Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) (9 page)

“I can’t go now?”

“No way, José.” Celine folded her arms and spread her feet apart. Then she shrugged. “Hey, look, who am I to tell you what to do? You’re the psychologist. But this whole thing is a mother effin’
crazy idea. And wanting to start now doesn’t make it sound more sane.”

As Grace drove home later, the three massive books slid aimlessly on the passenger seat.

Hope’s thinking about moving to Atlanta. Our parents are moving back to Japan. Celine’s playing happy music again. I’m not going to be the one who’s stuck, glued to the same place I am today. Single. Lonely. Without a clear purpose. Kenji’s hike, no matter how crazy, is my answer.

***

On the ridge, Grace shivered with fear and cold as a strong gust from the storm shook her bivy. She burrowed deeper into her sleeping bag.

Back then everything—the pack, the food, the boots—felt right. But I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.

Chapter 9

At the same time as Grace marched unawares on the trail toward the blizzard at the top of the Desert Divide, a different storm of sorts was gathering much farther south.

At Lake Morena County Park near the Mexican border, almost five hundred wannabe thru-hikers assembled for the annual Day Zero Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off, known in the PCT hiking world as simply the Kick Off.

Experienced backpackers, complete novices, and all in between congregated for three days to socialize, prepare, and reminisce. Most were young, some had grey hair and wrinkles, and a few represented the middle age cohort. Overall, about a third were women.

Successful PCT end-to-enders from previous seasons returned to the Kick Off for the nostalgia, while rookies took the opportunity to gather valuable last-minute information about water caches, trail angels, gear, food, first aid, bears, and cell phone reception. Several hikers who started the trail earlier hitchhiked back to participate in the festivities. By day, people poked through vendors’ displays of tents, hats, and packs. They attended lectures. Made new friends. At night, campfires provided the backdrop for camaraderie and song.

Hikers referred to this mass of northbound thrus as “the herd,” a group of disparate souls united by love of the PCT. Some hopefuls would not survive the initial twenty, waterless miles. But at the Kick Off, all struggles still lay ahead. A NASA scientist, three dot com millionaires, sixteen ministers, thirty-eight camp counselors, and fifty-four marathon runners were among the hundreds gathered. Five had their pilot’s license. Two had served time.

One had almost killed a girl. And one didn’t care at all about the trail, only about revenge.

The majority of thrus took hiking seriously. But the lure of continuous partying drew a small number. These young, strong, mostly male hikers prepared for the weeks ahead by funneling vodka, gin, and rum into their water containers, concealing marijuana and other drugs in the small pockets of their packs, and drinking as much beer as possible while it was still readily available. Pulling down big miles to get to Canada interested them far less than hiking quickly to hit as many bars as possible along the way. Ultimately, if they ended their hike at Lake Tahoe, that wasn’t going to be so bad, they thought.

After leaving the scene of his bicycle accident, fleeing Oakland, and spending months couch surfing in LA, Jerry Kriebel was attracted by this party group. The novelty of LA’s punk music scene had worn off after repeated ejections for smuggling beer into arenas. Under-the-counter jobs paid for food, but Jerry resented cutting other people’s lawns, cleaning other people’s pools, and picking other people’s fruit. Then one of his acquaintances mentioned the PCT.

“I did it last year. It was a total blast. Walked from Mexico straight north. Got hammered at bars on the way. Then I stopped at Tahoe for the rest of the summer and never looked back, man.”

Jerry worried about the expense.

“Shit, you don’t even have to buy any food. You beg from the serious hikers and go through what they leave behind. It’s called ‘yogi-ing’—don’t ask me why. But these rich dudes always have too much stuff. It’s crazy. They spend thousands of bucks on freeze-dried crap, and then they dump it because it weighs too much.”

Jerry wondered about the gear.

“I’ll give you mine. Who needs it in LA? I’ve even got a Bowie knife. All you’ll have to get is shoes. And whatever keeps you flying high. Seriously, I never had so much fun. It’s mostly guys, but if you aren’t too picky, you can get some as you go along. The chicks are super horny after weeks without action. They never even know your real name, ’cause you make up a funny trail name and everybody uses that. So no knocked up girl’s ever gonna find you.”

Jerry’s lips tightened into a knowing leer. “Action’s what I’m good at. Screw foreplay and pillow talk. Doing it standing up against a tree suits me fine. So, how much is admission?”

“Just show up, dude. The last weekend of April at Lake Morena County Park in Campo. Due east of San Diego. Got your driver’s license back?”

“No.”

“I’ll give you a lift. Hell, I’ll stay the weekend myself.” The youth nudged Jerry. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a hot girl looking for a trail veteran to show her the ropes.”

