shameful stopping point because we had been climbing up, up, up all the way. I thought it when we passed the turkeys, thought that since I'd seen wildlife I could go home. I thought it passing boulder with dark overhangs that made shelters for dark things, thought it when I nearly slipped on a wet rock, thought it when Scooter's leash got tangled in trees from where he'd gone off the trail.

I knew we were in the last mile or so once we hit the marker for the Ridge Trail, though I didn't have a map. Perhaps foolishly, I'd taught myself to trust in the trail markers and my own instinct for direction. Up ahead was a sloping wet rock that I knew we'd have to go up and, just behind, a large dark cave. As Scooter went off and down to eat some poop--what kind, I don't know--I convinced myself that there was a bear in that cave. That as we came up the rock I'd see big eyes glaring at me in the dark. How could there not be a bear in that cave? It looked large and sheltered from the wind. It even had a view of the valley.

Scooter ate the poop for a long time and then got himself tangled in limbs by looking for more. I was nearly crying at this point, anxiety fully setting in. I felt fear and failure. I blew the whistle for a long time. I screamed. I tried to get Scooter to bark. "We're big!" I wailed.

When I got Scooter untangled I was about to tell him to go down, but he started climbing again and got halfway to the rock when the leash reached its max. He wasn't worried, wasn't sniffing the air. He just looked back annoyed that I had stopped him. And so I followed, my eyes on the cave the whole time. My hands shaking. My little voice whispering wait.

My impression of bears was formed by Winnie the Pooh and zoos and Teddy, the stuffed bear I've had since I was a baby. Cuddly, right. Tricks. Honey. Then, claws. Hunger. Territory. Did I want to experience nature or not? Was I proud to be hiking alone (a woman, silly and dangerous, everyone said) or had I been convinced I was foolish? Was I determined to always finish a hike, to summit, or could I be satisfied with the mileage, the beauty, the journey? Who was I going to tell about this hike that would be remembered for its solitude and panic?

All along, an absence of bears in view and empty caves. Just beyond, the trees opened up to a slope of rock and the mountains to the west. I knew it wasn't the end of the trail, but it was an opening, a window back out to the world. Over there, Pinnacle Mountain, my peak. And North Carolina beyond. The rock rolled over and off the mountain, and a braver me than today would have gone closer to the edge, to better feel the height and weightlessness of a climb. But I sat back, gave Scooter some treats, tried to breathe, and decided that this would be the end. I was too exhausted from worrying to keep going to the last half-mile or so. It wasn't a failure, I told myself, but an experience. Nearly 2,000 vertical feet of experience.

About half-way down we encountered more people, a family, and farther down, there were couples with small dogs, and in the parking lot there were about 15 cars. It had just taken them until noon to get out there.

I spent three hours alone on a mountain. I wish I could say, like my three hours alone in London, that it was liberating, that I came away stronger, that I gave myself the perfect gift on Christmas. But instead I deflated, thought of calling my mom just to tell her I was done with the hike but decided I didn't want to talk about it. When she called a few minutes later and the call dropped after about a minute, I didn't want to call back. When Jedsen texted "Merry Christmas, Kari" as I was nearing home, I couldn't be strong and write back my own reserved wishes. No, I broke down and began a conversation in common misery, a conversation of texts that would last the rest of the day, that would make me ache for him yet smile that I was somewhat near him, that would make me break a hole in the wall I'd built between us because I had to, that would leave me more alone than when the day began because there was nothing to be done and these texts of reminiscence and hurt would lead nowhere, to no different end. He, alone in the cold of Chicago, and I, alone by choice in the gray of the South, would have to stop here, most likely for good.