Post Hike. 11 June 2018

I wasn’t ready to leave Holden Beach when Thursday morning arrived.  I wanted to spend another day on the hot sand and swim in the vast warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean, feeling the constant coastal winds billowing around me.   But you can’t do that forever and the time will inevitably arrive when you have to accept the thrilling experience must end.   Time to move on.  That time for us was Thursday morning.  After some coffee and breakfast, I silently packed my bags and helped Julie and my father load up the car.  We would meet Ed - who had left the previous day to visit his son in Charlotte - on I77 in Virginia to begin our Appalachian Trail training hike for the Colorado Trail.   We all had new gear that we needed to test while hiking and setting up camp.  And I needed to get on the trail to prove to myself that I could still hike after the PCT.  As we drove over the bridge connecting Holden Beach to the North Carolina mainland, I looked back over the rows of beach houses that lined the sandy dunes and then took my gaze further to the white crests of the ocean’s waves.  My mind drifted to thoughts of living in a small coastal beach town with endless hot summers and long thoughtful early evening walks along wet sandy shores.  Right now anything was amazingly possible.  And as we made our way out of Charlotte NC, traveling along the southern highways heading north, I took comfort in the freedom of possibility.   

After hours of traversing North Carolina highways, we finally arrived in Virginia, meeting Ed near Bland VA.   We said our goodbyes to my father who was eager to get back on the highway for the long drive back to Ohio.  Ed, Julie, and I soon found ourselves navigating down a very narrow gravel road to a remote parking site near a trailhead on the Appalachian Trail in the enchanting Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.  We were ready to hike.   But as I put on my pack and lengthened my trekking poles, I quietly thought about my most recent experience on the PCT.  But then I reminded myself that I wasn’t on the PCT.   And those moments would not carry forward into my future hikes.  With determination and a sense of renewed excitement, I led the way across the dusty road to the trail and with a deep breath, entered the thick forest of vibrant green and started the hike.   

Because we were arriving so late in the day, we planned on hiking about 4.3 miles to the Jenkins Shelter, spend the night and then hike out the next morning to resume the drive back to Ohio.   Originally we were going to hike for 3 days and 2 nights following a loop made up of the AT and a few side trails.  But due to our extended stay at Holden Beach, we had to limit this hike to one night.  We started hiking around 4pm.  And while the temperature in direct sunlight hovered in the low 80’s, as soon as we were under the cover of trees, the air felt remarkably cooler.  Our first mile would take us from 2446 feet to 3021 feet along switchbacks and sections of homemade rock stairs provided by volunteer trail crews.  The climb was gradual with only moments of steep grade.  Looking through the trees and branches that surrounded me,  I could see both the continued rise of the mountain looming ahead and the drop to the valley below from where we came.  Small gnats buzzed around my face but never lingered or seemed to land on my skin.  My continued progress forward and ever upward provided the momentum to brush past their sudden swarms hovering effortlessly in the small pools of light that somehow spilled through the tall dense trees.   And while the air was still and thick, an occasional breeze wafted along the trail allowing the branches to lightly sway and the leaves to shimmer while also gently cooling my sticky moist skin.  

And then I was at the summit.  I waited for Julie and Ed who were not far behind me.  For the next 2 miles we would hike along the ridge line with only a few small descents and climbs.  The trail was very well graded with few rocks or tree roots poking out from the dirt in thick knotting clumps.  The trail in Virginia was vastly different from the trail I was used to in New York State We made very good progress.  I pulled ahead and found myself alone again.  My pace was very comfortable and almost effortless.  The green tunnel of the AT surrounded me in variations of light  - sometimes dark with no lingering sunlight and other times dotted with bright bursting rays.   Somewhere along the 2 mile ridge walk, I suddenly realized that I was thoroughly enjoying the experience of hiking along a narrow trail through Appalachian landscapes I had never seen.   The warm temperature and clinging sweat, the rapid breathing from exertion, the clouds of buzzing insects, the challenges of climbing and then descending all blended together into streaming moments of profound brilliant happiness.  