The weekend of the Kick Off, a royal blue lowrider Chevy screeched to a stop in the campground lot early Friday afternoon. Jerry opened the door. Desert heat slapped him in the face and the pounding sunshine hammered him speechless.

“I don’t know about this.” He leaned his hand against the car then snatched it back. “Ow. That’s fucking hot.” But his concerns evaporated when his friend clapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a group of young women sitting under a tree, clad in floppy hats, zip-off pants, and nylon tops. None of them wore a bra.

“Okay. You convinced me.” Jerry, grinning from ear to ear, walked up to say hello.

On a picnic table at the other end of the campground sat Ed Galeano, a thin, bedraggled man in camo. His hunched shoulders, creased brow, and deep frown made him look at least a decade older than his twenty-eight years. He had arrived at Lake Morena by bus, having ridden public transportation first from Oakland to LA, then LA to San Diego, and finally from San Diego to Campo. Three long, hot rides.

Ed surveyed the crowd from behind dark aviator sunglasses, wiping perspiration from his brow now and then before it dripped into his eyes. His thick long-sleeved shirt soaked up the sun in equal proportion to his sweat, and dark patches emphasized his underarms and back.

At Lake Morena, Ed’s disheveled appearance blended in with the crowd of thrus. A few hikers approached him as he sat on the picnic table and invited him to the lunch being dished out under a makeshift tarp. Ed declined.

“I like it where I am. I can see all the people in the chow line.”

A slight breeze rippled his short-cropped hair. He remained absorbed by the queue. Crowds of hikers edged toward the servers. The group moved slowly.

Ed’s fists clenched and unclenched as he scanned the faces.

Then his eyes focused. A laughing, shirtless man, back half-turned to Ed, greeted a young woman. The man nudged his neighbor in the ribs and offered the woman a beer from a cooler. The pretty brunette shook her head, shoved his outstretched hand away, and left the line. The man shrugged and turned to the food, exposing a snake tattoo that crawled across his bare chest.

Ed tensed.

After a minute of watching the man, he hopped off the table and stalked toward the campground. He marched around empty tents, guy-lines, and backpacks until a hidden stake snagged his boot. He untangled it, cursing.

Then he wiped his face with his sleeve and stood erect.

“I don’t have to do anything now,” he said under his breath as he picked his way back to the picnic through the colorful assortment of gear. “There’s only one trail. I have from here to Canada to find him alone. I’ll watch and wait. And when I get him, I’ll bring him to his knees. He’ll pay for what he did to my life.”

Ed joined the end of the lunch line. He chatted casually with the hikers around him as he heaped his plate with hot dogs and beans and covertly scanned the grassy area where hundreds of hungry thrus clumped in small groups to eat one of their last easy meals.

His eyes caught those of someone who’d approached him earlier. The man waved and Ed joined his group on the sandy ground, his back to where Jerry caroused with a cluster of young men around a keg.

The man shook Ed’s hand. “So, are you ready for the thru-hike?”

“I’m prepared.” Ed glanced at the assembled crowd. “But I bet some people aren’t. Nasty things can happen on the trail.”

Chapter 10

Later that night, much farther north, the mountain-top blizzard raged around Grace’s emergency shelter. Trees moaned and creaked with each ferocious gust. Now and again branches gave way under the weight of ice and snow, shaking the ground. Grace poked the tarp overhead to rid it of accumulation. When the wind abated toward morning, she finally fell asleep.

Well after dawn, Grace crawled from her refuge into mud and slush. A startlingly blue sky glowed against snow and ice-covered firs that dwarfed her jerry-rigged tarp. Her pack lay bespattered with mud and ice beneath its ripstop nylon cover.

I made it. San Francisco-size woman lives through Texas-size storm.

Her sleeping bag was a collection of sodden down clumps. Grace spread it out to dry and sat in the welcome sunshine.

Keep hiking? Or quit while I’m still alive?

The woods around her seemed made of glass, startlingly bright, clear, and brittle. Icicles dripped in the morning light. Branches sparkled and creaked. Snow fluttered on the remaining breeze.

Back to town. I’ll make up my mind there. I need convincing that hiking alone isn’t a suicidal plan.

She hefted her pack to rejoin the PCT and head south, toward Idyllwild.

How much farther ahead is Lone Star going to get now? At this rate, the only way to catch him is going to be in a car.

At the Pines to Palms Highway, she stood for half an hour as a trickle of vehicles passed her outstretched thumb. Finally, a navy minivan rolled to a stop.

“My daughters are all girl scouts.” The middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat pushed a button and the van door closed softly behind Grace, enveloping her in the scents of potato chips, ice cream, and gum. “I have a soft spot for female hikers.”

Grace perched on the middle row amid soccer balls, dog leashes, and half-empty soda bottles. Her driver concentrated on the road. Grace pulled her cell phone from its Ziploc baggie and scrolled through recent pictures until she found the photo of Lone Star’s last hiker register note.

