August 19, 2016 Mile 1328.8-1343.8 15 Miles When I wake, the room is hot and stuffy. I have a mild headache from too much beer and not enough water. I try to go back to sleep, but after twenty minutes it’s clear that it’s not going to happen, so I dress quietly and take my book with me to breakfast. When I return, Altitude is repacking his backpack. I pack up too, then head out to look for a shoe store. I really need to find something today. My shoes aren’t cutting into the tops of my feet anymore since I cut big holes out of the top, but they’re filling with gravel as I hike. Less painful, but still obnoxious and uncomfortable. I’m able to find a sporting goods store just up the street, the Sports Nut. They have all sorts of stuff, but a very small selection of shoes and no trail runners or anything else that will work. I check two other places that seem promising, with no success. It looks like I’m stuck with these shoes for a little while longer. I call Lindsey and ask her to send my next pair of shoes to Castella. I have another mail drop in Old Station, but that’s only a couple days away and they might not arrive in time. After I finish packing up and checking out (Altitude and his pack are already gone), I’m ready for lunch. I walk to Subway and order a foot long, with a fantasy that I’ll take half of it with me out onto the trail. But who am I fooling? Of course I’m going to finish it all. I take a seat in a booth and unwrap my sandwich. I’m in a strange, disassociated state. People are around, but they are not part of my world, or I am not a part of theirs. I start to think about the source of my food. I think about the tomatoes, and how much water goes into them. The farmers that work the fields, the trucks and gas that delivered them first to a warehouse, then here, the irrigation that must have gone into the fields where these were grown, the reservoirs where that water was captured and diverted. Here in California, that water probably came from a river that used to run salmon or steelhead trout, but flows are so reduced and the temperatures so different from their natural state that the few fish that are left are prone to disease. I think through all of the pieces that came together to make this sandwich. The cheese. The bread. Before today, I don’t know that I ever noticed how delicious bread is. I think through the source of the wheat, the yeast. I realize that I don’t know where yeast comes from. It’s an organism, right? Is it cultured, then? From what? I think about the factories, the workers, the energy for the ovens that cook the bread. Each ingredient, made up of so many elements, each one requiring people, energy, and natural and unnatural processes. By the time I finish the first half of the sandwich, I feel immense gratitude and sadness. I continue on, thinking about the wrappings. This is more difficult. The wax paper. The handful of bleach-white napkins that are stuffed in alongside my sandwich, far more than I need or want. The plastic bag that holds it all, that I was given without asking even though I am eating in the restaurant. It is all so wasteful. I don’t have to look around to realize there are other people in this Subway; they have each received a plastic bag and a stack of napkins, too. How many Subway sandwich shops are there in the world? How many fast food restaurants? How many people do they serve each day? I’ve never truly realized how wasteful fast food is before today. It doesn’t take much effort to extend that thought to the entire culture. I finish my sandwich, and then—there’s nothing else I can reasonably do—I place my plastic bag and napkins in the garbage and head out into the world. My very existence on this planet leads to waste. I make a vow to live with less impact, knowing that it will be difficult in a culture that wastes indiscriminately. I walk down the street thinking about this tension between culture and ethics. It’s time to get back on the trail. I send Altitude a text to tell him I’m headed out and I’ll see them at camp tonight. Our plan was to do about 10 miles today, so I figure I’ll find a good place to camp and then read until they arrive this evening. I’m upbeat, knowing that I have companions to camp with tonight. I stick out my thumb to hitchhike. One car drives by, then another. The third one is a police cruiser. I drop my thumb, but it’s too late, he’s pulling over to the side of the road. I’m certain I’m about to get a ticket, or at least a stern lecture that hitchhiking is illegal. He stops and comes around the front of the car. “You headed back to the trail?” “Yeah,” I say. “You’ll have to ride in the back. We’re not