August 26, 2016 Mile 1499.2-1512.3 13.1 Miles Note: I’ve had to change a few minor facts, due to the public nature of this blog. A savvy reader may be able to figure out what I’ve changed and why I’ve changed it. By 6:30 I can no longer sleep, so I sit up in bed and take care of some emails that have been piling up. Then I pay my credit card bills. It feels a little unfair, to be honest. Captain Ahab never had to pause and pay the bills when he was chasing Moby Dick. Jedediah Smith wasn’t plagued by emails when he was out exploring the western frontier. The problem with technology is that once people start to use it, everyone expects you to use it, too. After another shower, I check out and lug my pack up the road to get breakfast. It’s a 24-hour diner at the absolute edge of town. It looks like a giant silver bullet. I’ve always been curious why so many 50’s-style diners take this look. Did they used to make them out of Airstream trailers? The cook/waiter calls most of the patrons by name. It’s that sort of place. I order a breakfast burrito, then when I finish that, I get an omelette, too. I can’t quite make it through the hash browns that come with it, though. After breakfast I walk to the post office. It’s time to send some stuff home, and I have to mail Yogi Beer’s bear canister back to him like I promised. The stuff home takes me a while to pack. The hardest part isn’t fitting everything into the boxes, it’s making decisions. Will I really not want my umbrella anymore? Sure, I have rain gear, and I’ve mostly used the umbrella to keep off the sun, but I haven’t been in any torrential downpours yet and Washington is still ahead. I decide to mail it home anyway. There are five or six more difficult decisions; in almost every case I decide to send the item home. I really want to get lighter, and I know I can live with less. What’s more, I know I’ll be happier with less. I never would have believed it before I started this crazy trail, but despite all the pain, the hunger, the loneliness, the lack of conveniences, or perhaps because of them, I feel better about my life than I ever have, more secure and self-sufficient. I can see more clearly what parts are essential and what are not, what adds to my life and what does not. I can feel suffering in my feet and know that it is temporary, it will pass. Same with loneliness. My relationships are still important, but they no longer define me; I recognize their inherent intransitiveness. All of this from parting with a few items out of my backpack. I write Yogi Beer a note to thank him for the use of the canister and include my number. He will leave me a voicemail when I am still somewhere in Washington, and a few days later, when I need to make space on my phone to download more podcasts, I will delete a bunch of old voicemails and photos and only realize later that his was among them. I will never return his call. When his hometown of Paradise burns to the ground two years later and dozens of people die in the fire, I will think of him and hope dearly that he made it out alive. After the post office, I pop across the street to a grocery store for a few more supplies, then to a brewery for an early lunch. Yes, I’m already hungry again. After lunch I walk to the south end of town. A septuagenarian flags me from across the street, then crosses to me when I wave back. He’s carrying a brown lunch sack that looks stuffed to the seams. He holds it up and asks “do you want some pot for your hike?” I chuckle and tell him no thanks. I’ve heard this region of California is full of pot growers, but a seventy-year old man is not who I expected. He tells me to have a good hike and continues on his way. I start to hitch, and the first person to pass pulls over. It’s a big black truck with 4 people in the cab, so I hop in the back. There are hunting bows and other gear. The driver asks me to lie down when we get on the freeway so he doesn’t get a ticket. I do. We’re flying down the freeway when I suddenly see a sign on the other side of the freeway for the exit we needed. We’ve already passed it! Am I being kidnapped? What do I do now? I’m about to knock on the back window when he pulls off at the next exit. We come to a stop sign and he calls out the window “I missed the exit, sorry!” Oh good, not being kidnapped then. He drops me off at about 2pm and I’m on my way. It’s a hard uphill, but the dirt feels far better under my feet than the asphalt of the town, and I’m happy to be back to the solitude, the simplicity. Town is a nice treat, but it makes me a little crazy with all the talking to people and all the choices to make. The forest is thick on my climb, and so are the bugs. Little gnats so numerous that every few minutes one of them gets sucked into my airway and I go into a coughing fit trying to get it out. They seem to love my eyes, too, so I’m constantly batting them away. A couple times I hit myself in the face with my trekking poles. Still, it’s beautiful here. As I climb higher, the forest begins to thin and I start to get views of the granite spires above and the Trinity Divide to the west. These mountains have a violent geology like I haven’t seen since the Sierras. I’ve missed this drama. I pass Hoot and Chocolate Milk napping on the side of the trail. I don’t want to wake them, but I’m happy to see their familiar faces. I push on for a little longer before dinner, then a few more miles of uphill. It’s after dark when I set up my tent in a small clearing. I’m just drifting off when I hear talking and music coming up the trail. I rouse myself and look out the screen. By the time the headlamps come into view, I can recognize their voices. I call out to Hoot and Chocolate Milk when they get close; I think I may have startled them, but they come over and chat for a minute.
“We thought you were long gone by now.” “I stayed in town last night. Just got back this afternoon.” “A southbounder told us about an campsite about 4 miles from here that has an amazing view. We’re gonna try to head there.” I think they’re asking me if I want to join them. I do, but I’m tired and I don’t relish the idea of breaking down my tent and then putting it up again. Or hiking 4 more miles, to be honest. “Cool, maybe I’ll run into you guys tomorrow.” “Alright, have a good night.” I can trace the next mile of trail from the sound of their music and talking, which I can hear for another half hour. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it’s easy to tell whose voice is whose. I’m amazed at how well sound travels here. A few hours later I’m awakened by something in the woods, close by. I shout at it and I can hear crashing sounds for several minutes as it runs down the mountain away from me. Probably just a deer, I try to convince myself.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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