In his characteristic slanting script it read:

Darling Just Grace,

You must be getting used to trail life by now. You’ve probably had some more adventures—got my fingers crossed they’re all Rhode Island-size. I hope in between you’re enjoying the views, the sunrises, and the sunsets.

I’m busy as a hound in flea season trying to beat the herd. I’m sure they’ll catch up with me eventually, but I’m quick out of the chute. Still, the experience of hiking alone has never been so difficult before. No getting around it. I miss you more than all get-out. I’ve been working on that poem. Here’s the next stanza.

I worried so about you there.

My heart was drawn with fear.

Your breath so quick your eyes so clear,

The time was ours to share.

Thinking of you lots and lots…and lots,

Lone Star

Grace sighed and put the phone away.

If Lone Star had been there last night, he would have seen that storm coming. I thought I was pretty good at predicting the weather. I’ve been out on the trail for weeks already. But I obviously know nothing about the mountains.

If I could only talk to him. Why did I pick the only person out here whose fanciest electrical device is a headlamp?

I could rent a car. Drive to the next place the PCT crosses a road. Sit there until those size fourteen hiking shoes came along. I don’t have to keep hiking. Nobody’s got a knife to my throat.

In town, she chose a room with a balcony that overlooked central Idyllwild and spent the next days searching her mind about what to do next.

“Are you hiking the PCT?” On Grace’s third evening in a row, the same motherly waitress in a frilly white apron brought her the check. “Sorry if I’m being nosy.”

Grace blinked with surprise. “What makes you ask?”

“I always know when a hiker’s sitting at my table. They eat more than two regular customers combined. Wish I could do that and get away with it.” The woman patted her ample middle.

Grace fished her credit card out of a Ziploc bag. “I’m actually thinking of quitting the trail. So if I keep eating like this, I’ll probably gain fifty pounds.”

The woman shook her head. “You won’t quit. I’ve never seen a sadder face than that of a hiker who has to quit. And you don’t look sad.”

“Maybe. But I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I had a little scare out there.”

The woman swept the check and card into her apron and stacked Grace’s dishes. “Keep hiking. You can always quit later.”

“I guess.”

“Take it from me.” She hoisted the large pyramid of plates onto one forearm. “I’ve seen hundreds of thrus. Maybe thousands. Quitting doesn’t solve your problems.”

Grace fidgeted on the seat. “What if hiking’s my problem?”

“If hiking was your problem, you wouldn’t have made it to Idyllwild.”

A smile poked at the corners of Grace’s mouth. “What do I owe you for the psychotherapy?”

The waitress grinned. “Just leave me a big tip.”

The next afternoon, Grace threw herself on the mercy of the town’s outdoor supplies store salesman. “I’m hiking the PCT. I lost my tent in a storm. Do you know anything about tents?”

“Was Moses Jewish?” The man’s accent placed him as a native of somewhere east of the Hudson River. “I hiked the PCT ten years ago and haven’t left California since. I love helping thrus.” He took in Grace’s enormous pack. “Especially novices. Can I go through your stuff to give you some advice?”

Grace laid her pack in front of him. He tipped it over and its contents cascaded onto the linoleum floor.

“Your cooking pot weighs a ton. You don’t need both a headlamp and a flashlight. Your sleeping bag’s shot.” He peered at her over thick reading glasses. “You’ve got serious climbing ahead of you. Let’s see what we can do to shave off a few ounces. In addition to all the rest of it, your stove’s too heavy,
capisce
? Why carry all that propane? What you need is a pop can stove.”

He retreated to the storage area and emerged with the remains of a folded Mountain Dew can. “I’ll let you have this for nothing. Buy some denatured alcohol and you’ll be set. I’ll show you how to use it when we’re done.”

“Done with what? My brother spent months getting ready for the PCT. I’m using most of his stuff. I thought I
was
set.”

“Set if you’re planning on having a Sherpa carry this.” He tossed aside rain pants, sun hat, water filter, dishes, utensil set, and towel. He tried to discard her San Diego County Parks and Recreation bottle, but Grace yelped. She clutched it to her chest as she watched.

“I actually worked hard on getting my weight down before I started.” Kenji’s down jacket flew onto the increasing mound.

“If you don’t have the right gear, you’ll suffer the whole way. You might even quit.” The clerk looked up at her from his knees. “You don’t want to quit, do you?”

Grace shook her head. “Go on. I know I need help.”

“What’s this?” Kenji’s apartment key dangled from the zipper of Grace’s first aid kit.

“My first aid kit.”

“I mean this.” The clerk flicked the key with his middle finger. “Extra ounces. This is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.” He fiddled with the twist tie that secured the key.