allowed to have people ride up front with us.” Wait—what? He’s offering me a ride? I climb in the back seat and try not to think about what recreational foliage I may or may not be carrying in my backpack. “I was a little worried when you pulled over that I wasn’t supposed to be hitchhiking,” I tell him. “Oh, no, as long as you’re not on an interstate, you’re fine,” he explains. “I have to make a stop real quick, and then I’ll get you out to the trail.” We pull into an abandoned lot behind some old buildings. There’s another cruiser and a pickup truck pulled up together, driver’s side window to driver’s side window. All the surreptitious meetings I’ve seen in the movies flash through my mind and once. “Just stay in the car,” the officer says as he gets out. You’re about to get murdered or kidnapped, my brain tries to warn me. Don’t be so paranoid, I argue back. Their conversation is muffled and I can’t make anything out. Am I witnessing a shady deal? Some sort of drug deal handoff? Or is my imagination just running wild? A minute later the officer climbs back in the car. “They like to rib me a little. Say I’m too soft, giving all you hikers rides to the trail. I don’t know, I think it’s kinda inspiring that y’all can stick with it so long. Might like to do it myself some day.” Oh good, it looks like I’m not getting murdered after all. He drives me out the rest of the way to the trail and wishes me luck. I thank him and tell him I hope he gets to hike the trail some day, it’s worth it. I strap up, climb the embankment, and enter a tunnel of trees. A few hours later, I take my phone off airplane mode to see if Altitude and Ed have left yet. I have a couple texts from Altitude:
-You’re already leaving? -Ed really wants to flip. He says there’s no transportation from Castella. Can you head back? I’m a little pissed and definitely let down. I thought we had a deal to flip from Castella. We cheers’d to it! That should be as sacred among hikers as a handshake among honorable businessmen. I text back: -I’m 8 miles out. I thought you guys were on your way. Altitude: -Ed says he’ll pay for your ticket if you head back. I agonize. I really do. But when I think it through, we haven’t spent any real time hiking together. Who knows if we’d be able to keep a similar pace, or do similar miles each day? What if they decide to quit? If I have to hike by myself, I’d rather finish this hike northbound, the way I started it. Even if it means I might not make it all the way. -Tell him thanks, but I have to keep going. I’m not ready to flip yet. -Bummer man, but yeah, you’ve got to hike your own hike. Hike your own hike. It’s a cliche, and it means many things, but if ever there was a time to brush it off and hold it tight, this is it. I have to hike my own hike. I’ve lost my trail family as quickly as I gained them. It’s bitter, but I know it’s the right choice to go on. I put on my solitude like a suit of armor and brace myself for more miles. Just that quickly, the woods have taken on a different character. I am not looking forward to camping alone tonight. An hour later I am resting by the trail when a couple comes by. The man carries a Jack Russell on his back between his shoulders and the backpack. They stop to chat for a bit, and he sets the Jack Russell down. They tell me they are planning on camping just before the border to Lassen National Park since they don’t have a bear canister. That’s only a couple more miles ahead, a little further than I had planned for tonight. I have people to camp with and talk with, and that makes the miles easy. When we get to the border of the park, there’s another hiker eating dinner already. I find myself a small, slanted patch of uneven ground and squeeze my tent into it. We sit in a small circle and the four of us get to know each other while we make and eat dinner. It’s dark before we know it, and we don’t have a campfire, but we stay up talking and joking anyway. It feels great, and when I finally go to sleep, it’s an easy, undisturbed sleep despite the uneven ground. I lost my trail family, but I found companions anyway. The trail will provide. Another cliche, but it comforts me. I am content.
2 Comments
Margaret Johnston
12/20/2019 12:30:03 pm
I love your blog, but please no more feet pictures, I cannot look!
Reply
Nick
12/23/2019 05:44:37 am
Haha sorry! I spent so many days complaining about my feet, I thought I better prove that I really had something to whine about. Don't worry, no more feet pictures coming up. Thanks for reading!
Reply
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Author
Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
Categories |