14 months from now I’ll be taking a walk. A walk that will start at the Mexican border and hopefully end at the invisible line that separates us from Canada. 2,650 miles, 14 months to prepare, and only one me to see this through.
I’ve been mulling over hiking the Pacific Crest Trail for some time now, alternating between talking myself into and shaming myself out of the trek. I’ve already come to grips with the idea that once I’m on the trail, anything can force me off: injury, an aggressive wildlife encounter, losing morale, or simply making it to a certain point and saying, “This is enough. This is all I needed.” Anything can change between now and March of 2020. Nevertheless, here I am. Committed to an idea I’ve never been more sure of. A dream manifesting into a terrifyingly beautiful reality.
Maybe freedom really is nothing left to lose.
You had it once in childhood, when it was okay to climb a tree, to paint a crazy picture and wipe out on your bike, to get hurt.
The spirit of risk gradually takes its leave.
It follows the wild cries of joy and pain down the wind, through the hedgerow, growing ever fainter.
What was that sound?
A dog barking far off?
That was our life calling to us
The one that was vigorous