The last mile of the hike was a lengthy descent from the mountain’s ridge to the deep ravines nestled between the peaks.  The trail curved through small groves of trees whose branches interlaced overhead creating an intricate ceiling of small green leaves clinging to thin reaches of grey bark.   Large dark green ferns lined portions of the trail.  We waded through them letting their delicate leaves brush against our legs.  We heard the rush of water over rocks and then following another bend in the trail came upon a wide stream with a wonderful strong flow.  After another short climb we arrived at the blue side trail which led to Jenkins Shelter, our camp site for the night.  We had made it.  A short hike but a rewarding hike.  And the hike I needed to remind myself that I truly loved being on the trail.

As we were hiking south to get to the shelter, we had passed a number of AT thru hikers heading north.  They all possessed strong resilience and determination along with some amount of wear and tear.   They would have hiked around 500 miles to arrive at the moment where they passed us along our simple 4 mile hike.  I looked at each of them as we passed, smiled, said hello and nodded with what I hoped was ample great respect.   And sure enough, at the Jenkins Shelter, we arrived to find numerous thru hikers who had already established locations for their ultra light tents and gear.   In fact the place was packed!   Ed, Julie and I walked through hoping to find a few left over sites designated for tenting.  We decided on the remaining leftovers, dropped our packs and began setting up our tents.  Then we joined the hikers at the picnic table near the small wooden shelter to prepare our dinners.   I found myself enchanted by their stories and willingness to accept us into their camp for the night.  Even though we had only hiked 4 miles compared to their 500, at this moment, we were all hikers sharing the bond of being on the trail.   Melonhead, Spaceship, Pink and String Bean were some of the incredible hikers we met.  They shared their stories with wild carefree abandon and offered us advice on various cooking techniques - hot ramen soaking in a plastic zip lock!  As the sun was setting, two new hikers showed up with their German shepherd, Camaflouge!  One of them had just had her food bag stolen on the trail.  I knew she had to have been incredibly hungry after hiking all day so we offered her all of our extra food.  She was giddy with gratitude practically lunging at the peanut M&Ms!  I thought about the old hiker mantra - “the trail provides”.  And for now, we were at the right moment at the right time to ensure that a hiker would experience that breathtaking wash of relief when suddenly everything becomes alright. 

As darkness deepened with the last rays of light from the setting sun, we brushed our teeth, said our goodnights and made our way to our tents.   The air was still humid and warm so I lay on top of my sleeping bag with only the bag liner draped across my body.   I listened to the hikers laughing off in the distance as I waited for sleep to come.  The night air was so still and calm - not even a breath of wind.  Sudden bright rays of light from headlamps occasionally swept across my tent.  But as everyone settled in, the sounds of hikers dissipated and I was left listening to the occasional hoot of a night owl mixed with the sharp crackling of tiny sticks breaking as small animals traversed in the underbrush surrounding my tent.  

Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke.  The air was now cold. I shivered as I pulled myself into my sleeping bag and let the soft down begin to loft and slowly warm around me.  Far off I heard the mournful cry of coyotes.   Near me, the twig breakers were still scouring for food and digging in the soft earth.   And then suddenly far down the hill toward the place where the side trail to the shelter met the Appalachian Trail, I heard a distinct voluminous cracking followed by a large cavernous bang that echoed through the still night.  A dead tree had broken somewhere along its fragile worn trunk and fallen, slamming into the forest ground amidst the deep woods.  The solemn silence that followed held equal weight.  The coyote cries and night sounds were gone.  A reactive hush descended through the ravine.  It was as if the forrest held a collective breath honoring the fallen of one of their own.   And I found that I too was holding my breath sharing the reverence of hearing the final moment of a majestic existence.  Time waited.   And then a coyote’s cry pierced the night and the world spilled onward and continued.  I quietly let out my breath.   I closed my eyes and slowly fell back to sleep.  

