The trail begins where the road ends, at a wooden barrier you step over more than open. At the trailhead board, a notebook under plexiglass where hikers register, name, time, destination, in case the mountain decided to keep someone. You write the name that isn't yours, the one you were given and wear like a coat a size too large. It holds. It covers. It isn't yours.

You set out alone, very early, for the simple reason that walking loosens things. The glass on the panel sends your face back to you, and you don't linger on it. You stopped asking mirrors long ago for what they insist on not showing.

Higher up, two women climb at your pace, slightly ahead. The way they plant their poles, laugh under their breath, stop for nothing. You'd like to be like them. It's silly, it catches you every time, this wish to walk in that body, from the inside.

Ahead, the trail splits in two. One line heading for the ridge, another plunging under the trees. It's there, at the fork, that a voice behind you asks whether it's really up top.