Blistered Kind Of Love (44 page)

As we composed our masterpiece, Feather Dave arrived at a jog. Although he'd just completed forty trail miles in ten hours, he somehow looked fresh. Soon after, Lady Godiva and her 1,200-pound quarter horse, Livingston, appeared. We'd unknowingly passed them earlier in the day. Their trip wasn't over; they planned on returning to the Sierra to complete several hundred unfinished miles.

We'd have dallied by the monument longer, but unfortunately we still had seven anticlimactic miles before reaching Manning Park Lodge. Reluctantly, we replaced the register and hoisted our packs. As a final gesture, I stuffed
my mildew-soaked Nerf football into the monument—a gift that I hoped Casey and Toby would eventually appreciate.

Several hours and many shades of darkness later, we were at a road, and lost. It was a final insult, a reminder that the trail gods weren't always benevolent. The trail had been rerouted, and instead of emerging on Highway 3 less than a mile from the Manning Park Lodge as expected, it emerged at a poorly lit two-lane road. After half an hour of wandering, we finally received directions from a passing motorist and embarked on what we figured would be our last road walk.

But, oh no—there was one final surprise waiting for us at Manning Park Lodge. My parents hadn't arrived; they were at a hotel several hours away. They hadn't expected us to finish until the next morning and we'd had no way of contacting them. Even worse, there were no rooms available at the lodge; it was Saturday night and they were booked solid. One last night in our nylon blue home awaited us at a nearby Canadian campground. We set up camp in the pitch black on hard, gravelly ground.

At seven the next morning a campground ranger roused us. He needed twelve Canadian dollars.

“But we're thru-hikers,” Angela said, spoiled by months of special treatment.

“Trail ends here, ma'am,” he said, holding out his hand for payment. The Canadians didn't seem so keen on the trail angel concept.

But no matter how inglorious our ending, nothing could dim the unforgettable memories. Weeks later, back in Philadelphia, I flipped through William Gray's book, the one we'd found at my parent's cabin in Big Sur. It had been, and still was, an inspiration.

I reread the epilogue and felt a strong kinship with Gray. “My thoughts went over our long journey, and I felt again the joy of walking through the land, observing, contemplating, marveling. I remembered the hour-to-hour
changes in terrain, the day-to-day changes in weather, the week-to-week changes in season—and even more gradual changes in myself. Along the way I had learned to set aside some habits of my city life and to heed the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson: ‘Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.' ”

I, too, had found patience on the trail, and perspective. These acquisitions helped me adapt to the stresses of returning to my city life. But there was one task that I shouldn't, couldn't be patient about any longer.

COYOTES
YIP, YIP YA'ROO
'D
as a full desert moon began its ascent across the quickly darkening sky. The trail meandered among the fuchsia blooms of prickly pear cactus, blood-red Indian paintbrushes, and fragrant sagebrush. Jittery pushup lizards and emerald hummingbirds kept us company as we set up camp on a sandy exposed ridge in the Colorado Desert.

Five hundred and fifty miles later, from glacier-polished, snow-blanketed High Sierra slopes, we gazed down at a turquoise, ice-crusted tarn, breathing air so crisp it made our lungs ache.

In the Trinity Alps, a burly bruin cub peered at us from his treetop perch. Four hundred and sixty miles north, in Oregon, sheets of crystal water plunged over a black volcanic cliff that dripped with moss. In Washington, bright orange mushrooms flourished in a dense muddy rain forest. On the slopes of the North Cascades, larch trees donned autumn hues of gold.

We'd been living, breathing, and walking the PCT for four and a half months. You'd think that would have given us enough time to prepare. But nothing can really prepare you for coming to the end of (in the words of a fellow thru-hiker) your “life's best journey (so far).” When we arrived, our hearts burst with happiness, but also broke.

Monument 78 sits in a small clearing in the forest between Washington and British Columbia, about seventy-eight miles east of Monument 1, which is the westernmost point of the U.S.–Canada border. It had taken us approximately 6,300,000 steps, 528 doses of ibuprofen, 180 Snickers bars, thirty-six popped blisters, seven pairs of shoes, four pairs of shorts, two stoves, and one titanium pot to get there. But really what it took was love (albeit a somewhat blistered kind) and determination.

At the end of it all Toby, also known as Catch-23, wrote, “We walked from an arbitrary line in the sand to an arbitrary cut in the trees. It is not a particularly meaningful accomplishment when you boil it down. It is somewhat of a ridiculous thing to do. But it was meaningful to us, for some reason, and that is why we did it.”