Post Hike. 4 June 2018

By a strange turn of events, I am now at Holden Beach North Carolina.  When I left the PCT, I told my younger sister that I would visit her in early June.  She recently moved to Holden Beach from Ohio, and I was very curious to see her home with the wild marsh lands filled with long green marsh grass behind her house.  At the end of April, my mother also made the journey from Ohio to live with Laurie in this small coastal town on the Atlantic Ocean.   Traveling with me was my father along with Ed and Julie.  So for the first time in many years, my entire family is together in a small coastal beach town named Holden Beach.   Also present are an abundance of sweet memories that we all share from those early years of our very young lives.

My father and I left Ohio in the very early morning hours after packing up his car with bags filled with light summer clothes along with a cooler containing an assortment of baked goods and prepared Amish cooking from a bakery in Walnut Creek.  As Ed and Julie and I would be hiking for a few days along the Appalachian Trail in Virginia on the return trip to Ohio, I also packed my hiking gear - the same gear that made the journey to California and then suddenly back to Ohio.   

The 12 hour drive to North Carolina took us through southern Ohio and then into the mountains of West Virginia.  Dense fog and pale clumps of soft clouds hovered over the distant rising peaks and nestled into the steep valleys quietly anticipating the first rays of morning light.  Our car sped through the darkness along curving roads that swirled up the mountain passes and then descended into broad expansive valleys.  When the sun rose from the eastern horizon, the warmer air evaporated the grey haze turning the sky blue and the mountains vibrant green.   The world suddenly became filled with rich, intoxicating color.  Hours became landmarks which slowly brought us closer to our final destination.  And then soon those forever hours became rushing cascading wishful minutes.  With great anticipation I found myself in a small beach town called Holden Beach in southern North Carolina. My sister’s new home.  My mother’s new home.  And I an eager visitor.  I found myself relieved and grateful to have arrived.   My sister welcomed my father and me into her gracious home.  And then my mother was there and the love for my family lifted me far beyond the careful exhausting navigation of never ending highways - those spilling concrete pathways that connected Ohio to this new wonderful place located on the shores of the Atlantic ocean.   

I have always loved the ocean and the hot sandy ever evolving beaches.  To find myself in Holden Beach now after all of the recent travels  - and the hot sandy PCT - I was amazed at the breathtaking chronology of events, of time and destiny.   Hearing the oceans’s swelling water and expansive release upon the wet sandy shore, I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty air and let go of every single burden of my life.  I sat for hours and let the hot wind sweep across my face and let the sun pour its magnificent heat into my older skin.  I felt time moving forever forward.  Each break of inevitable wave propelled time endlessly on and on - never ending, constant and forever until the end of time.  I felt small and insignificant.   The ocean is huge.  The world is huge.   And this was a moment in my life  - quivering, desperate to keep up, striving to exist - a single coarse grain of sand atop the millions forever shifting around me.

For now our days are spent on hot sandy beaches.  Our nights are spent sharing glorious meals while watching the sun set beyond the green marsh grass and distant trees of my younger sister’s home.  Julie, Ed, my father and I have rented a beach house that we retreat to each night.  On our first night we witnessed a storm coming in off the coast   - lightning blazing through the clouds, rain pummeling the ground, eyes glowing with excitement.   

And with the high electric energy of that storm came another kind of high emotional gathering.  Family and history and modes of understanding can create moments of tension and confused communication.   As we all grow older, our relationships naturally change.  We experience that change in different ways and at different times.   Tonight those shifts in relationships spread out, scrapping against each other.   For tonight I found myself unable to find compassion and understanding,  Words were said.  Feelings were wounded.  I was left struggling to come to terms my own responsibility toward emotional resonance while lifting myself beyond the immediate to surround myself in memories of family, of gratitude and love.  Why can’t I let my sensitivity wash over me like the crashing waves upon the sand?   Why can't I be generous with empathy and careful with my words?  

