The Walk (11 page)

I went back upstairs and retrieved my Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses. Also, a roll of toilet paper, six pairs of socks, two pairs of cargo pants, a parka, a canteen, and five pairs of underwear.

I pulled on my pants, heavy wool socks, a T-shirt, and a Seattle SuperSonics sweatshirt. Fortunately, I had good hiking boots. They were lightweight, sturdy, and broken in. I sat down and laced them up. Then I slung the pack over my shoulder. It wasn’t too heavy, maybe twenty pounds.

The door locked automatically behind me, and without a single key in my pocket, I stood outside on the front patio. Then, without looking back, I began to walk.

Chyan li jr sying, shr yu dzu sya.
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
I read that in a Chinese fortune cookie. Technically I suppose, it wasn’t really a fortune—more of a proverb—and probably wasn’t even Chinese. It was likely just some American copywriter churning out yarns for a cookie company. I suppose all those years in advertising had made me cynical.

Whatever its origin, the proverb was applicable. Mentally and emotionally, I found that a walk as far as Key West was a little hard to wrap my mind around. My ultimate destination might as well have been China. I needed an interim target, a destination that was far enough to motivate me but close enough not to break my will. That place was on the other side of the state. I set my mind on Spokane.

The drive from Seattle to Spokane along I-90 is about four hours by car. But I wasn’t traveling by car, and 90 is an interstate. The Highway Patrol would definitely have some problems with my route. The preferred (and by “preferred” I mean “legal”) route for bikers and hikers is Highway 2, a scenic two-lane road that climbs through the Cascade mountains up to Stevens Pass, one of Washington’s ski resorts. I knew that at that time of the year there would be snow at the pass, but I
pushed it from my mind. I’d deal with that when I got
there.

I followed 132nd Avenue north to Redmond Road, then walked about six miles northeast into Redmond. By the time I arrived at the city center, it was around two in the afternoon, and the traffic was heavy.

I was a bit conspicuous traveling through downtown Redmond with a backpack and sleeping bag slung over my back, and I drew a lot of curious glances, but I didn’t care. The first casualty of hitting rock bottom is vanity.

From the heart of Redmond, I continued north up Avondale Road. The walk was flat, and the side of the road was wet and spongy, carpeted with copper-hued pine needles fallen from the trees that lined the route. As I walked farther away from the city, I noticed that my mood softened a little. The sounds of birds and water, the rhythmic fall of my feet, and the cool, fresh air untied my mind from the craziness of the night before. I’ve always
believed that a good walk in the woods is as effective as psychotherapy. Nature is, has always been, the greatest of healers.

By Woodinville—about sixteen miles from Bellevue—my legs already felt tired, which was a bad omen. Even though I was an avid hiker and runner, the last four weeks I had sacrificed everything to be with McKale, including exercise. Not surprisingly, I had lost muscle and gained weight—enough at least that my pants were snug at the waist.

There was a Safeway grocery store at the edge of town, and I stopped in for supplies and to get something to eat.
I bought two quart bottles of water, a pint bottle of orange juice, a box of peanut butter and chocolate energy bars, two boxes of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts, two Braeburn apples, a Bartlett pear, a bag of trail mix, and a sixteen-ounce bag of jerky.

After some deliberation, I purchased a travel pack of shampoo and a package of disposable razors and shaving gel. I had considered letting my beard grow until I looked like one of the ZZ Top guys, but decided against it. The truth is, I’ve never liked wearing beards. I grew a goatee once, but McKale said it hurt to kiss me and threatened to withhold her lips until I shaved it off. (She also told me that it made me look like Satan. I don’t know how she knew what Satan looked like, but the goatee came off that night.)

My pack was noticeably heavier as I left the Safeway.
I continued walking north until I reached Highway 522, and turned east. I was finally free of suburbia. The forest around me was overgrown on both sides, thick with ferns, evergreens, and lichen-flocked black cottonwoods.

In spite of the ballast I’d added, the walk became easier as the road gradually descended, and my pack seemed to be pushing me downhill.

Seattle is amphibious. Even when I couldn’t see water, I could hear it somewhere, an underground stream or viaduct or a roadside waterfall. Under these conditions other cities would mold or rot—but on this side of Washington, wet is the natural state of things—like a salamander’s back.

By four-thirty darkness was already starting to fall. As daylight faded, the temperature dropped to the low forties. I decided not to take chances with my remaining light and find a place to camp.

I had just reached Echo Lake when I encountered a bank rising 30 feet or more into thick forest, providing a screen from the road. I climbed the bank, grabbing on to ferns and foliage to avoid slipping on the muddy hill. At the top, I looked down and saw a small inlet. I wasn’t the first to discover the site. There was a flat area where someone had camped before, evidenced by rocks gathered into a fire pit.

I hiked down the ravine to the edge of the water, found a dry spot, and laid down my pack. I looked around again to make sure I was alone, then I pulled the tent out of my pack.

