“Well Crap!”, I exclaimed with a chuckle. The trail ahead was under water for the foreseeable future. It was raining but miraculously I had managed to keep feet dry until now. I pressed forward and frigid muddy water swirled into my shoes.
The misty rain was cold and relentless as I neared the top of Fire Creek Pass. I rounded the last rocky switchback and peered ahead into the mist. “WELL CRAP!” I growled again. This time there was no chuckle. I wasn’t near the top at all! The massive bowl above me was humbling and it promised a lot more climbing. I could feel my feet falling apart in my soggy shoes and I desperately needed to stop to dry them out. However, this rainy exposed trail was no place to dry anything. Alas, I trudged upward.
I paused at the summit to catch my breath and was suddenly blinded. I squinted upward to behold the hole opening in the clouds. It was glorious! The sun’s rays shimmered in the mist and warmed my face. I collapsed in the mud, pealed off my wet shoes, and rejoiced.
The clouds lifted and I hiked on rejuvenated. I had been alone all day but I soon spotted another hiker gaining on me. Hoping for some company I waited for the distant figure to catch-up. “I thought it was you!” she shouted. It was Siesta the Canadian I met weeks ago near the border. It was great to see her usual ear to ear smile. We hiked on together through an endless field of lupine.
Over the next week Siesta and I played a never ending game of leap frog. Sometimes she would catch up to me and sometimes it was the other way around. Siesta was a geologist and true adventurer. One moment I got an in depth explanation of a rock formation and the next I listened to harrowing tales about mountaineering on Kilimanjaro. The miles passed quickly while we talked. Siesta wasn’t just entertaining she was also a good friend. One night I was pushing to hike more miles than ever before but I had to take an occasional break to elevate my legs. Siesta refused to leave me behind opting instead to stick around and tell me jokes.
Perhaps the only frustrating thing about hiking with Siesta was the mosquitoes at camp. I swear the swarm didn’t even know she existed when I was around. She’d look up from preparing her usual gourmet trail tacos and laugh at the buzzing cloud I had attracted while she looked on barely bothered by the bloodsuckers. You’re welcome Siesta.
Siesta and I parted ways at Stevens Pass. While I wouldn’t catch up to her again, I often heard NOBO hikers discussing the lady who makes gourmet tacos. I’d ask “Is her name Siesta?” Baffled they’d respond, “Yeah!” I’d laugh and take comfort in the knowledge that Siesta was somewhere ahead and still going strong.