September 13, 2016
0 Miles Roadside and I walk a quarter mile or so to a diner. The outskirts of this town remind me a lot of Flagstaff, Arizona where I went to grad school. Empty lots and the spaces between developed areas are filled with pine trees. The town itself is much smaller—a main street runs only about six blocks. It’s filled with chic boutique stores and small restaurants. The diner we choose is one of the more traditional restaurants. They serve all the standard breakfast fare that I’m craving with no strange twists. I love those places that serve omelettes with unexpected cheeses like gorgonzola, serve their french toast with honeybutter and elfberry jam, or add a fancy herbal cream sauce to a breakfast burrito, but sometimes I just want pancakes with butter and syrup, or good-old-fashioned scrambled eggs. As we’re finishing breakfast, we see PBR in another booth, talking to someone we can’t see. We pay and head over to say hi. “Hey PBR!” I say, “You headed back to trail today?” “Yeah, you guys too?” “Nah, we have to head into Bend.” “My pack broke,” Roadside says. “I need some new pants.” I gesture to my leg, where the tear up to my knee is obvious. I had actually forgotten to think about how weird it is to go into a restaurant with pants this ragged, but I realize it now. Do the other patrons think I’m a hippie, or a homeless person, or are PCT hikers so common here that this is normal? I don’t feel embarrassed about it at all, I’m just curious. The man sitting across from PBR speaks up. “Do you have a ride?” “No, we were going to take the bus.” “Well, if you can wait, I can give you a ride. I’m headed back to Bend after I take him out to the trail.” We take him up on his offer and give him my phone number so he can call us when he gets back into town. We swing by the post office to pick up our resupplies, then head back to the hotel to get our stuff. We’re planning to do laundry while we’re in Bend. A few minutes after we get back, Roadside knocks on my door. He just bumped into King Arthur, who is hoping he can take a shower. That’s fine with me, although I don’t understand why Roadside didn’t just offer his shower. King Arthur jumps in the shower and Roadside and I chat about the trail while I repack my resupply and get my pack together. King Arthur wants to ask the trail angel if he can get a ride too. And he has a friend, another hiker I haven’t met, who wants a ride too. It’s a little bold, but it can be difficult to get a hitch, and the bus takes twice as long. I don’t want to take advantage of the trail angel’s generosity, but I understand where King Arthur is coming from. We’ve exhausted an hour and a half, and we’re starting to doubt that the trail angel is coming back, so we all decide to head out to the bus stop. While we’re waiting, he calls and asks if we’re ready. I ask him if he can take four of us and he says it’s no problem. He picks us up from the bus stop just as we can see the bus coming down the street. It’s about a forty-five minute drive to Bend. Our driver wants to hear all about the trail—what parts we’ve enjoyed the most, what wildlife we’ve seen, what’s been hardest about the trail. We ask him about his life, too. He has kids, and runs a chocolate shop in bend. The time passes quickly, and soon we’re at the outskirts of town. He tells us about the way the town is divided—rich people have homes on the uphill side of town, the poor on the other side of the freeway. Then he offers us a ride back to Sisters when we’re done. This is generosity beyond belief. We thank him profusely before he drops us off at the REI. At the REI, I’m surprised to find that I have dropped a full waist size, and even that with some room to spare (after I finish the trail, I will regain that weight so quickly that I’ll never be able to fit in these pants again). I also get a new pair of sunglasses and a couple of runner’s energy packets. Roadside finds a new backpack, and King Arthur grabs a warmer sleeping bag. The other hiker has a couple big purchases of his own. We all get in line at the same time. I purchase my stuff first and then wait. When Roadside purchases his stuff, the cashier asks him if he wants to become a member. No, he says, there’s no REI anywhere near him in Canada. The cashier asks him if he wants to put his purchases on my member number, so I can collect the dividend—10% of whatever they purchase, toward future purchases at the end of the year. King Arthur and the other hiker, who are both from Europe, both put their stuff on my membership, too. When I get my dividend in a few months, it will turn out to be close to $500. Roadside and I head over to a camping and outdoor supply store that has a repair shop—he wants to see if he can get the zipper on his tent fixed. I wander the store while he talks with the repair person and decide to buy a new handkerchief—mine is torn. At the register is a hiker that I met way back in Agua Dulce. His name is Snot, and he had just finished a 43 mile day (at nine in the morning!) as part of his attempt to beat the record for fastest known time on the PCT. I ask him about his attempt—has he already finished? No, he says, he ended up with a foot injury only about sixty miles later and had to bail on it. A brewery next door serves us lunch and beer while we wait on the zipper, then we walk a couple miles to a laundromat that has a connected bar. It’s a pretty ingenious business model. There are about six of us hikers all drinking beers and waiting for our laundry to finish. Then there are just the four of us again. We finally finish our laundry and call the trail angel. When he picks us up, he has another bounty for us—a grocery bag full of chocolates, caramel popcorn, and toffees. He tells us that they’re all rejects from his store, but I can see nothing wrong with them. We are agog. Back at the hotel, I spend the rest of the evening talking to my wife and friends, gorging on chocolate, and watching shitty movies on TV.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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