Dreams of home and San Francisco, distorted and incomplete.
My eyes adjust to a thin light slanting through the east side of my tent wall as birds converse cheerily from unseen branches. I lean outside to see what all the fuss is about: Where the moon once lingered is a great unfurling of trees that expands down the hillside and up the next all the way to the horizon. Looking into the valley, I see that the moon has not vanished, but melted, its remains having slid down the hillside and collected in a pool of dimly glowing mist, which hovers like light from a dying flashlight just above the valley floor.
Map check: 13 miles to the Coral Meadows, my camping destination decided on at a glance.
Oatmeal over the pocket stove. Tent left drying in the sun. Cleanup and KP. Thirty minutes later my tent is dry and packed and the campsite is clear.
I descend my hilltop sanctuary and return to the trail. It hooks at the end of the lake around the hill on which I’d slept then intersects with The Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,600 mile trail from San Diego to Canada – it hadn’t occurred to me the day before that the PCT had been the same red dotted line on the map I’d been planning to follow.
Months earlier I'd fleetingly considered hiking the PCT. I'd researched it and charted distances and collected 'how-to' websites. A wedding in May and another in August, the safe starting window to avoid the snows, had derailed that idea. The irony of unknowingly stumbling onto the trail now doesn't escape me.
The PCT runs south and flat and weaves with the base of the hillside. Soon the monotony of the constant pace and views turns my mind inward, and the deeper subjects come to light. I try to focus on the muffled thud of my boot soles against the dirt path to avoid them until a red dot weaving through the trees disturbs my meditation. As it nears, I see that it’s a man, a gaunt young man with earphones and a thin, cascading red beard that falls to his waste and round glasses and a bright red bandana. He stops when we meet and removes the earphones.
"You backpacking?" I ask.
"Yeah, I guess," he says, panting.
"How many nights you been out?"
"Uhhh, around two-hundred."
These words have an unexpected weight to them. They leave me dizzy and disoriented. Who would stay out here two hundred nights? and why? It takes a few seconds for me to settle on the inevitable conclusion:
“You’re hiking the PCT!”
“Yeah,” he says, evenly.
I see shadows of myself in this man now, shadows of what might have been. I assess his pack and gear and think about the trail he's covered and the trail that remains. I wonder what he's hoping to find out here or if he even knows.
My mind gets wound up sometimes. It takes a thought and then explodes outward in in all sorts of directions, like the splash of a rock in a glassy lake and its subsequent ripples. I enjoy the ripples. But sometimes they take me away from the initial thought – they'll just keep going if I let them.
I realize this is happening again when I notice the man looking at me with patient disinterest. I can tell he doesn't feel like talking, but he's too polite to tell me so; so we just stand there silently for a few seconds, me not wanting to bother him and he not wanting to talk, until he turns to look behind him and my eyes follow: two young men, college aged, are weaving through the trees toward us. The young man returns to me, nods, replaces the earphones and continues. I watch him shrink among the trees until he's reduced again to a red dot then disappears completely.
The trail is running beside a creek now. I spot a flat rock beside it part way in the water, and trudge through the tall grass to sit atop it and remove my shoes and socks to let the water massage my feet. The water's sounds have a calming effect. I'm in the mood for some calm. So I settle there, pulling my pre-packed baggy of trail mix from my backpack’s side pocket to rest and eat.
Once finished and my water bottle is filled, I sit quietly and let the stillness and sounds take new influence. A purple flower keels over as a cricket scales its stem. Ants crawl in a line atop a decaying log beside me. A flurry of flying specs I can’t name circle around a hole within the log. Spider webs weave among the log's interior, their architects hoping to take advantage of the abundance of food. It's remarkable how much life a fallen tree can produce. Not a single piece of it seems to be wasted, but is redistributed throughout nature.
A few miles later the stream curves into the thicket and disappears. The trail pushes onward then begins to climb against a hillside and loops around before dropping down again beside a dried creek bed of a different origin than the one before. A large cluster of fallen trees blocks the way, so I crawl up the hillside and circle around. Descending on the opposite side, I find no trail where I imagine the trail should be. So I retrace my steps to where the trail was lost then carefully note its angle as it disappears beneath the trees before returning to the opposite side with the same result.
It’s here, I reason. You know it’s here.
There's a green meadow up ahead through the trees. Its bright green grasses look welcoming at first, but I can tell that it's lowland, which means it's likely wet and muddy with runoff. I walk toward it anyway hoping the trail boarders its circumference. As soon my boots suck into the first hidden mud, a swarm of mosquitoes rise and attack as if waiting in ambush. A mad, swatting scramble ensues, and when the danger has passed and I check for damages I find my legs freckled in red.