I hope the wind is strong tomorrow. I hope the wind carries away anything I did and said today, sending everything into the ocean air, flying high above the swelling wet only to dissipate into nothingness. And then forgotten.

Today at the beach, my younger sister, my father and my mother made their way from the hot sand to the awaiting waves of the warm ocean.   As they neared the salty water, they drifted away from each other so that they stood facing the ocean as solitary individuals.  They stood there and let the water spill onto their feet again and again and again.    They faced the ocean as the wind spread out around them, curving around their arms and legs, shoulders and head.   I wondered what they were contemplating at that moment, each staring out into the vast horizon of rippling water as the air swept across their skin.   But I knew that I was feeling an immense swelling of complete love for each one of them - now in the that singular moment and then of course forever.   The power of family.  The power of the ocean.  The power of love.  

Post Hike 22 May 2018

My father picked me up at the Cleveland Amtrak Station at 6:30am on Wednesday morning.   The train that I had boarded in Chicago the previous evening was over an hour late.  I had spent the night being tossed around in my sleeper as the train barreled down the tracks.  It was the first night that I was unable to let the movement of the train ease me into a deep slumber.  Maybe I was excited to be coming home.  Maybe the frantic jerking of the train moving at high speeds on the tracks reflected my emotional state as the journey leading me away from the PCT was coming to a close.  Maybe I was not ready to face the questions that would be asked of me - those lingering questions that would compel me to fully justify my decision to leave the PCT over and over again.  I quietly stepped down from the train car and without turning around to look back, made my way down the walkway till I saw my father standing by his car waiting for my arrival.   It was a scene I had lived through many times before as I would typically arrive from New York City in the early morning.   My father would be waiting for me, and then we would begin the final leg of the journey toward his home sometimes stopping for a quick breakfast and much needed coffee.   But for now, my stepping off the train signified the end of this epic journey that had started two weeks prior when I said goodbye to my father at the very spot - eager, excited and brimming with anticipation.  Now I was filled with a sense of loss and disappointment intermingling with complete gratitude and swollen relief.   Happy and sad together.  

On the drive home, we did stop for breakfast and coffee.  I smiled at the warmth of being loved in that moment while the morning sun was rising from the Ohio horizon,   And I let the abundance of love and available light carry me all the way to Holmes County where I took my pack from the car and placed it inside the door to the house.  I walked upstairs, took a shower, climbed into bed and slept for 4 hours.   I was home.  

