September 2, 2016
0 Miles I’m up early, for civilized life. For hiking life, I’ve had a luxurious sleep-in. It’s already light out, and—surprise, surprise—I’m starving. I tap on Roadside’s door. “Roadside, you awake?” “Yeah.” His gruff baritone cuts through the door as if it isn’t there. “I’m gonna get some breakfast, you want to come?” “Yeah, give me a minute.” I stand at the railing and gaze across the roofline of southern Ashland. The town drops away to the east, into a wide valley contained by rolling mountains. Somewhere on the other side of those mountains is the trail, and I’m already curious to see what it looks like over there. A valley this wide has been a fairly common sight on trail, but the houses offer a different perspective of distance. They shrink into pixels before they get even halfway across the valley, and then it’s just untrammeled land all across the other side. All of our infrastructure and architecture is just a small patch of land in the wider picture, and yet we keep ourselves surrounded by it so completely that we often fail to see the wider wilderness we are a part of. It feels healthy to see this patch of land as an exception rather than the rule. The enormity of the landscape gives perspective to the sky, too, and reminds me that I’m on a planet in a much bigger universe. It’s hard to stress about anything when my little human existence is scaled like this. Roadside joins me in the dewy air and we walk to the Morning Glory cafe, right next to the motel. When I asked friends online for restaurant recommendations in Ashland, this one came up several times (many of my friends, who are also music teachers, got their master’s degrees from American Band College, which is hosted here at Oregon State University). They don’t open until 7am, so we have to wait. We watch a deer on the lawn of the university. There’s nowhere to be, no program to follow, no feeling of wasted time. We’re just here, taking in a moment. When they open the door, there’s a line of about 20 people waiting. We take a booth and order coffee, which comes in mismatched mugs. There are brightly colored murals on the walls and trim painted in purple, blue, and green pastels. Breakfast is even better than my friends led me to expect. The pancakes are delivered with house-made marionberry jam and the omelettes have unusual ingredients like gorgonzola cheese and artichokes. I don’t remember when I’ve had a better meal. We join up again for lunch at the Standing Stone brewery—Roadside is as much a fan of good beer as I am. There are a couple errands after lunch—outdoor supply stores, a head shop—and then we go to the movie theater and watch “Hell or High Water.” It’s the first movie I’ve seen in a month, and only the second since I started the trail. After the movie, we discover that there’s a bus that will take us back to the motel for a dollar, which saves us the 2-mile walk back. On the ride back I have two thoughts in close succession: The first is how strange it felt to be entertained for two hours. For months I have spent almost all of my time alone with my thoughts, and to suddenly be distracted from them feels unnatural. What a contrast that is from the life of constant distraction and entertainment I was living before the trail. The second thought is a realization about Roadside. We’ve spent most of the last two days together, talking and running errands together, and yet I still feel like I know less about him than I would after a ten-minute conversation with most people. He’s not cagey or suspicious, he just doesn’t offer information about himself in the same way that most people do. I wonder why. Whatever the reason, I enjoy his company and hope that we’ll be able to hike together, even if only for a few days. Back at the motel, I eat a whole package of chocolate donuts I bought at the store for dinner and stay up until actual midnight watching TV. It’s an indulgence that would make me feel like garbage at home, but it actually feels like I’m doing the right thing for body and mind right now. I desperately need calories, and my mind needs a break from itself before I conquer Oregon and Washington.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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