September 15, 2016 Mile 2002.4-2030.4 28 Miles I peel off my longjohns in the dark. They are dry, but somehow sticky with sweat nonetheless. The cool air on my bare skin doesn’t phase me—the muscle tension I’m used to feeling when I change from sleep clothes to hiking clothes is no longer present. I don’t resist the cold, and therefore it doesn’t affect me. Much. We pack up in silence, as usual. We aren’t disturbing anyone, as there is no one around to disturb, but it seems better not to speak. Speaking would disrupt this ritual. Only after we have completed our tasks do we dare to venture a word. A time for packing up, a time for speaking. Each action in its place. Mixing actions leads to a lack of attention, and thus, confusion. The act of packing up is almost sacred, at least between us. Other hikers may have other rituals, but this is ours, and to me it seems good. We pass a tent early on. “Is that King Arthur’s tent?” Roadside asks. I think it is. The early morning climb goes quickly, and we have our ten miles in before I’m even fully awake. We stop for breakfast at a low col in the mountain, cool but windless. It’s a misty morning, and I can see the haze beginning to lift from the ridges and trees. It’s faintly purple, and naturally I start to hum Jimi Hendrix. We have an unobstructed view of Mount Jefferson before us, as well as an unobstructed view of the trail, many miles ahead. Some of the forest is burnt, some looks healthy. We will alternate between the two all day. I make myself a cup of coffee with breakfast and though it gets cold quickly, it is such a welcome treat this morning that I pour myself entirely into the experience of tasting it and feeling its warmth. In truth, I feel that I’ve never been as present for a cup of coffee as I am now. It’s instant coffee, and the mere fact of my attention makes it more enjoyable than the hundreds of cups of designer coffee I’ve had in the past. I can tell it’s lower quality, but how many cups of great coffee have I ignored past the first sip? How many cups have I discovered empty, with no memory of drinking them, disappointed and wishing I could go back in time to pay closer attention to each sip? We are stopped again a short time later, gathering water from a pond. The surrounding forest has been decimated by fire within the last year or two, tall toothpicks in the mud. I pump water and then sit on a fallen log to wait for Roadside to finish pumping his. The pond is still and perfectly reflects the wasteland and the hazy sky. A doe and her fawn are foraging for food across the way. It is another peaceful moment that I greet with full presence. Why this calm, meditative state today? Some days I am so much more present than others. I’d like to hold onto this all the time—what makes the difference? Is it a particular type of landscape, a food that I eat, the speed that I walk, or the temperature? I can bring it to mind with a conscious choice at times, but that is always short-lived. On the other hand, the more I consciously bring my attention, the more often and easily this state seems to arise. We continue along ridges, following a meandering path toward Mt. Jefferson. Where the forest has begun to regrow foliage, I notice that autumn colors are beginning to pop through in bright reds and yellows. It’s a good reminder that we need to hurry to the border. The nights will only get colder, and we could have an early snowstorm any time now. Lunch is at a spot marked on the map as a lookout. There’s a good view of Mt. Jefferson here, but not much more than we’ve seen most of the morning. It’s a little cold still, so I sit in the sun. A short while later I have to move to get warm again because the shade of a tree has taken over my picnic site. When I have to move again, it feels like a little nudge reminding me that I’m on a planet that is turning in relation to the sun. I look around and take in all of the planet that I can see. I don’t know why that feels so different from before. The planet is the same as it was before, but my perception is different. Why don’t I experience the world like this all the time? It feels so much better to recognize my smallness in this great expanse of planet than to pretend like my little day-to-day concerns matter. It is almost like I can see myself from the sky, a tiny dot in a massive world. I wonder momentarily whether Roadside has ever had a similar experience, whether this is something that has arisen naturally from walking the land and spending all our time outside, or something specific to my own psyche and experience, but it seems like it would spoil my own perception to describe to him what I’m feeling. When we pack up and head on, I remain in a contemplative state. I watch the world slowly pass by under my feet. I watch lakes down below me and I imagine that I can see them collecting and draining water bit by bit as the living systems that they are and not as the static puddles that they appear to be. I watch creeks as they pass through the trail, carrying glacial runoff away to the sea, where they will evaporate, collect, and return to the snowcaps that I can see atop this mountain. I trace out my life, first like a string across the length of this trail, then further, piling up like yarn in the different places where I’ve lived and will live, until I reach the ends of the yarn and it starts to decompose and sink back into the earth. I see other yarn, tangled and braided with my yarn for long and short spans, and tangled and braided with other yarns in different states of decomposition until I finally see it: my life is not my own, and my home is not a place on the planet. I am intertwined so deeply with people, with culture, with systems of life that the only possible home I can call my own is the earth, all of it. The cities and the borders and the walls, they’re all a lie that obscure this simple fact—I am part of a system, and that system depends on every other part of the system, the living and the dead, the self and the other. There is no other, it is all my self. Equally, I reason, there is no self, at least not independently. What, then, to do about this story of self I carry around with me? Is that simply a set of cultural habits, or instincts, or is it something deeper? Is it something I can let go of? I decide to chew over what I’ve discovered so far rather than dig any deeper. I’ve left Roadside behind again. I descend into a canyon of glacial runoff, steep gravelly slopes scoured by fast flowing water. Some of the bushes and shrubs are splashed with crimson leaves, another reminder that winter isn’t far behind. At the creek, a man sits smoking pot out of a glass pipe. I stop to fill up my water, and Roadside joins us a minute later. The man is in his thirties, with hair buzzed short and a wide smile. He tells us he’s making his third attempt to climb Mt. Jefferson. The first time he ended up off-route and had to head back before it got dark, and the second time he got stopped by the weather. He’s trying a different route this time, and he thinks he’s going to make it this time. We wish each other good luck, and then Roadside and I charge up a steep hill. The climb is challenging, but it feels good. Everything feels good. The chill air, the smell of pine trees, the way my body pumps blood and radiates heat. Mount Jefferson feels like a friend. The late afternoon passes easily. We find a campsite in Jefferson Park, close to a swollen creek that rushes noisily through a grassy basin. The area reminds me of alpine meadows in the Sierra, peaceful and relaxing. We can see the peak from here, lit up with a bright pink alpenglow as we make our dinner. I wonder whether our friend will make it up there tomorrow. There are a few other hikers camped nearby. The whole area feels so safe and relaxed, and the rushing creek lulls me into a deep, comfortable sleep.
1 Comment
Shane McLennan
3/28/2020 09:07:57 am
Nick, you’re as good a photographer as a writer. It really helps visualize your path each day on the PCT. Thanks!
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 |