Before I left for the PCT, my sister Julie and her husband Ed, agreed to go on a training hike with me.  After some deliberation, we decided to drive an hour and a half to a series of trails in Zaleski State Forest in southern Ohio.   We spent the morning filling our food bags for the over night trip and then packed our packs with all of our hiking gear.   Soon we were on our way winding through small country roads which led through small rural clusters of run down wooden houses and cluttered porches.   I stared out the window wondering about the lives that existed in those remote spaces.   We arrived at the trailhead, adding our car to the many cars and trucks that already filled the parking lot.  Being the first really nice weekend of the spring season, it seemed like many people were eager to get outside and enjoy the trails.   While Ed went to register for the hike, Julie and I pulled on our packs and lengthened our trekking poles.   Ed reported that there were over 50 hikers on the trail.   Knowing that established camp sites were limited, we faced the prospect of stealth camping somewhere along the trail.   As we made our way to the trailhead, Julie quietly asked Ed if he had packed their sleeping pads.  She has seen my pack loaded with the Gossamer Gear foam pad prompting her to inquire about their own pads.   Ed stopped short and after a moment of careful mental review announced that he had not packed their sleeping pads.  We just stood there staring at each other.   Now what?   An important piece of gear was left behind.  Do we continue knowing that the temperature was going to get down into the 40’s and that sleeping on the hard ground would not only be uncomfortable but very cold?  I announced that we had to go back.  It would not be fun for them to hike into the evening and sleep on the cold ground.   It happens.  People forget gear, lose gear, break gear.   Sometimes there is very little you can do but exist with the consequences and then find a proper moment to order new gear, replace gear, fix gear.  But in this scenario, we simply had to get back in the car and drive the hour and a half back to their home.   Which is exactly what we did.   I don’t think any of us were particularly upset.  We just agreed that it would be better to go back and hike the next day at Mohican State Park instead of returning to Zaleski.  I learned a long time ago  - when on the trail (or attempting to even get to the trail!!) there will exist both wonder and  unpredictability.   On my first Appalachian Trail hike with my good friend Christiana, within the first 2 hours we had hiked 2 miles in the wrong direction.   I had fallen and broken one of my trekking poles.  I had been bitten by something resulting in a large lump on my forehead.  It was raining and I slipped on some rocks and cut my hand open.   But eventually we got to camp.  Eventually we had our dinner and then eventually we climbed into our tents while the wind blew among the tall trees and the rain fell.   And I remember thinking how wonderful it was to be on the trail experiencing the excitement of adventure.   The very next morning we figured out how to mend my trekking pole, the swelling on my forehead went down and we had 3 days of fantastic hiking.

So some sleeping pads were forgotten at Zaleski.   We would just hike again tomorrow.

It was late afternoon by the time we returned to Columbus.  As we pulled into their driveway, Julie sighed and with a certain amount of forlorn sentiment mixed with pale resignation stated “the humiliating return”.   I started laughing as I imagined the nearby neighbors watching from their windows.   Earlier in the day as we were leaving they would have been exclaiming from pushed back curtains and curious gazes - “Oh! Julie and Ed and their friend are going hiking!!”  “Wow!   They are so adventurous!” “I wonder where they are going?!!”  Only to be watching as we returned 3 hours later, silently shrugging on our packs to carry them inside -  “Oh no!”  “They’re back so soon!”  “Something must have gone wrong!”  “Well, they simply couldn’t cut it!!”  “AMATEURS!!”   

We laughed for some time.   And it made everything so much easier to accept.   We did hike the next day at Mohican.  And it was a wonderful hike.   Every day on the trail will bring something new - both good and possibly not so good.  But knowing you have the ability to push through and laugh when it’s needed, makes everything possible.  That day I was so happy that we shared in that laughter.

Now, after a few days since my return from the PCT, I wonder why I had forgotten that vital acceptance of unpredictability while I was recovering at Mount Laguna.   Then there was no laughter to carry me through.   And even if I have to share again and again what happened and why I left, I have to remind myself that it was my decision to make.  And I made it.   For now, I am grateful to be with my family.  In June I am going to travel to North Carolina to visit my younger sister and my mother.   And then Julie and Ed and I will spend a few days hiking the Appalachian Trail in Virginia as training for the Colorado Trail Thru Hike later this summer.   So onward.  

Maybe soon I will fully realize that by accepting my decision to leave the PCT, I am also accepting the unpredictability that happened on the PCT.  And with that the understanding that there will be new hikes  - fantastic hikes.   Maybe one day.  But for now, I will just let my confused feelings linger a little bit longer - happy and sad together.  

Post Hike 17 May 2018

So I am in Ohio.  Holmes County.  I’m staying with my father at his rural home overlooking old farms, spacious pastures, spinning windmills and small country roads that curve and disappear around groves of bright green leaf covered trees and over loose grassy hills.  I am sitting on the porch swing letting the afternoon breeze blow against my skin.  My father is mowing the lawn.  The smells of fresh cut grass catch the wind and fill me with fond memories of childhood in Ohio.   It’s calm.  And the Pacific Crest Trail seems far away.  The reality of distance separates me from the pale dirt path.  But it is still present in my recent memory.  Vitally present. I am happy to say that I still feel like I did the right thing leaving that trail.  And it brings me great comfort.  The journey home to Ohio was long and epic. 