Like many before us, we felt joy and exhilaration but also sadness upon finishing. We had renewed faith in the generosity of strangers and in humanity at large, but we also dreaded going back to crowded urban streets. We felt like we'd discovered a simpler view of life and yet longed for creature comforts. We couldn't wait to get home; we were sad to go home.

We'd had adrenaline rushes, we'd conquered things—our fears, our differences, and a mountain or two in between—but mostly we'd strived, long and hard. We'd strived to become better hikers, better lovers, and most importantly better people. And even if we only succeeded in these things just a little bit, it was worth every ache and pain. As Walt Whitman once wrote, “Now I see the secret of making the best persons, it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the Earth.”

If you've made it this far in this book, you already know that our trail life wasn't all sunsets, starry nights, and self-development. Sweat, stench, gritty skin, and exhaustion killed many otherwise profound moments. Simply put, the day-to-day trekking wasn't always bliss, but the romance of our thru-hike turned out to be more concrete than any Hallmark sentiment. The romance was in what we accomplished together. Climbing Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the contiguous U.S.; helping one another through thirty-mile days; holding hands across ice, snow, as well as treacherous fords, and knowing limb—if not life—depended on our grip; even carrying a little extra weight when the other person was hurting. These and other situations created a bond and partnership that candlelight dinners and strolls on the beach couldn't match. We're not against such luxuries, of course; in fact, we couldn't wait to enjoy them again. But as Ginny Owen (who had met her husband, Jim, while thru-hiking the AT) once told us, “On the trail, you don't have masks and you don't have distractions and you don't have games. You're just being yourself.
That leads to a level of intimacy that is way beyond what you might develop during the same time period at home. You spend six months with somebody on the trail and you'll know that person better than you'll know most people in twenty years.” And if you still like each other when you hit the border—well, you're in pretty good shape.

In Judaism, after reading and studying the Torah, members of a congregation often recite,
“Chazak, chazak, venitchazek,”
which can be translated as, “May we be strengthened from this experience and move from strength to strength.” Because the Torah has been read publicly, the listeners are said to gain strength not just from the words but also from the community that reads the words together. So it was with our long walk. Each of us gained much from walking from Mexico to Canada, but by doing it together we gained even more—most importantly, we gained each other.

They were clouds with something to prove—gray, brooding, and headed our way. Although our backs were to the storm front, we could see it reflected in the way the maple leaves were flopping upside down, exposing their silver underbellies in the wind. Still holding hands, we laughed and looked into the heavens as fat drops began to fall—first scattered like petals in the wind and then steady and straight. It was perfect—the perfect end to one adventure and beginning to another.

We've got a picture from that day permanently etched in our hearts and minds. In it, we are clasping hands with our two sets of parents in a circle of unity. Thunder punctuates the moment with loud joyful claps. Rain courses down Angela's smiling face, mixing with tears of joy. As husband and wife we run down the aisle, throwing birdseed out of our titanium PCT pot and laughing. All of our loved ones are there ready to join us in a new future—together. Later, the clouds part to reveal a warm, summer sunset.

Thirty million Americans and three million Canadians live within a hundred miles of the PCT, yet only about three hundred people set out to hike from Mexico to Canada each year. In 2000 (according to Meadow Ed's records), approximately 103 people reached their goal—105 if you include us. Afterward, we all went home to different cities, states, and even countries. But even now we remain connected by our shared experience. When the PCT was officially completed in 1993, then Secretary of the Interior Bruce Babbitt said, “It seems to me that what this day and this occasion is all about is the way trails connect not just land and ecosystems, but people.”

Over the course of our summer on the PCT, we grew extremely attached to the trail angels and to many thru-hiking compatriots. We've lost touch with some, but we think of them all often and still greatly admire their strength and accomplishments.

Ken and Marcia Powers began their PCT thru-hike on May 1 and finished on September 21, after 144 days. “The scenery is what kept us going,” Ken once said. Since returning home from the PCT the couple, in their fifties, has completed the 3,100-mile Continental Divide Trail (CDT). They plan to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail during the summer of 2003.

Amigo hiked the length of the California PCT during the summer of 2000. In 2001 he returned to hike the PCT through Oregon, and in 2002 he finished his thru-hike by completing the Washington portion of the trail. He now teaches outdoor education in Northern California and during the summer months he and his parents run a trail angel operation on the Hat (Hot) Creek Rim, caching water for thirsty hikers.