The Journey Part 11

THE HARSH REALITY OF THRU HIKING, AND A BONUS FOR ME

The first two hikers we met, a few day ago, more like eight, were two friends from Salem, a wild-hair decision for them both, hey, why not hike the PCT. Both in their mid-thirties, both overweight (by their own admission), both with a plan, both with the best equipment they could buy.  We befriended them, had some great conversations with them, took them on errand runs, and were there to wave goodbye when they took their first steps on The Trail.

Fifteen miles into the journey, one of them slipped on a downslope, fell on his posterior, felt pain in his stomach, and a day later limped off the Trail with a hernia, surgery to be scheduled soon.

Another guy, I gave him the trail name Thoreau (thru hikers are given trail names which supposedly match their personalities, or in some way represent their persona), a nice guy, Keith, maybe mid-forties, going it alone, had some good conversations with him, he was recovering from a divorce, figured this was just what he needed to get his life on track . . . off the Trail at mile marker 55, called his sister, asked her to pick him up, the snow too deep and too unsafe for him to continue.

I mention those two instances to point out that, rough estimate, about twenty percent of the people who begin this challenge actually finish.

It is a bitch, to put it mildly.

Imagine planning something, literally, for a year; imagine leaving your job, leaving your loved ones, laser-focused on one goal, only to have that goal snatched away, disintegrated, in a matter of a day or two.

The point, though, that I was getting to, and it surprises me a bit, is that I was deeply saddened that those two “friends” were unable to finish something they wanted so badly, and that deep sadness points to the fact that connections are made in this community, friendships are made, and it feels good to be a part of that.

A group of three guys, Carlos, David, and Dan, introduced themselves to Bev and I three days ago.  We spent some time with them, gave them rides, ate a meal with them, and said goodbye to them this morning as they headed out of camp and into the desert . . . and I was actually, right hand to God, choked up when they left, felt myself close to tears, because I want, so badly, for them to make it, to achieve such a monumental undertaking, like cheering on my own sons, that kind of connection, and I thought to myself “what the hell is going on, these are complete strangers?”

What was going on . . . what is going on . . . is that deep human connection I crave.

I am so damned proud to be here, in this place, with these people. I can no longer take on challenges like this one, but I can give them the support they deserve, and that feels damned good.

A CASE OF THE FEEL-GOODS

Miserable day today. The rain started, in earnest, about four, and it is coming down with a vengeance right now, seven p.m. The oak trees are no filter, no blockage, the rain comes in sideways, thanks to the ever-present desert wind, and when the sun goes down in the desert, I swear to the gods of weather, the temperature drops twenty degrees in the time it takes to gasp and grab a coat.

I mention this because Bev and I had just put the window coverings on the bus, had just settled in for the night with the space-heater doing battle against the chill, had just sighed in appreciation for the power hookup, when my phone rang.

Ashleigh, a hiker I had just met two days ago, a follower on YouTube, had just arrived at the campground, but because the campground is as dark as Ted Bundy’s dreams, she had no idea where the tent area was.  She was miserable, she had fallen on the trail and was muddy, and in a shrunken voice asked me if I would come find her and lead her to a dry place.

It took ten minutes to find her, me soaked by that time, and I led her to the restrooms, where she could get a hot shower.  She said screw the tent, she wasn’t going to pitch a tent in a downpour, so she made the decision to sleep in the restroom.  Bev took our propane heater down to her, she couldn’t have been more appreciative, and we can now settle in for the night, knowing our new best friend is tucked away for the night in a dry space.

The whole point: it feels so damned good to help people. I know you all know that, and I know it as well, but I just needed to “say it out loud to the universe.” It feels good to help people.

THE DESERT SAND AND WIND

I had no clue.

I remember reading about the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s, the giant dust storms which blew through portions of the Great Plains, dust seeping through every crack and crevice of a home, children waking up to a new coating of dust on their bodies each morning, dust in their food . . . but I had no frame of reference until we arrived in the high desert of Campo, California.

The sand is insidious; the wind is persistently evil; the end result is sand in the bus, sand on our clothes, sand in our shoes, sand in our hair, constantly. There is no defeating it, it is a force of nature, it just is.

I find this landscape beautiful but . . . it has its quirks to be sure.

And let’s take a moment to chat about the wind.

It never stops! That may seem like an exaggeration to those of you living in Virginia or Albany or Portland, places where calm days are fairly normal, but for the brave souls who call this area home, it is no exaggeration whatsoever.

It is much the same way that the northern winds fly down out of Canada, unimpeded, through the Great Plains, and finally petering out in the Gulf or upon crossing the Rio Grande.  Those living in North Dakota, Kansas, Oklahoma, they understand, they get it, they are completely clued into what I am saying.

It never stops!  And I hate to say this, but that’s a bit disconcerting.  It is relentless. It can play with your mind. It can have you believing that it is actually a being, a purposeful being, and its purpose is to drive you completely crazy.

Perhaps I am exaggerating a tiny bit, but not by much.

Push comes to shove, I love the desert.  The wind will take some getting used to, but it is not so bad that I don’t love this high desert.