Trail Legs

“Sssssss.”

A meter from my feet, a brown speckled rattlesnake hissed. Its top half formed a perfect spiral while its tail turned up to the front of its body and hid underneath dried grass. It was thicker than I imagined it would be. Did I know what a rattlesnake even looked like? Had I Googled a picture? I couldn’t remember. My heart rung with panic. Do I back away? Run? Act big and scary?

Its head bobbed in focus, tongue-twisting outside its mouth. Tail raised and level with its head, it made that infamous sound. Instincts took control of my confused body and mind. I stepped back with intention. Every time the dried brush crunched; my judgment clouded. The sound of my feet mixed with the sound of the snake. My right foot reached behind and landed on a tangerine-sized rock in the middle of the path. I lost my balance. I teetered until my left leg crossed to stabilize my weight.

With one hand clutched to my chest, the other brushed my hair from my face. This pee break couldn’t be going any worse. I needed to leave the brushy area, but my pack sat a foot from my foe. Where was the courage to reach over and grab it? Day one on the Pacific Crest Trail. Both a rattlesnake and the Mexican border in view.

“Is there a campground around here?” A voice asked from around one of the trail’s many switchbacks.

My neck snapped toward the sound. I almost cried from the appearance of another human. My breathing remained quick and strained. “Yeah, in two-tenths of a mile.”

“You planning on staying there?” He asked from under his floppy hat and dark sunglasses. I hadn’t seen this man at the trail angels’ home the night before. He must have arrived at Campo alone. He seemed different than the hikers I had met throughout the day. His gear looked legitimate, durable, and strong. His pace was quick and steady and mine was not.

“I think so.”

With the man out of sight, I needed to put my pack back on. My shoulders were wickedly raw but went numb after my pack cut off circulation to my appendages. I lifted the bag by its straps. Maybe some people could dead-lift forty pounds. But I definitely could not. Even with my foot propped on a rock, the weight struggled to rest on my knee. The inflamed skin screamed from the pressure, but my arms didn’t want to move it. Yet I needed to. So, I had to.

The scratchy material of the backpack rubbed against the tenderness. Ow, ow, ow, ow. I hopped from side to side to reposition the weight. With the buckled snapped, and with the hip belt creating a pre-hike muffin top, I proceeded to camp.

The guy who just passed me and two other hikers had set up their gear in a small clearing hidden off trail. I threw my pack down in the farthest corner of the area. A mixture of dry grass and green grass blanketed the formerly burnt ground. A few trees scattered the area, though they weren’t alive. Their trunks and limbs had a coating of char. All vegetation had been scorched.

 I never bothered to practice setting up my tent back home. I hadn’t trained for anything before coming to Southern California. The Velcro at the top of my pack screeched as I ripped it open. I reached in and pulled out my fleece clothes bag, air mattress, over-stuffed food bag, toiletries, and other pieces of gear before I found my tent. Why was the one thing I needed at the bottom of my pack?

 I grabbed my gear from a seated position and pulled it inside. I blew up my air mattress, one breath at a time. The loud puffs echoed through the quiet campground. Everything smelled like new plastic.

The guy sat in the area between his tent and vestibule and made dinner; something previously dehydrated and now rehydrated. Other hikers passed our campground and yelled things to us like ‘gonna push to the canyon’ and ‘see you down trail’. Most hikers wanted to reach the campsites ate mile 15.6. It was a massive sheltered canyon. It made sense to me. It had been my original plan.

 I ate plain tortillas, disappointed by the lack of conversation between my fellow hikers. My food wasn’t appetizing. My hands were dirty, my face still sweaty, and my mouth dry. The salty Eastern Mountain Sports wicking long sleeve and black running shorts clung to my body. Many hikers slept in legging type pants and thermal tops, but I chose something looser. I slipped into my L.L. Bean sweatpants and my Mountain Hardware hoodie. They were baggy and soft and perfect.

Someone sneezed and based off the location of the sound. It had to be Flappy Hat man.

“Bless you!” I yelled into the campground.

“Thank you!” The man yelled.

It was now or never. If I wanted to talk to these people, this was my chance. I mustered the courage to socialize. “I’m Sierra.” My cheek grazed the mesh of my tent to see his face.

“Sierra? I saw your name in the trail register. You’re from Portland?” He asked.

“Kind of Portland, I guess. Sebago Lake, actually.”

“I’m from Mass but lived in Bath for the last couple of years. I’m GQ.” His New England accent slipped.

“That’s awesome. Have you done the AT?” An easy assumption for an East Coast hiker.

“No, but I did a section of the PCT in 2015.”

 I pointed at him. “Oh, you know what you’re doing out here, huh?”

