The pickup slowed to a stop and I looked around at Trout Lake. I could see the entire quaint town from this vantage and I thought it looked an awful lot like Georgia. The other hikers and I poured out of the truck bed, thanked our driver, and meandered to Trout Lake Grocery. Time seemed to have forgotten this charming general store. Its rough cut siding wore a fresh coat of rust red paint, the walls were sporadically decorated with massive elk antlers, and flowers exploded from planter boxes on the sprawling front porch. As charming as the building was it couldn’t hold a candle to the ladies inside. I inquired about the huckleberry pies on the counter and the clerk’s face lit up as she explained they were homemade daily. This lady was three decades my senior and she regaled me with fantastic stories from her well lived life. The conversation went on for an eternity but never once lulled. I would eventually learn my new friend hailed from the same small Georgia town where my dad was raised and also had relatives in the town I call home. We eagerly compared notes and despite being 2000 miles away it suddenly felt like I was home. Once we wrapped up our gabbing, I grabbed my resupply box, purchased some fresh produce, and sprawled out in the grass behind the store.
I enjoyed my time lounging on the lawn but I was ready to hike. Another pickup truck was headed back to trail and I climbed aboard. A drizzle accompanied me as I climbed into the mountains once more. I reached camp just in time as the drizzle had swelled into a deluge. I threw my tent together and crawled inside thankful to be dry and warm.
The traffic was intense. PCT Days had just concluded and released a flood of NOBO hikers. I passed 20 to 40 oncoming hikers every day. I’d spot the hiker coming my way and reach for my earbuds to pause my podcast. They’d do the same and we’d chat briefly. Often it was just a quick hello, sometimes we shared dirt on the upcoming trail, and in several instances I was given a message to relay to another hiker. One morning, I happened upon two NOBO hikers while they were taking a snack break. The conversation was hilarious and before I knew it I had dropped my pack, taken my shoes off, and was eating lunch with my new friends. These ladies and I grew up in different parts of the world, had polar opposite life experiences, and yet we talked as if we’d been friends for years. The rest of the day was filled with stories, snacks, and naps. We hadn’t moved all day and as the sun set we pitched our tents where we sat and talked through our tent walls as we fell asleep.
I sauntered down the trail while a golden morning light streamed through the trees above. The trail had meandered through a lush forest for most of the week and this morning was no exception. The afternoon brought a break in the trees and I paused to enjoy a brief glimpse of Mount Hood before pressing on toward camp. The next morning I grumbled a string of expletives as sunrise illuminated the forest floor. I had hiked by dim headlamp in the predawn hours and the sun revealed that all of the trail-side vegetation I had carelessly brushed past was poison oak. However, I was less than three miles from Cascade Locks, Oregon and nothing could dampen my spirits.
The trees parted and I found myself on a highway. The blast of noise and air from a passing semi seemed brash after hiking in silence for the last two weeks. I dodged cars while I navigated the Bridge of the Gods and crossed from Washington into Oregon. On the other side, I stood gazing at the mighty Columbia River and my thoughts drifted. I had just hiked 500 plus miles. Two years ago I could barely hike at all. I expected to feel total elation but now I was simply unable to wrap my head around the magnitude of the experience. A moment more passed before I snapped myself out of it. The journey wasn’t over. I had family to call, an overdue shower to take, and a bed to sleep in. Goodbye Washington.