In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.
- John Muir
The Pacific Crest Trail
In 1968, Congress passed the National Trails System Act, creating the first two National Scenic Trails, the Pacific Crest Trail and the Appalachian Trail.
Catherine Montgomery, Fred W. Cleator, and Clinton C. Clarke were the first to conceive of the Pacific Crest Trail, or “PCT.” In 1932, Clarke hosted the Pacific Crest Trail System Conference, where hiking enthusiasts from across the country met to plan a single continuous trail from Mexico to Canada. Along with his protégé, Warren Rogers, Clarke led the effort to scout out and plan the route.
Completed in 1993, the PCT is the third-longest trail system in the United States at 2,650 miles long. It stretches from Campo, California to Manning Park in British Columbia, climbing from the Mojave Desert to the top of Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the continental US, while passing through dozens of national and state parks, forests, and wilderness areas.
Along with the Appalachian and Continental Divide Trail, it is one of the three legs of the Triple Crown of hiking.
Thru-hikers are those individuals who attempt to finish the trail from start to finish. Each year, around 7,000 hikers set out from the southern terminus. About 1,000 will succeed.
Preparations :
Portland, OR
Elizabeth Dawson, a woman in need of a new hiking partner
“What. The. Fuck?” Rachel, my best friend and roommate, exclaims as she drops her suitcase and looks around our apartment. She and her boyfriend, Charles, had left Thursday night for a Valentine’s Day weekend getaway. I doubt the mess in front of her is what she was expecting upon returning from her trip.
I’m in the middle of preparing a tray of beef to go into the dehydrator sitting on the kitchen counter, filling the air with the smell of teriyaki. Wiping my puffy, tear-streaked cheeks with the back of my sleeve, I give her a weak wave. “Hey, Rach. How was the beach?”
Rachel dashes to my side, wrapping me in a tight hug. “Lizzy? Are you okay?”
I sniff, trying to find some measure of calm. It’s been two days since . . . since . . .
“Bryce” is as far as I get. A sob halts me as tears roll down my cheeks. They’re one of two things which have been flowing this weekend. The other is the liquor that was supposed to help stop them. After a bottle—or two—of merlot, I switched to daiquiris. They paired better with the four pints of ice cream.
“I’m going to need a little more to go on.” Rachel looks around for an empty chair to sit in, but they’re all occupied by half-packed boxes. “Think you can make it to the couch?”
I nod and sniffle as I stand up. Rachel wraps a steadying arm around me as we wind through the maze of clothes and gear in the living room, as if my backpack exploded with my heart. We plop down on the couch, and she gathers me in her arms while I gather my strength. I know she would sit with me like this all night if I need her to, but the timer for the latest batch of jerky will be going off in a few minutes, which means I better get on with it. I suck in a deep, calming breath, letting it out as I begin.
“After you left for the beach, Bryce was supposed to come over to help plan our trip. Instead, he texted me to say he had forgotten about a paper due the next day and couldn’t make it. So I decided to go over to his place while he was at school to surprise him when he got home. When I got there . . . Bryce wasn’t alone . . . or clothed.”
Rachel winces. A breathy “No” escapes her lips as she realizes what I had walked in on. She wraps me in the hug I’ve been needing all weekend. The sort of hug that makes you feel like somehow everything’s going to be all right. Even if it’s going to suck for a bit. “What did you do?”
I tore the bitch off his lap and kicked Bryce in the junk.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the kitchen and sprayed them down.
I thought of Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” and took a Louisville Slugger to his truck.
Based on her expression, those are the kind of answers Rachel’s hoping I’ll say.
“Nothing,” I admit with an air of defeat. “Bryce saw me and . . . I froze. Then he smirked at me, like he didn’t give two shits if I had caught him cheating. I didn’t know what to do, other than to turn and run.”
“Have you talked to him?”
I go for a cute chuckle, but it comes out as more of a snot-filled snort. There’s only so much one can do to suppress their inner gawky nerd. I woke up Saturday morning wanting to climb into a baggy T-shirt and some comfy sweatpants while I binge watch something on TV. Okay, maybe I woke up in the same “Geologists Know Their Schist” T-shirt I’ve been wearing since Friday night. And maybe I’ve already watched the first two seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
“He called me last night,” I answer. “To tell me he was taking Bambi on the trip, and I needed to get the permit changed to her name.”
“No fucking way,” Rachel gasps. “The asshole.”
It’s painful remembering how not even two months ago I sat on this couch as Bryce gave me one of the best Christmas gifts I had ever received. I’ve dreamed of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail ever since I learned about it while on a hike around Mt. Hood, a peak about fifty miles east of here. The permits are almost impossible to get. Some people spend years trying to get one. Most end up hiking small sections at a time. When he gave me the permit now hanging on the front of my refrigerator, I couldn’t believe it. Just like I can’t believe what’s happening now.
Rachel takes my face in her hands. Her green eyes are full of sisterly love and caring. There’s more love in her eyes than I ever saw in Bryce’s. Why hadn’t I noticed until now? Shouldn’t it have been a sign something wasn’t right? Or was I blinded by sex with an attractive guy who seemed to want me?
Rachel begs me, “Tell me you didn’t agree to give your permit to . . . Wait. Bambi?”
“It’s not like I was going to stop and ask for her name. What else do you call the woman banging your boyfriend?”
“Bitch?” Rachel suggests.
We erupt in laughter. And it’s great. Like maybe I can let go a little. Even if it’s barely the tip of a large iceberg of emotions. I don’t know how many tears or how long it’s going to take to get over this, if I ever do. A smile creeps across my face for the first time all weekend. “I told him I’m starting April ninth. If he wants to go, he better pick a different date.”
Rachel squeals and hugs me tight. “That’s my girl. I knew you had it in you. Now, what are we going to do about the dickhead? Charles knows some guys on the football team. Just say the word and he’ll be lucky to hike to the bathroom, let alone a trail.”
You know those people in our lives who we have no idea how or why we’re friends with them? Rachel is that friend. We were, and still are, complete opposites. I spent high school in the science labs, while she spent it playing volleyball in the gym. Her blond hair and makeup were spot-on the first day of freshman year, while all I owned were a couple of hair ties and a tube of cherry-flavored lip balm. For the last few years, she’s been working on The Lizzy Project, her attempt to help me grow out of being an awkward geek into a confident woman. Yet even though she might mention how cute a cardigan at the mall would look on me or how I should try a new shade of blush, she’s never pressured me to do anything I didn’t want to do. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. If I ever told her I needed to bury a body—like maybe Bryce’s body—she wouldn’t ask why. She’d just grab her keys and a shovel.