He shook his head, “I guess I know more than I did the first time.”

“Which section did you do before?”

“Campo to Bishop.”

My face twisted. “You’re doing the desert again?”

He nodded and swallowed a bite of a previously dehydrated, but recently rehydrated meal. “It’s the best way to meet people. If I had started in Bishop, everyone I met would have been in their tramilies already.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I prosed.

He looked at me from across the campsite. He paused as if he needed to decide whether to say yes. “Sure,” he muttered.

“When do people get trail legs?”

Laughter boomed from his vestibule. “It’s day one.”

“I know, I know. I’m just curious to know if I’ll get them in two weeks or two months. Just a ballpark estimate.”

His hand brushed the top of his head. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

My heart sank. How dumb was that question? “Whatever, I think it’s a fair question.”

“You’ll feel better in four hundred miles.”

“Cool, thank you. See? Now I won’t expect trail legs until I get to Wrightwood.”

⸙   ⸙   ⸙   ⸙

The early morning light cast a periwinkle hue on the landscape. The usual browns and tans of the dirt and rocks seemed light blue and purple as the sun rose. The sun traced the tops of peaks, warming them with light. The trail winded down to the canyon. Some hikers slept in small clearings, no room for them at marked campsites. Their synthetic sleeping bags and nylon tents rubbed together to create an early morning symphony.

 I felt the scariest feeling new hikers fear, the urge to poop. My speed increased and searched for a place to run into the bushes. The trail dropped off completely on my right and remained a solid rock face to my left. My hand guided me along the rocks, waiting for a break in the wall. My pace turned to a jog, the task becoming more and more necessary.

My pack hit the ground and I searched the mesh pockets for my trowel and baby wipes. I lifted the Ziploc that contained both and turned to walk up into the dense leaves.

“How’s your morning going?” Someone said. I whipped my hands behind my back and threw my bag of number two accessories on the ground.

GQ stood a few feet down trail from me. He wore a sand-colored hiking shirt and grey shorts with a bright orange stripe down the side. His dark sunglasses prevented eye contact, but he took them off and looked my way.

“Hello.”

“You okay?” He asked and put his sunglasses on top of his hat.

“Yeah,” I clenched my butthole with every ounce of energy in my body.

“How’s your morning going?” He asked again.

“It’s good. Kinda chilly at first. I wore my puffy for the first mile.”

“That’s exactly why I slept in.” He shook his hat in the air. A faint scratch of plastic against stone paused our conversation. He turned to the ledge. “Damn it! My sunglasses!” We heard the eyewear tumbled down to their demise, scraping the rocks in the process.

Beads of sweat collected on my upper lip. “Oh no. That’s the worst,” My monotoned voice amassed. I wanted to talk to him, but I fought a biological battle I was about to lose.

“Should I go get them?” He teased and unbuckled his black and green Osprey pack.

“Absolutely not! You’re gonna crawl down there and get stuck or hurt.” My tone shifted to cocky. “And I’m not helping you when you do.”

He paused and thought about it. He looked down to his sunglasses and then to his feet, to assess the distance and turned to me. My eyes were wide with disapproval. “You’re right, you’re right. I just… I really liked those sunglasses though.”

“That’s the worst. I’m sorry.” My legs trembled.

“It’s all good,” he shrugged. “I’m gonna stop at in town for lunch. See you there?”

“What’s that? Another five miles?” Nervous sweat covered every inch of my body.

“Yeah, mile twenty.”

“Cool beans. See you there.”

 He walked out of my line of sight. I looked at the clear, blue sky and waited until I couldn’t hear his trekking poles ticking on the rocks. When I was as alone as I could get, my legs sprinted into the bushes.

After a few moments, and my body newly relaxed, I walked back to the trail. The branches were stiff and rigid and covered in thorns. The brush hadn’t seemed so strong before. I pushed my body against the plants’ strength. I reached my pack and noticed the small gashes on my legs. Within minutes, the scrapes became black and blue and dripped blood.

The golden mountains stood against a cloudless sky. The distant highlands and nearer plains were gorgeous, but so were the tiny plants lining the trail. Little green weeds sprouted dainty white flowers. They guided me towards my destination. The tanned sand became a beauty product as it covered my legs slowly, yet surely. My body confidently trotted down the remaining decline and through the short valley.

Halfway up the climb, I took a break and sat in the shade. I watched a hiker climb the switchbacks below me. Other than his lower thighs, his entire body was covered by gear and fabric. He even wore sun gloves. His trekking poles moved concurrently with his feet.

“Nice pack!” I yelled at him as he approached. The guy peered under his hat and ripped out one of his headphones.

“What?” He asked.