After I had booked my Amtrak tickets, shuttle and hotel in San Diego, I went to the Mount Laguna general store to inform the clerk that I would not be staying another night.  He just shrugged his shoulders and said fine.  Another hiker comes and goes.  I packed up, showered and put on my hiking clothes that were somewhat cleaner than the previous day as I had washed them in a bucket with detergent provided by the lodge.  I turned in my key and then waited on the porch for the shuttle to drive me the 45 minutes down the mountain and back to San Diego.  A group of dusty and tired PCT hikers showed up on the porch.   I was excited and happy to see some friends from Scout and Frodo’s who I had camped with in Hauser Canyon.  They were not hiking as fast as Ro and the others.  I silently wondered if my experience would have been different had I hiked with them on day two instead of making my way those 18 miles to Cibbets Campground.  But I had made my decision earlier that morning.  I was moving on.  There was no space in my mind to reflect on a series of maybe and what if scenarios that were removed from the reality of my current experience.  At that moment I just desperately wanted to be away from the PCT.  I was still recovering from heat exhaustion and dehydration.  I was tired and my body felt betrayed by my overzealous attempts to immediately hike long miles.

Days later with many miles of travel and time to recover, I can appreciate the dramatic and overly emotional sentiment of my feelings at Mount Laguna.  But in that high mountain space with the warm winds shimmering around the tall pine trees creating sweeping sounds of rushing air overhead, I recalled what a trail angel had said to me as a final token of wisdom before I walked to the Southern Terminus.  He said that you will know very quickly whether this trail is right for you.  The challenges of hiking in severe heat added to the long water carries effect everyone in different ways.  He had known of very strong hikers who had decided to leave the trail after a few days.   A hiker who started with my group and had successfully thru hiked the Appalachian Trail the previous year made the decision to get off trail the day before.  I was not alone.  But I was surprised - remarkably surprised that I boldly found the courage to leave.  And now that I had made that decision, to think of “maybe” and “what if” would only seek to confuse my thoughts and doubt my rapid quick purchase of homeward tickets.  At that moment, I had followed an intuitive spirit that charged resolutely ahead.

After an hour of waiting, the shuttle arrived.   Soon I was winding down the mountain road while the driver spoke to me about driving hikers across Southern California.   I would have preferred the quiet but found myself engaging and responding.  I discovered that he had studied music in college.  I wondered what had brought him from dreams of a musical career to driving a shuttle filled with tired and dirty hikers.  Every path is unique.  And every choice seems to connect with other choices and suddenly there you are in a place you never thought you would be.   I only hoped that he was content and happy with no regrets - just as I contemplated my own choices in the immediacy of the moment.

Arriving in San Diego, I quickly checked in to the hotel and then set out to buy some civilian clothes and toiletries so I could clean up before catching the train at 5:55am the next morning.   After an early dinner, I was in bed falling fast asleep.

When I booked my tickets to Ohio, I decided not to travel back the way I had come to California through Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado.  I decided to travel north through California, Oregon and Washington to Seattle where I would then catch another train to take me through Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin.  The train from Los Angeles would travel north in the direction I would have walked on the PCT.  In fact, there were a few places in Oregon and Washington where the train would come close to the trail.  I would catch the 5:55am train from San Diego to Los Angeles and then transfer to the train bound for Seattle.

And then morning came, and the journey began.

The train lurched from the Los Angeles Union Station.  I watched the world change from the sprawling miles of urban Los Angeles to the colorful coastal beauty of Santa Barbara through to Oakland, Northern California, Mount Shasta and then through the lush green forests of Oregon where the train cut through swaths of tall trees adorning tall mountains looming high above the train and reaching for the sky.  I sat in my small room on the train and watched each moment as it passed me by, continually fascinated by the world.   With each mile, I was taken further and further from the PCT in Southern California.  Though I had left what I thought would be my summer of adventure, I was on a different kind of adventure as I slowly made my way back to the familiar.