Beyond the fallen cluster and lying perpendicular to the trail over the dried creek bed I find three large trees I hadn't noticed before. I climbatop one of them and walk its length, then drop down at its roots to find myself suddenly standing again on the compact dirt of the missing trail. Before leaving, I return to the spot of departure and carve and arrow into one tree among the cluster.
Map Check: 10 miles hiked. Four miles to my destination. Six and a half hours to sun down.
My pace has slowed. My legs are tired and heavy, my back and shoulders sore. The tree detour was nearly fifteen minutes of back and forth along the hillside. The cotton of my damp t-shirt is rubbing against the raw skin beneath my shoulder straps – each step feels like a slight burn.
I adjust and readjust the pack at the waste, cinching my hip straps tighter to take some pressure from my shoulders. A few miles later my hips begin to rub and I reverse the tightening. Everything rubs. Everything hurts. My mind is dulled with fatigue.
Miles later the trail reconnects with the running creek from before and crosses over. There is no bridge or rocks on which to cross dryly, but I see that a tree has fallen across the creek a few dozen yards up the embankment, and so I decide to cross there.
Minutes later I hear voices behind me – two tan, Asian hikers with hiking poles and bright, expensive-looking gear.
“Hey,” says the elder of the two with short hair that’s greying on the sides.
“Hey,” I say back.
"You hiking the PCT?" he asks.
"No. Just backpacking for a few nights."
"By yourself?" the other asks.
"Yeah."
"No way!" adds the elder. "That's awesome, man!"
"We're section hiking the PCT," says the younger. "Averaging about twenty-two miles a day. Trucking!" They high-five and smile with shared accomplishment.
We talk about their hiking poles and fallen trees and the unkept trails, about how last year’s winter in Lassen Volcanic had been one of the worst in years. They ask where I'm going and where I've been, and when I tell them I think I’m going to camp at Coral Meadows and am not entirely certain where I’ve been, they exchange a searching glance, the same glance given by the ranger the day before, the second such glance I’ve seen in as many days.
“Mind if I take a look at your map?” asks the younger.
There was something I noticed just now; a slight glitch in the faces of these hikers. It reminded me of that high-pitched sound a computer make when you try to click something and an error occurs. You've given the computer a command – click that button. But the processor can't compute. The same thing happened with yesterday with the ranger.
To compensate for this, people who don't understand seem apt to either push me along as quickly as possible or try to help me in some way. Neither response had been the right one – for instance, I needed help with the ranger and he pushed me along, and I don't want help from these hikers right now, yet they seem to be insisting on it. This is something I need to work on.
The hikers take hold of my map and explain how I’ve passed Coral Meadows, that it should be just about where I crossed the creek ten minutes behind. When they're satisfied that I've agreed with their plan for me, we wave our goodbyes. The whole interaction felt somewhat demeaning.
A few seconds after we depart, I hear someone call my name through the trees and turn around to find the younger hiker jogging toward me.
“Hey man,” he says, panting. “We gave you the wrong directions. There’s a sign up there that says Coral Meadows is still two miles up. Sorry. Must have read the map wrong.” He apologizes profusely, and for some reason this is satisfying to me.
We link up with his hiking partner and walk together until we reach the sign: Coral Meadows, two miles, it clearly reads. I encourage them to continue without me; that I’d only be slowing them up. They nod and wish me luck and continue up the trail, their hiking poles alternating with each step as they march up the hillside then disappear among the switch backs.
Two miles turns to three, three to four. I pass patches of grass that might be meadows and others that could be meadows but none that are meadows. I double back, then grow self-conscious and double back again; up and down and up, my legs and shoulders burning.
Reclining against a tree, I drop my pack and slide to the ground.
Map Check: Fifteen miles hiked. Coral Meadows looks to be where I was originally directed: beside the creek I'd passed atop the fallen tree. But the sign clearly indicated that it was further along the trail. Either it or the map must be incorrect. And since I've already passed a number of markers that are beyond Coral Meadows on the map, the only conclusion is that the sign had been incorrect.
Tired and exhausted, I trudge back the way I came. My eyes fixate on the two-foot wide dirt path before me, and for some reason I find myself thinking about my Subaru, about the air conditioning and music and the hotels and hot showers and full meals it will take me to. Slowly, gradually, I can feel my relationship to it changing.
Road Trip Commandment #3: Backpack into each National Park for two nights.
Road Trip Commandment #6: Nothing is set in stone – if there's a valid reason to change a rule, then change it, ya dingo!