Grace snatched the kit away from him. “I need that. It’s…well, it’s like a good luck charm.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. But get rid of the kit. All you need is a few gauze pads, a bandage roll, and a sling. I’ve got some sets made up at the counter.”

“Thanks. But I think I’ll keep the whole kit. To be on the safe side. I’m a little accident prone.”

After an hour of strategic shopping, Grace asked him to weigh her old equipment against her new. He nodded with intense satisfaction. “Guess how much weight I saved you?”

Grace stared at the new items. “A pound?”

“Naw. Not even warm. Guess again.”

“Five pounds?”

“I saved you eight pounds, thirteen ounces. That’s including the tent.”

Grace pumped his hand and then closed her eyes when she signed the credit card receipt.

That night as she lay in her hotel bed, Grace composed a poem of her own.

Dearest Lone Star,

The sun is blazing from the sky.

Again it’s only me and I.

I wish I could share my water with you,

And not just my water but something else too.

My heart is beating faster now.

I think of seeing you again, but how?

Are we going to come together? When?

I won’t let you go so soon again then.

Just wait till I get my arms around you,

Grace

The next morning, she hiked the path from the Pines-to-Palms Highway for the third time in less than a week. The base weight of her pack, the weight without food, water, or fuel, had gone from over thirty-seven pounds to under twenty-eight.

My posture’s better. My step’s secure. I can do this for a few days longer. Maybe even catch up a bit.

And then she met the first hikers from the herd.

Grace heard them before she saw them. Footsteps pounded the trail behind her at twice her normal rate. Young thrus passed her with an effortless, loping gait and had little time for chitchat.

They zoomed the one hundred fifty miles from the Kick Off in less than five days. Thirty or more miles per day. Their packs are miniscule. They didn’t even stop at Idyllwild.

Another thru whizzed by.

I thought I’d picked up my pace. But these guys are running to Canada. How’s that even possible?

Some passed Grace at a more leisurely pace and relayed rumors of what happened elsewhere on the trail. They helped her analyze past storms, and predict future ones. They discussed snow levels in the mountains ahead. Shared where trail angels had supplied an additional water cache, how to detour around a bridge that washed away in a flash flood, and the containment status of a wildfire near the trail. It was her first taste of the PCT’s grapevine.

“This guy had to be helicoptered out because he fell off a cliff while hiking. I didn’t see it, but I heard it was amazing. They said the helicopter’s dust cloud could be seen for miles.”

Or, “You know how when you’re in Yellowstone and there’s one car parked by the side of the road? And then all these other cars start pulling over ’cause the people think someone spotted some amazing wild animal? Well, right when the herd was starting out at Campo, there was this guy bent over looking for something. Soon there were, like, fifty thrus all bent over, digging in the sand. Crazy. Turns out he was looking for one lousy M&M.”

And, “This year’s PCT party group gave themselves alcohol trail names. Bud, Gordon, Stoli, Ecstasy, Southern Comfort, Bacardi, and Margie. Margie’s short for Margaritaville. I got a look at Margie before I took off. Between you and me, I would
love
to search for her lost shaker of salt.”

That first evening back on the trail, the orange glow faded from the horizon over Little Tahquitz Valley as a young couple from upstate New York, Chow Hound and Teva, joined Grace. This was their second thru-hike, they said. They had hiked the Appalachian Trail together the summer before, beginning the day after their engagement.

“That seems like a rough start.”

“Not really.” Teva draped her socks over her dusty shoes and stretched her toes. “We were counselors at a wilderness camp. Our kids were not exactly little angels. They were always fighting with kitchen knives and burning down tents and running away. It was kind of like working at an outdoor detention facility. So when we got out on the AT, we kept saying how quiet and peaceful everything was.”

“Then it’s too bad you weren’t here a few nights ago. A big storm went through. It was anything but peaceful. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I would have loved some company. I wouldn’t have been picky. An escaped convict or two would have been welcome. Plus it was freezing. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to die from being hit by a falling tree or from hypothermia.”

“Sorry we missed it.” Teva leaned against her husband. “Chow Hound here never gets cold. But me? I’m always shivering. That’s why we share a sleeping bag. So I can cool him down and he can warm me up.” Chow Hound handed Teva a power bar and she munched it in the increasing darkness. “So, what brought you out here all by yourself?”

Grace hesitated. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I thought I was doing this for my brother. He wanted to hike the PCT. But…well…he can’t now. So I guess I’m hiking to figure out what to do with my life. It also sort of feels like a survival odyssey.”

“Because you have to eat the same food day in and day out?” Teva held up a stuff sack bulging with rectangles. “Chow Hound and I let ourselves get hungry. That way power bars taste better.” She smiled, shrugged, and ripped open her second. “It saves weight, not having to cook anything. But that’s not what you’re talking about.”