Riv's 2015 PCT, Day 56, August 20

Day 56, Thursday, August 20

Rest/"Zero" Day at Summit Inn, Snoqualmie Pass

Dear Trail Friends,

It is all settled. I will end my hike for this year at Stevens Pass. We have even made reservations for the ferry for next Wednesday, August 26 (Day 62), which will be the last day of this year's hike. I am bowing to the reality of the multiple uncontrolled fires, the trail closures, the uncertain detours (two proposed detours have had to be closed due to the fires), the risk involved in hiking near uncontrolled fires both to me and in potentially causing more work for emergency workers if I had to be evacuated, the dangers of breathing smoke.  

Although I hope and intend to return to hike the final 200 mile segment ( my hike will end at PCT mile 2461.62, so I will have hiked 845 miles from my starting point at Burney Falls in June), I am aware of a deep sadness and anxiety as if this whole era of hiking the PCT were coming to an end. I am aware that my body has never been as muscular and strong and that this wonderful feeling of such a strong, vital body will gradually fade away as I stop walking 15-20 miles a day. 

I had lunch with Barbara and we talked about the bitter sweetness of approaching the end of the hike, and also what would be most vital for us in our lives after the trail. For both of us, hiking the PCT has been a focus of passion and attention since we retired. She spoke of older women poets in Alabama (the state where she lives) who modeled writing poetry, giving readings, and offering poetry workshops well into their nineties. That is what she sees in her own future. I spoke of my Freud writing project and the commitment to present again this year in Philadelphia, and I hope subsequent years, at the IFPE (International Forum for Psychoanalytic Education) conference. 

We were sitting on stools along a bar looking out the window at a patio area where her dog and hiking partner Angel was tethered. It was fascinating to watch Angel engage most of the people who passed: with some rolling over and letting them rub her belly, with others quietly wagging her tail. We talked about how important dogs are to people and all we learn from them. Barbara spoke of how she could not do this hike without Angel. It was interesting how few people ignored Angel's presence (one young woman absorbed in her iPhone seemed not to notice Angel; this led to Barbara's observation of a distinct change in her undergrad students over the last decade: they used to talk with and engage one another; now they are each in their own world, hunched over their smartphone. )

Photo 1. Angel as seen from the restaurant window and a man who has kneeled down to interact with her. 

Photo 2: Barbara and Angel outside of the restaurant, mountain in background. 

This all reminded me of hiking yesterday and passing two women day hikers with two dogs zestfully romping off leash. Later in the day they came back, calling, looking frantic. One of the dogs had gotten lost. This led to memories of my first (first in my adult life) dog, Molly, and how I loved to let her off leash hiking Moran Park on Orcas until one day she dashed off after a deer and disappeared.  I was terrified she would race across a street and get hit by a car, or get injured in the woods somewhere and I would never find her. After that day, I kept her on a leash in the woods most of the time. 

I remembered how when we first adopted Sappho, our first Samoyed, and Sappho wandered off into the woods, I sent Molly to look for her and bring her back. And she did. Then I remembered one day when Molly had run off and I sent Sappho to look for her.  That day my neighbor Barbara found me at the market in town and could barely tell me her news: Sappho had been hit by a car, Barbara had brought her into town to the vet, but it was too late. Sappho was dead. 

I remember lifting her beautiful silky white body into my car and driving home. I remember that I could feel and sense her spirit talking to me, admonishing me not to grieve, not to look back. It would not be honoring her, she said. She had never looked back, but always run forward to meet the next exciting and wonderful dog, person, moment. If I wanted to honor her, I would do the same. Sappho taught me a lot about looking for the next wave to ride, rather than trying to ride the vanished wave I have already fallen off. 

After Sappho died -- and when Molly was very soon going to die -- we adopted Nikki. We went to a breeder on Vancouver Island, we took her for a walk, and Chris turned to me and said very shyly "I think I like her. "

On the car ride home, Nikki seemed to shake her head and force her eyes open every time she started to fall asleep. (Nikki had been abused in her first home and come back to the breeder for emotional rehab, she was in that sense a rescue dog. ) I got in the back seat with her and closed my eyes. I guess I thought that if I showed I trusted her and could be vulnerable with her, maybe she would be able to trust me. And she did finally fall asleep. She didn't pee, either, for quite awhile. She must have been very scared to be leaving --again--the only safe home she had known. I sang goodnight songs to her every night for the first week or two she was with is. In time Nikki became a very trusting and happy dog. But there was always a tenderness and delicacy you could see especially in her eyes. And she always was easily startled. 

When Misty came to live with us, she suffered terribly from the separation from her sister and kennel mate. (The breeder reported that her sister also cried all night the first week). I sang goodnight songs to Misty too. 

Later, as they were with us longer, I made up special goodnight songs just for them. Good night songs became pleasure and play rather than comfort because of loss and fear. They were two happy dogs. They loved greeting my clients and our neighbors. They spread their happiness to others. They were very good at loving life and living whoever and whatever came their way. 

When Misty died, as most of you know, her choice to die outside led me to sleep beside her that final night under the stars. Listening to the wind high up in the trees, smelling the fir needles, feeling the magnetism of the ground beneath me, being with Misty and singing her lullabies to ease the transition -- that night definitely was part of what called me to the PCT. Misty too taught me a lot about looking forward, watching for the next wave might ride. 

Seeing me dote on Angel, Barbara thinks maybe I need another dog. And maybe I do. Or maybe as my ride on the great great wave of the trail itself that I have had the joy and privilege of riding since my retirement approaches its end, I need to be reminded of the many things my dog loves have taught me. I need to look forward, watch the incoming waves, be curious which one I will jump up on and try to get my balance and ride. 

Tomorrow morning I may start my hike. Or if it is raining I may delay until afternoon. I will take this section slower in part because there is a lot of very steep up and down.  And in part because I want to go more slowly and kiss the trail goodbye with a soft, lingering, fully conscious kiss. To say goodbye. To savor the sweet sadness of parting. 

Goodbye for now.