Blistered Kind Of Love (43 page)

“Meadow Ed!”

“Duffy-me-boy.”

“Whoa. . . . What are you doing out here?” I was as surprised to see Ed out there as I would have been to see Rush Limbaugh.

“I'm hiking south, checking up on y'all.” Ed was dedicated, that was for certain. “How's the umbilical cord?” he asked with a wink.

“Strong as ever. She's right behind me, can't seem to lose her. Trail's been tough, though. Especially the last few weeks, with all the damn rain. Doubt my shoes will ever dry out.”

“ ‘Tisn't easy for anyone, me-boy, but you'll make it. Monument 78 is just a day or so away.” It seemed like Ed might actually be proud of us. I decided that I shouldn't disappoint him by mentioning that we'd skipped a big chunk of Section K. But there was one item that
did
need to be addressed.

“Ed, I gotta' tell you—remember you said the trail would make us cry? Well, I haven't, not yet. I've been close, but. . . .”

“Yeah, well, I made up for you. I've cried. Lots.” Angela placed her big fuzzy mitten on my shoulder. “Ed, I can't believe you're here! How are you?”

“Good. I'm just checking up on y'all. Angela, you're looking strong. Those tears toughened ya up, eh?”

“Yep,” Angela smiled. It had taken over two thousand miles, but she finally had gained Ed's respect.

“How's it look from here to Manning Park?” I asked.

“Trail's in pretty good shape. Weather's been good, real good. . . . Section L is usually mild anyway . . . Mount Baker catches the storms. You'll stay plenty high, with nice views. Anyone behind you guys?” Ed was an information-seeking machine.

“Ken and Marcia, Weather Carrot, Feather Dave. . . . They're probably a few days back. And we saw Daris going south. Have you heard anything about Casey and Toby or Chris and Stacey?”

“You mean Crazy Legs and Catch-23? They're still on. Chris and Stacey got off at Cascade Locks. Sounded like they'd gotten tired of it all.”

“Can't blame them. Like you said, Ed, this trail can break you down,” I replied.

“Sure can.” Meadow Ed scratched his beard thoughtfully.

I was excited we had happened upon Ed. As much as I'd poked fun at him and used his doubt as a motivational force, I was fond of the guy. It was fitting to see him now, just a couple days from the Canadian border. Everything was coming full circle. The end of our adventure was near.

As we parted ways, a touch of melancholy fell over me. I wondered if I'd ever see Ed again. He wasn't the type of guy we were likely to bump into on the streets of Philadelphia. I didn't even know if he had a permanent home or a telephone number. He was a relic of the Pacific Crest Trail, a treasure of sorts—a portly treasure, badly in need of a good tooth cleaning. My mind swept back over all of the generous characters we'd met along the trail: Bob in San Diego, Donna Saufley, Butch Wiggs, and so many others that bestowed
trail magic upon us. I'd never experienced such a culture of good will and trust before, and doubt I ever will again. “Someday,” I thought, “I'll return to the PCT as a trail angel, and maybe, a few gifted six-packs at a time, I can help the magic live on.”

Our reunion with Ed wouldn't have been possible if we hadn't skipped most of Section K. We hadn't wanted to, but given our time frame it seemed like our only option. According to what we'd read, Section K was fantastically scenic but also extremely rigorous. “With a combination of rugged terrain, many climbs, isolation, and potentially stormy weather,” writes Karen Berger in
The Pacific Crest Trail: A Hiker's Companion
, “[Section K] is often considered one of the most difficult on the entire PCT. It's also one of the most varied and beautiful. The landscape ranges from glacier-scoured bowls to old-growth forests; elevations range from 1,550 to 7,126 and the weather can challenge hikers with four seasons' worth of conditions, sometimes in a single day.”

Given our impending Canadian deadline, we decided that we couldn't risk getting stuck in the middle of Section K, post-holing our way through snowdrifts. My parents were scheduled to meet us either September 16 or 17 in Manning Park, and after that we'd have to find our way to San Diego for a September 19 flight to Philly. I was due to be in class on September 20, and Angela needed to be back at work a couple days later. As it was, we'd already lost the opportunity to be pure “thru-hikers,” at least by any reasonably strict definition. Hiking or not hiking Section K wouldn't change that fact. Thus, it seemed reasonable to give ourselves a chance to end our hike at Monument 78 rather than risk having it end in the Glacier Peak Wilderness—chased backward by snow.

