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Ahead of the Sun

After we all made it down from Forrester Pass, Lon took a map out and showed us where we needed to be to make camp that night.
Before the day was over, I would find myself in a race against the sun.

Hiking alone had its good points.
For one thing, I didn't have to worry about keeping up with anyone. I've noticed that tall people rarely notice the short people scuttling to keep up with them.
But if the tall ones aren't around, problem solved.
So I was merrily hiking along. The sun was high in the sky. A few clouds scuded overhead, and the hiking was some of the easiest yet.
The only thing was, I couldn't really estimate how far it was to my evening destination at a campsite among some trees. Sure, I saw it on the map, but what good have maps ever done me?
OK, that's an overstatement.
I have, on occasion, been able to obtain some benefits from map reading. But among the mountains without familiar landmarks like Big Blue or the Attebury Grain Elevator or Kemp and Kell, it was a whole different story.
I just had to follow the trail and trust that there was a destination.
The sun started sinking lower, but it was still far above the peaks.
I'm not sure exactly when I noticed that it was slipping dangerously close to the mountains pricking the horizon.
But I am sure that when I did, I quickened my pace.
Soon I was in a full run, my backpack hammering against my backside.
I kept this up for about an hour and a half.
Yes, it's hard to believe, especially with nearly a year of soft city living since the trip, but I actually ran that long.
The sun sat on the peaks, glimmering a goodbye.
I gripped my trekking poles with white-knuckle intensity.
Heck, I wasn't even sure when the day would be over, much less when I was going to get there. I had a headlamp, but I never planned to use it for more than roaming around a campsite at night.
Twilight became more than a threat. It was happening, and I was still on the trail -- no trailmates in sight.
Trees began popping up trailside. I knew the campsite was in some trees.
Maybe I was getting close. I was so afraid that darkness would fall before I got there, that I didn't stop to use the bathroom (aka, go behind a rock.)
That didn't help relieve the tenseness of the situation.
I soldiered on for several more minutes. Then I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
There was Christina, no backpack but wearing her standard bandanna on her head.
Great. I was going crazy. It was a done deal. Maybe somebody would write a book about my "Into the Wild" experience when they found my body after I spent days gibbering in the wilderness before ...
You get the picture of my mental state.
But Christina was no mirage.
"Hey," she said.
That was all it took. The frustration of hours alone, trying to stay ahead of the sun, caught up with me.
"Where's the campsite!?!" I said.
She told me it was something like a mile away.
"What!" I leaned against a rock and let it out, "I have been by myself all day, trying to find this $%$%$ campsite. I didn't even know if I was going the right way, and I have to p**."
(I'm using an asterisk because the powers that be indicated disapproval when I sarcastically called someone a brainiac in a comment on a coworker's blog.)
Christina listened patiently while I held forth on all the wrongs supposedly visited upon me by fate, my own denseness for thinking I could do this, blah, blah, blah. Tears of frustration and anger rolled down my face all the while, both a humiliation and a relief.
Then she said something that made me realize that she, indeed, was a true friend:
"I'll wait here and watch your backpack if you want to go ahead and p**."
Later, she told me how much she enjoyed having me on the trip. I told her I wasn't sure why, considering when we were alone I railed and wept.
After I p**ed, she told me that she had started out when I didn't show up at the campsite and had been determined to keep walking until she met up with me -- however long it took.
How could I stay mad in the face of that?
I'd pictured my trailmates passing a bottle of tequila around while a boom box thundered some sort of trail rap into the trees and they laughed the hours away. Of course, that was ridiculous. For one thing, nobody had any tequila or a boom box.
Christina and I walked back to camp together, and by the time we got there, I had regained possession of my trailface. I greeted my other trailmates with determined good cheer.
Then I got into my sleeping bag and tent as soon as hiking etiquette would allow.

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