As I type, I’m flying high over central Oregon, Mt Jefferson, snowy and proud, juts above the thin crumple of clouds, lava fields spread out darkly into the distance.
Monday marked my last day at work, giving me three days to pack everything up, cart it across town to store in a friend’s garage for the summer, see and call friends, clean my apartment, and put the finishing touches on my resupply boxes and bring them out to LeeAnne’s. After a lively evening out with coworkers on Monday evening, though, paired with my unfortunate proclivity to migraines, I spent the entirety of Tuesday continually emptying the contents of my already empty stomach and lying in bed with the shades drawn.
With all of my plans now stuffed into two days, I barely slept. I set up camp in my now-empty bedroom, and took over the living room with my resupplies, sprawling further and further outward in a vortex of trail mix, Oreos, and dehydrated beans.
My departure didn’t hit me in any seriously way, however, until I opened the door to a knock this morning—a close friend arrived to take me to the airport. I was exhausted, excited, a little terrified, and incredibly sad to be leaving Seattle and those I’ve met in the last year and a half.
Now an official vagabond, I’m looking forward to a week on the Arizona Trail, which will hopefully serve as a good shakedown hike—one that will help me realize what I do and don’t actually need in order to lower my base pack weight.
Then its off to the Bay Area for another week before heading down to Trail Angels Scout and Frodo’s in San Diego, who will drive me to the trailhead on April 13.
As I now fly over part of the northern Sierra Nevada—alarmingly bereft of snow—the trail seems much more real, and much more possible. Just right down there. Just through those mountains. Two-hour flight, five-month journey.
This post is specially dedicated to Andrew and Brooke who complained that I use too many parentheticals as to make reading my blog entries aloud a burden.