It's not long before these thoughts have me almost fully committed to breaking Commandment #3. I rationalize this decision by using Commandment #6, telling myself that the air conditioning and music and a bed and full meal are a valid enough reasons for the rule change.
As I continue further into this self-indulgent kind of thinking, I think I hear another, more cheerful "hello" rally through the trees.
"Hello!" The heavily-accented voice calls again.
My head rises to discover two large, middle-aged hikers trudging enthusiastically down a connecting trail I hadn't noticed before, each equipped with a day pack and hiking stick.
“Hello!” says the smiling man again as he nears. He’s wearing a bright t-shirt, beneath which his round belly protrudes from just below his pack's chest strap, a khaki-colored camping hat and shorts, sunglasses, and long white socks that stretch down from two bulging calves to a pair of Merrell hiking shoes.
“Hello,” I say.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Tired.”
“I can see! Are you a PCT hiker?”
“No, just backpacking for a few nights.”
“Oh,” he says with a sudden drop in enthusiasm. “We were hoping to see a PCT hiker.”
The woman looks at him reproachfully then smiles at me.
“We’re from the Netherlands!” says the man, ignoring her. “We want to hike the PCT, but our visas expire after a month so we never have time. Who has the time!? We want to try to section hike it. We come to America for a month every year to see the National Parks. It’s so wonderful out here! So much land, yea?!”
My mind flips through the endless parks I’d researched before my trip, through the Ken Burns National Parks documentary I’d watched and The West documentary and other travel books and historical books I’d read about the vast wilderness that is or was America. I want to offer more to the conversation, but all I can manage is a meager, “Yeah, we’re lucky.”
“Yes," he says, nodding solemnly. "Very lucky.”
“Are you by yourself?” asks the woman. She’s been staring at me with maternal concern ever since we stopped.
“Yeah.”
“Wow!” says the man, his face expanding with renewed interest. “Look at this man, out here all by himself! Aren’t you scared?”
The question conjures up worries from the previous two days, which flash across my memory like a disjointed flip book.
“Sometimes,” I say. “But there’s nothing out here to get you.” Except for the worries, of course – they'll eat you alive.
“Yes! Very true,” says the man.
We exchange our goodbyes, and as the woman walks past, she looks at me with serious, almost ominous eyes, and says, “Be careful out there."
Coral Meadows just where the map said it would be. It's a serene spot, flat and empty and cozy among the pines beside the creek, with lots of fallen trees and plenty of spots to pitch a tent. A nearby sign indicates it’s only another 2.5 miles to the trailhead parking lot.
I'm still thinking about my car when I recline against a log beside the creek and drop my pack against the forest floor. The lost weight has a settling effect. I remove my boots for a moment and rest my bare feet rest in the coolness of the creek then fall back against the dirt bank. The trees sway subtly above. Leaves chatter against each other. All of nature seems to move in a deliberate yet unhurried pace.
I turn my head against the ground and look at all the fallen trees and the tall pines, their long shadows stretching across the forest floor that's lightly blanketed with pine needles – the lazy twilight has begun.
Two nights, I whisper. You told yourself two nights.
I drag myself up from the embankment to remove my tent and spread it out on a flat patch of dirt near the creek. After some chicken soup over the pocket stove, I retire just before sundown.
Laying atop my sleeping bag, I reach into my pack and, after some digging, pull out a used copy of Harry Potter: The Sorcerer’s Stone, then trace my fingertips across the cover's raised golden lettering.
I'd purchased the book only the week before. It had been during our last trip together. She’d taken a day off work to surf with me in a small town an hour north of San Francisco. After a few solitary waves, we'd spotted a discrete honor-system bookstore on the way back from the beach just across from our car. The store was empty save one barefooted couple. Harry Potter had been on the display case out front.
“You have to read it,” she’d said, handing the book to me with an endearing smile that only she could give. “It’s so good.”
On a box beside the entrance was a small sheet of paper with four recommended donations, ranging from "Okay: $5" to "Mind-Blowing: $20". I dropped in a $20 as we left.
Another breeze makes its way between the trees. The shadows expand and contract beneath my hanging camp light. Soon, the book's words become distorted, and my mind looks behind me, back to that last morning in her room and that letter and the brief hesitation.
I wonder if she’s sitting in her bed thinking about me, as I am of her. I wonder what my friends are doing tonight in the city. I wonder if all that time we shared together has really been swallowed up in the grey mist; if everything in the past has been swallowed up.
The trees are snapping and groaning, conspiring again in the darkness. I close the book and switch off the light, and as I drift off to sleep I say a silent prayer that I won't be crushed in the night.