Mile 110

Mile 110 arrived quickly and with an unexpected bang.

After a laughable number of flight changes and delays, I arrived in Seattle, Washington on Wednesday, June 26. In all sincerity, the delays were fortuitous for serval reasons. My being unexpectedly stranded in Denver, Colorado allowed for the happiest of reunions with my good friend, Megan, who has been serving in the Episcopal Service Corps in Denver for the past year. Sitting on her kitchen floor sharing college stories, IPAs, and freshly prepared veggies at midnight was the most fitting pre-hike send off I could imagine. I really can’t overstate my gratitude for her or that encounter.

But another reason the delays were fortuitous is that I was able to meet up with a group of hikers en route to the trail.

The tentative trail family included Alex who is a ridiculously large person with a low voice and lower affect. His remarks are almost always hyperbolic and laden with swears and a grim realism. Though he’s faster and fitter than nearly anyone I’ve encountered, he takes the challenges of the trail very seriously and has one of the lightest packs around (which scores him some serious trail cred).

Then there’s Peak Freak and Lifeboy, two former Appalachian Trail thru-hikers (which is why they already have trail names) I met at on a shuttle bus. Peak Freak has one of the most generous and endearing dispositions of any person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. He has a magic way of lifting the group’s spirits and navigating social situations with impressive ease and gentleness. He’s a patient teacher and exudes a natural wisdom despite being the youngest of the bunch. You’d never know that though from his giant auburn beard.

Meanwhile, Lifeboy is on the quieter side expect when he’s singing his way down trail. He has a low, melodic voice and a strawberry blonde beard that’s white gold in some spots. Lifeboy seems the most at ease in the wilderness. He’s the first among us to cowboy camp under open stars and he carries the heaviest pack while somehow managing to always be one of the fastest hikers. Lifeboy is a “flipper” meaning that he started northbound (NoBo) in Mexico and switched to a southbound (SoBo) hike due to outlandish snowfall in the Sierras.

Finally, there’s Matt. A Londoner turned New Yorker with gorgeous eyes who moonlights as a software engineer when he isn’t hiking, snowboarding, or climbing mountains. He’s the oldest of the bunch and has recently taken the name “Shrink” in light of all the “shitty life advice” he doles out during the course of our daily hikes. In the evenings, after we make camp, the group will often charge Shrink with reading short stories aloud in his lilting British accent.

Woah, that’s a lot of testosterone. How are you holding up, Isabella? Yes, good question. Let’s come back to it.

While preparing for my hike, I read a book titled Pacific Crest Trails: A Psychological and Emotional Guide to Successfully Thru-Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. There’s this section I’ve been mulling over which is named after a trail truism, “Hike your own hike.” In this chapter, the authors forewarn prospective thru-hikers not to become caught up in the social aspect of the trail such that they compromise their own needs and short shrift their own hike. I learned this lesson quickly and painfully.

Finding myself swiftly grafted into this trail family was a gift. We learned from one another (admittedly, I did most of the learning) and we laughed constantly. We traded backrubs, shared snacks, and formed the sort of fast friendships that keep your body warm and your spirits high when it’s rainy and dark and every single muscle in your body is revolting against you. We created rituals, assigned roles, and found ourselves in a rhythm that no one wanted to disturb.

But ultimately, everyone has to hike their own hike.

For my part, it was terribly unwise that I kept pace with four outrageously fit men including two seasoned thru-hikers. I learned as much on the second day out when we walked a whopping twenty two miles in a single day to tag the Canadian border (which was pretty freakin’ cool if I do say so myself) and then limped into camp with a bruised and swollen ankle that screamed, “What the hell are you doing to me!” I expressed my concerns about holding the group back, trying to listen to my aching body that was begging me to slow down, but the group was confident in my ability to keep up and I had trouble discerning whose judgement I should be following.

This is the northern terminus of the PCT at the Canadian border. Don’t let the smile fool ya, I’m crying inside.

Soon I became wary of how much time we were all spending together. I opted to hike alone and meet up for breaks which allowed for a slower place. Even still, solitude was hard to come by and I found myself thinking, “Wait, didn’t I come out here to be alone?”

It wasn’t always easy, or even possible, to hike alone. When we pushed off after lunch, a gaggle to hikers all moving at approximately the same speed jockeyed for space on the trail, and I frequently found myself in a centipede-esque line marching so quickly I was unable to appreciate the unspeakable beauty surrounding me.

The intricate social dynamics of our trail family and my insistence on remaining a part of the pack crowded out my appreciation for the hulking jagged peaks with their glistening snow caps, the barely visible trail that skirted the mountainside above sheer cliffs and steep drop-offs. I had to strain to take in the splintery white post-fire forests and luminous aqua pools formed by melted glaciers at breakneck speed rather than moving at a pace that was right for me, my feet, and my soul.

I thought this problem would resolve itself organically when I arrived in my first trail town, Stehekin. I needed to see a doctor for my aching ankle (you know, the one I just walked one hundred miles on) and I figured that’d be a natural reason to part from the pack. However—instead of a graceful parting of ways—a clunky, awkward, and embarrassing conversation unfolded revealing a lot of unspoken expectations and dashed hopes. Being one of few women around a large and competitive group of men can be unsurprisingly difficult and unexpectedly dramatic.

While everyone does their best to be mature and respectful on the trail, ultimately, relationships are just as dynamic and complex out here as they are anywhere else. Which is to say, if solitude is what I’m after, I’m going to have to be a little more pragmatic and deliberate about obtaining it.

Now—a visit to the doctor, one x-ray, and two new shoes later—I am heading back to the trail for my next hundred or so miles!

If you’ve read this far then maybe you like me enough to send a letter or pass along your address in order to receive a postcard. Mail can always be sent to my home address (at 138 Hartman Court) so that I can receive mail via resupply boxes. Alternatively, if you want to send me a letter on trail this week (and this week only) you should send the letter to:

Isabella Hall – PCT Hiker, ETA 7|11

C/O Stevens Pass

93001 NE Stevens Pass Hwy, US 2

Skykomish, WA 98288

This address will change week to week. Let me know if you have questions you want to see answered here.

Peace,

Isabella