Somewhere in Oregon, a few hours before reaching Portland, I found myself preparing to have lunch in the dining car of the train.  I had made a reservation for 1:30pm.   When I entered the dining car, the attendant told me to sit at an empty table at the very back of the car.  Within seconds of sitting down, another couple joined me sitting on the opposite side.  I had seen this male/female couple a few times on the train in the dining car.  They had caught my attention because the woman always wore a pair of brown framed sunglasses that were perfectly round with dark grey mirrored lenses.  And she seemed older than the man who had fading dark hair and a stubble of facial hair with very small almost childlike hands.  And sure enough, as they sat down, she looked my way through those round glasses that hid her eyes.   They literally rushed into the seats as if they had been waiting for me to sit down alone.  Her blonde hair was held back into a loose bun so that stray strands hung around her face.  She held out her hand and introduced herself as France.  Her companion was Christopher.  I took her hand which was almost weightless and introduced myself in return.   They were not having anything to eat but rather ordered a vodka tonic and a ginger ale with gin.  I found it odd that they would have drinks in the dining car when they could have ordered them in the observation/café car.   But within minutes I was put at ease as France began to speak warmly of their travels.  They were from Burbank, CA travelling to Portland, OR.  After departing the train in Portland, they would  drive further to the port city of Astoria.  She spoke with poetic flourishes about the beauty of Astoria.  However, she quickly turned the conversation toward me.  She was particularly interested in my story and began to inquire about why I was on this particular train.  When I explained my recent decisions - leaving New York City, embarking on a lengthy hike, deciding to leave early, travelling back to Ohio, hiking the Colorado Trail, etc. – she calmly took it all in with a small smile on her face.  She had a melodic way of speaking so that I began to hear her words as cadences of light musical phrases that rose with sudden crescendos and then quickly became quiet with soft whispered hushes.  She understood that I was an artist immediately before I even mentioned being a dancer and choreographer.  France possessed an intuitive understanding that soon had me pondering every word she spoke.  With delicate phrasing, she told me that I should not be afraid of change.  She explained that life was full of changes but when you decide to really move on and leave the comforts of everything you know and trust, you can be left feeling vulnerable and scared.  With strong conviction, France told me that I was on the right path and that this moment of change was needed to find the next chapter in my life.  She was convinced that something wonderful would happen as a result of quitting my job, leaving my home and attempting to hike the PCT.  And most importantly I should not be afraid.  I found myself staring into those mirrored lenses, seeing my own distorted reflection staring back.  They were words that I needed to hear at that moment.  And whether I truly believed her or not, I was captivated by her attention.  Christopher sat next to her with a kind of resolute silence, staring at me with deep dark eyes and an almost amused smile on his face.  I desperately wanted to see France’s eyes to really see her.  She said my sensitivity, artistic sensibility and love of life were powerful gifts to possess.   I was so taken by the exchange compared to my other dinner conversations where I struggled to engage with people who clearly just wanted to either be left alone or would talk with such insistent force that I couldn’t even respond but ended up just nodding and smiling.  No, this was vastly different.  France was captivating and a calming force of reassurance.   And she seemed genuinely interested in knowing me.  On a train from Los Angeles to Seattle, a day after leaving the Pacific Crest Trail and a few hours before arriving in Portland, I was staring into perfectly round mirrored sunglasses silently contemplating everything in my life.   Everything.  

We said our gracious goodbyes and soon returned to our rooms.  When we arrived in Portland, those of us continuing on were allowed to leave the train for a few minutes.   As I stepped off the train, I quickly scanned the passengers walking into the Portland train station to see France and Christopher and perhaps say goodbye one last time.  But they were nowhere in sight.   I had missed them.  They were gone.