Eight. Days. Left.

It’s hard to picture the days before I graduated college. The minutes before my first drive in a car, with me behind the wheel, are fuzzy. The seconds before my first dive in a pool have vanished. But it’s true that before any big moment, is that brief interval of time just before, full of excitement, everything seeming to move too fast yet also stretching seconds into eons. This is the time zone I am in right now on the Pacific Crest Trail. 127 days I’ve been on this trail, looking at trail, eating, sleeping, living next to the trail. And in eight days, a good backpack trip for a normal person, all of that will be over. A backpack trip? This trail has become a lifestyle for me, doesn’t that mean it goes on for life? The mind boggles. Yet, there is evidence of changes in my body and mind that proves I have indeed been out here as long as the calender days inform me.

Aquaduct of LA. Flat.

I left Tehachapi and entered the desert. This was a landscape marked by cactus, sage brush and most noticeablly, people. Acres and acres of windmills, a lot more road walking than I’m accustom too and, sadly, more trash on the trail than I ever want to see. One of the first challenges was surviving the mind numbing walk on the LA aquaduct, which is nothing more than a road of cement. A far cry from the romans, lacking arches and crumbling facades, but this has given way to the efficiency required to quench the thirst of a sprawling metroplis. Until you have walked through southern California, I don’t think it’s possible to understand what the words drought and water shortage mean. The trail then lifts you into the San Gabriels, where at night I could look out of my tent fly and see the millions of lights that make up one of the densest urban centers on earth, a swath of electric glow stretching from the edge of my lonely perch on the mountain side to the Pacific ocean, visible in the daylight.

We then traveled east to Wrightwood were I was whisked away from a trail of sweat and dust into the wonderful home of the Johnsons. The grime was washed away and soon after I was consuming a medium sized pizza and watching the food network channel special on Halloween cakes. Woken up by the smell of bacon, I thought I was dreaming still but my taste buds convinced me otherwise.

I headed south, this time for good, and now I find myself yet again in the arms of trail angels ziggy and the bear, and sheltered from a cold and rainy night. I’ve begun to wonder what knits this adventure together. Each day brings a surprise, a flowering cactus perhaps, or a horny toad captured in an oasis. Hot springs just around a turn in the trail. Each town has a generosity that can’t be beat. A zaniness that can’t be captured. A Halloween in big bear lake where I dressed as the tallest pumpkin around and watched black and white horror films while eating unlimited popcorn. But what melds it all together? That’s the question I roll around in my head as my feet wear down the last miles. Generosity certainly, freedom of thought, space to breath and the courage to smile and laugh. A new perspective, both on the world (there are some fantastic Halloween cakes out there) and in my own life as I see the good things more often and don’t pay much attention to notions like bad luck or bad weather. It all passes and the best thing to do is collect the moments that make you laugh out loud like a crazy person. Turns out if you get to know someone well enough, we are all crazy….unless I totally missed something. 

I ate it all