Thousands of Miles Without a Trace
"What did you just say?" I called out to the scraggly hiker sitting across the trail from me in the shade. I glared at him for a moment, awaiting his response while taking another bite out of my honey bun.
"This is day eighty-eight for me." He replied, "That means it's day eighty-seven for you." He sat upright and stared up at the sky in his state of bewilderment as if there was some clarity written overhead. I took another bite and chewed slowly, processing the strange wave of emotions that began to ripple through my body in waves. It was the first time I had thought about how long I had been hiking for in weeks.
"Imagine that," I responded after some duration in silence, "three whole months to walk the length of California." It's a concept that is difficult to grasp, even after conducting the feat. Although I've lived each moment and taken each step, it's all somehow blended into a foggy mess of a dream. I almost need to convince myself that it happened. From the barren desert valleys to the high mountain passes and back again, all leading to the dry-rotted stump I was sitting on while enjoying my little snack beyond a border that was once a great distance away, we had arrived in Oregon.
Sam and I have been hiking together for nearly the past three months. Initially, we belonged to a larger group of hikers, all with the same arbitrary goal of walking to Canada for reasons that make sense to few people beyond the winding trail that we all share. Over time, our group has dwindled to just Sam and me as the others have either gone ahead or stayed behind in pursuit of their own experiences. The trail has a funny way of speaking individually to those who travel it. Oftentimes, it will beckon one to stay and enjoy the view for a time while encouraging another to continue and see the next. We've all learned the importance of listening when it speaks.
A recurring thought that I have while hiking is that despite all the miles and, at this point, thousands of other hikers that I have met on the PCT, there has been little to no evidence left behind to show that anyone has been on the trail at all. Oftentimes, I'll walk for hours alone in the woods while thinking, "I wonder how long it's been since the person in front of me has passed through here." This is proof that sustainability and recreation don't have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, they go hand in hand with one another. If we don't take care of what we have, no one will be able to enjoy its riches as it withers away with time. By being conscious of our impact and policing others to do the same, we can preserve what we have now for the generations that come after. On a thru-hike, this might look like packing out your trash or walking only on the prescribed trail. But the same principles can be applied to nearly anything. If we all keep in mind our impact on those who come after us, we shouldn't have anything to fear.