“I said I liked your pack,” I laughed and pointed to mine, toppled over a juniper bush.

“Oh, cool.” He realized we both had white Hyperlite Mountain Gear packs. “I like mine a lot. What about you?”

“Totally love it, so lightweight,” I said, although it felt anything but.         

“I’m Eric,” he stretched out his hand and we fist bumped.

“Sierra.”

A smile crept over his face, like he knew a secret. “GQ told me about you!”

“Uh,” I tilted my head. “What did he say?” What could that guy say about me? We were complete strangers.

“He said that you guys camped at 11.4 last night and are both from Maine.” He laughed. “Nothing too creepy.”

“When did you see GQ? He passed me miles ago.”

“You know that dirt road?” He paused, and I nodded. “We walked down it together and we just kept talking and talking and completely missed the turn back onto the trail. Once we got back on trail,” he wiped his forehead with a Buff. “I took a break in a spot kind of off trail and he sat with me for a while, but then he kept hiking.”

“Huh, I guess he’s probably in Canada by now. It was nice knowing him.”

Eric laughed and pushed blond, wispy hair from the side of his face. “He said that he saw your name in the trail register and whenever he saw a solo female hiker, he asked them if she was you.”

“That’s weird.” My eyes grew large and I looked over my shoulder as if to see if someone was following me.

My miming made him laugh. “I don’t think he meant it like that.”

“Probably not.” I shrugged.

We stood in a brief, sweaty silence before he turned to me. “Well, I’m going to keep going. See you in Lake Morena.”

“See you there.”

⸙   ⸙   ⸙   ⸙

The tiny town’s variety store was three-tenths of a mile off trail, yet three-tenths of a mile never seemed longer. Cars whizzed by on the road as I stumbled down the two-lane highway. I passed small-town trailer parks and homes which had their own personal farms. Goats and horses grazed in the backyards.

A sign spanned the entire length of the building. In big, blocked red letters, it advertised, “Liquor, Malt Shop! King of The Hamburgers and Pizza!” This might have encouraged the normal person to stop in for food, but they could have written “We sell soda!” and every hiker would have come by. The windows had thick white bars which covered their exterior. A metal cage formed a sense of security around the screen doors. The faded Good Humor umbrellas shaded decrepit lawn furniture and a few iron chairs. Any other time in my life, I wouldn’t have.

GQ, Eric, and the two hikers from the camp reclined in the shade. This was the first time I saw them without their layers of gear. Anne had a tidy, brunette pixie and spoke with a German accent. She checked her GPS app frequently, recurrently obsessed with trail logistics. Eric stood above a pile of stuff. His seventy-liter pack completely empty, and thousands of dollars dumped on the concrete.

GQ asked me to thread a needle for him. Weird, I thought, that he would be mending his clothes on day two. But I quickly learned that he was threading a blister. A controversial tactic to first aid, he left the thread inside the blister, tapped up his foot, and called it good.

I untied my trail runner and peeled back my dirty sock. It proved to be a difficult task with all the sweat and dirt. My foot pulsated from inside the shoe. It caked into my dry skin and covered my toes and heel. The blister began at the outer edge of my big toe and ended at my middle toe. It dove two inches down my foot towards my heel. This space was a dark, tender red. A quarter-sized area bubbled up under my big toe. The yellowish-white, swollen skin folded into itself.

“Woah,” Eric leaned over my foot. “What are you gonna do about that?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” He asked.

“I didn’t bring one.”

GQ turned, “You didn’t bring a first aid kit? Seriously?”

My eyes widened, “Seriously.”

“You have to handle that blister before you hike out,” Eric added.

I pointed to GQ’s foot. “Do you recommend doing whatever you just did?”

“I’m not sure. You gotta do what’s best for you.” He said.

“I don’t know what’s right for me.” My lack of knowledge not only surprised the group of hikers seated under the veranda, but it also surprised me. I didn’t have any supplies to tend to my wound, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to use them. I pulled my sock back on and slipped my foot into my shoe. The liquidy hot spot squished under my weight. I walked into the store and bought an apple and a small sewing kit.

We discussed where each of us planned to sleep for the night. Some wanted to stay in town and use the campground’s showers. Others planned to hike another ten miles. I fell somewhere in the middle. And so, did GQ and Eric. Before we could leave the store though, we bought beer, because as GQ shared, this campsite we planned to stay at was on a mountain.

We stopped at the town’s campground on our way back to the trail to fill up our water. I twisted the filter’s cap onto a bottle of dirty water, and it trickled into the new one. My arms pushed onto the dirty bottle, ceaselessly draining the contents of the container.

“Ready?” Eric asked from a nearby picnic table. Their packs ready and secured to their backs.