Even though I had written the brochure for this tent, I’d never actually assembled it. Fortunately, it was as easy to
construct as I had promised. I was glad for this. Whether I was selling tents or politicians, more times than not, I wrote my pitches based on what the product should be, not necessarily what it was. This made me a professional liar. At least I was right about the tent.

I rolled out my self-inflating pad, then laid out my sleeping bag, a down-filled mummy sack. I took off my clothes, climbed inside, and lay back with my head sticking outside of the tent’s vinyl screen door. The sky was veiled behind layers of thin, black clouds. I looked at the fire pit.

When I was twelve years old, in scouting, my scoutmaster told us that the first thing one should do when lost in the wilderness is start a fire. He asked us why, and we offered our answers.
Heat. Warmth. To keep wild animals away. To signal rescuers where we were.

“All good answers,” he said, “but none of them what I’m looking for. You start a fire to keep yourself from panicking.”

I should have started a fire. As night descended, so did the panic of my situation. I realized that I was not walking alone. I was being followed by three fellow sojourners: grief, bitterness, and despair. I might get ahead of them for a while, but they always caught up. I wondered what kind of legs they had and how many miles they’d follow me and across how many state lines. The whole way?

I could hardly believe that just that morning I was living in a $2 million home with a computerized home environment system, a king-sized canopy bed with a plush mattress, and Egyptian cotton sheets with a
hundred thousand thread count. (I might have exaggerated that last fact.) Now I was living in a tent. My world was upside down. I wanted to tell McKale about it. She’d call me a crazy old coot. She’d say, “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.” Then she’d say, “Yes I do. You’re a dream chaser.”

I realized that this was how my life would be from now on—not necessarily living in a tent, but living in contrast to my former existence. Like the Gregorian calendar’s
Anno Domini
, my life would likewise be designated,
Before
and
After McKale
.

I had been with her for so long that not only did everything remind me of her, everything I experienced was viewed relative to her—what she liked, hated, laughed at, or endured for my sake.

I couldn’t believe I had to live the rest of my life without her.

Birds woke me. I didn’t know what species they were, other than annoying. The racket was probably my fault. They were likely just screeching at me for intruding on their world.

Almost as soon as I woke, the pain returned. If you’ve known loss, you know what I mean. Every morning since McKale’s death had been that way—within moments of consciousness, I felt the heaviness of grief settle over me. If nothing else, grief is, at least, reliable.

I sat up in my tent and rubbed my legs. My calves were sore from the previous day’s walk. I figured I had covered close to twenty miles. I hadn’t walked that far in one day since McKale signed us up for the Muscular Dystrophy fundwalker. I should have stretched before going to bed. I just didn’t think about it. I had too many other things on my mind.

I opened my pack and brought out a Pop-Tart and the bottle of orange juice. There were two Pop-Tarts in a package, but I ate just one and returned the other. I drank the whole bottle of juice. Then I took out my razor and cream and went to the water to shave. The lapping inlet water
was cold, and it braced my face as I rinsed off the shaving cream, clouding the water white.
I’m soft,
I thought.
I’ve become soft.

McKale’s and my idea of roughing it was a hotel without twenty-four-hour room service. I once read that in the Wild West, men would avoid baths because they believed warm water made them weak. They might have been right. Warm water had made me weak.

As I was putting back my razor, my cell phone rang, startling me. I had forgotten that I had it. I instinctively checked to see who was calling, but I didn’t recognize the number, so I didn’t answer. The phone was my last link to the world I had left behind. It was more than a link—this sleek device was filled with contacts, schedules, and
history—a microcosm of the very world I was walking away from. I did what every cell phone user has occasionally fantasized. I hurled the device as far as I could into the lake. It barely made a splash.

I stuffed everything back into my pack, then left my first camp, climbing the tall bank to get back to the road. The hill was slick, and I slipped on the way down the other side, leaving my rear and pack caked with mud and pieces of torn fern. I stood, wiped off my seat and backpack, then started on my walk.

I walked for about two hours before I reached the town of Monroe. I had asked the checker at the Woodinville Safe
way about Monroe, and she said the town was nothing. Her assessment was flawed. It was bigger than I expected.

I stopped and stretched at the town’s welcome sign. Every town has a sign, like Welcome doormats. While most signs display no more creativity than a name, the more ambitious towns use these signs as advertisements. None of them say what they really mean:
OKAY, YOU’RE HERE. SPEND SOME MONEY, THEN GO HOME.

As I walked down Monroe’s main street, I was aware that I was being watched from business windows, parking lots, and passing cars. This was a phenomenon that I would never fully get used to but would come to expect. In the smaller towns, a stranger walking through is met with mild suspicion or curiosity and usually both. No doubt at least one of the towns along my route would someday print an article about my appearance that would read like this.