Our detour took us from Skykomish to Lake Chelan via bus and then across the lake to Stehekin via ferry. In the process, we completed our summer tour of the three deepest lakes in the United States. Lake Chelan, a glacier-carved gorge, is number three on the list, after Crater Lake and Lake Tahoe. At the northern tip of the 1,149-foot-deep lake sits the small settlement of Stehekin, a
town accessible only by watercraft or footpath. We reunited with the PCT at the Agnes Creek trailhead (mile 2,569) after a bumpy ride up a dirt road on a Park Service bus.

The PCT took us along Bridge Creek, across Highway 20 at Rainy Pass, and up to Cutthroat Pass. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to us, several inches of snow were being dumped in the Glacier Peak Wilderness of Section K. We hiked under dry but overcast skies on a high crest, traversing mountainous graywackle (“muddy sandstone”) scree and rounding glacier-carved bowls. Periodically we'd drop through a patch of bright forest tapestry—larch, maple, and spruce leaves in seasonal colors. The night before seeing Meadow Ed we'd camped at Brush Creek and finished off our very last Mountain House dinner. It was the summer-long favorite—chili mac—nutritious, delicious, and still gassy as hell.

The next day, after a strenuous climb to a shoulder of Tatie Peak and a descent to Hart's Pass, we had our unexpected reunion with Ed. And that night, camped at a heavily wooded saddle near Holman Pass, nostalgia struck fiercely.

I lay awake, listening to an unknown animal scratch its claws on a tree outside the tent. I didn't dare wake Angela—those claws sounded suspiciously cougar-esque. The clawing soon ceased, but still, I couldn't sleep. We were twenty-two miles from the Canadian border at Monument 78 and twenty-nine miles from a comfortable bed at the Manning Park Lodge. In many ways, I was anxious to be finished; I was sick of the dampness and ready to immerse myself in the luxury of home-cooked meals, trips to the movie theater, and Sunday afternoons watching football. But at the same time, the reality that something special was ending was setting in.

I'd walked for an entire summer, testing my feet, legs, and mind along a challenging roller coaster. I'd hiked through the devil's heat, despite Indra's rain, and with Giardia's affliction. I'd seen sparkling desert in early dawn and brilliant alpine lakes as pure as the snowmelt from which they formed, and gazed from Whitney's peak at miles of free wilderness, an unparalleled expanse of granite, ice, and green. I'd tossed pinecones the size of melons, stepped over beetles the size of small rodents, dodged raspy rattlers and run from
ursine mothers. I'd hiked nearly a marathon and a half—in one day. Nearly one hundred marathons—in one summer. And I'd done it all with the woman I loved. We did it together. We'd share this forever; nothing could take away this experience. We'd fought, we'd bickered, she'd cried, and blisters were formed and incised and formed again. But it was more than worth it—it was the adventure of a lifetime, with the love of a lifetime.

The weather was clear and the skies were blue as we reached Lakeview Ridge. We turned slowly in a circle, admiring the views. To the north, the Cascades continued far into Canada—the crest, unlike the trail, didn't end at the Canadian border. Craggly Three Fools Peak rose from the south and more mountains loomed to the west. Reds, golds, and oranges painted the valley to our east.

Our last six miles were a blur. We snaked down a series of switchbacks, and then I saw it: Monument 78, a four-foot replica of the Washington Monument. I broke into a run and a whoop, twirling my trekking poles like a drum major's baton.

“Canada! Canada!” I yelled.

“Canada! Canada! Canada!” cheered Angela, close behind. I reached the monument, dumped my pack, and met her for a big bear hug. We jumped up and down together, continuing our chant.

The Canadian border couldn't have presented a more stark contrast to the trail's southern terminus. There was no fence, no barbed wire, and no desert chaparral. Instead, there was just a fifteen-foot-wide swath cut through rolling evergreen forest. Other than the thin strip of deforestation and a sign welcoming us to British Columbia, there was no evidence that we'd reached an international border. No guards, no roaring crowds, no beers to crack open, not even a bench to sit on—just us and Monument 78. But for the last four and a half months, during the toughest and most memorable moments, “us” had always turned out to be enough.

We arrived at the monument around four in the afternoon and didn't leave until after five. During our hour at the border, we finished up our last roll of film and then pulled off the top of the monument, discovering a trail register in its belly. We read through it and composed our final entry.

The JourneyFilm Crew—well, at least part of the crew—had finished. “August 21: JourneyFilm Crew rolling through. Mexico to Canada 2000. It was worth it,” wrote J. B. Kimmo added, “My toes frickin hurt and my shoes are full of frickin holes.” There weren't many other familiar names in the register; our recent trail jumping had left many of our friends behind. As I scanned the register, an August 19 entry caught my eye: “The PCT reminds me that it is important to stop just being a human being, and become a human doing.”

Our entry was a hastily composed poem (I use this term generously) based on a song from the
South Park
cartoon: