(Every Sunday, I release a new short story in the ‘Sunday Story Time’ series! I write these stories the day they are published, usually within 2-3 hours. These stories could be about anything, but they will all be brief, 2-3 minute reads. Enjoy! )
A Friend On The PCT
Ryder stopped under a large pine tree just off trail to take inventory.
She hit the trail early today and really pushed herself through the cool morning hours. Her head was throbbing and her sides were aching. She was 14 miles from where she camped last night which put her in the very middle of the 120-mile section between Kearsarge Pass and Mammoth Lakes; one of the longest, most beautiful, most remote stretches of the Pacific Crest Trail.
Mammoth Lakes was her next resupply point and with her food supply dwindling (thanks to a lapse in judgment and a hungry marmot) she was staring down trail knowing that the next 60 miles would be her hardest miles yet. Making matters worse, she couldn’t keep much of her dinner down last night and had dry heaved what was left of it since leaving camp this morning.
Good one, Ryder. Do 14 miles on an empty stomach. That’ll help.
The sun was scorching.
Ryder laid against her pack in the shade of the pine.
She hadn’t seen another soul in 3 days.
The Pacific Crest Trail or ‘PCT’ is a 2,650-mile-long trail that runs through the western United States from Mexico to Canada. It traverses some of the most difficult terrain in the country from the heat of the desert to the desolation of the high Sierra mountain range. Every year the PCT attracts a few hundred intrepid souls attempting to thu-hike the trail from one end to the other.
There are two types of thru-hikers.
The first are the enthusiasts. They want to explore, to test themselves, to have an adventure. These hikers are usually young and almost always annoying. Life hasn’t beaten the shit out of them yet. They carry a lightheartedness that can only come from not knowing hardship. These hikers are on trail because it’s exactly where they wanted to be at that moment in their young lives.
The second type of thru-hikers are the beaten down. These hikers are usually older, but not always. They are on trail because something in their lives has gone horribly wrong. A divorce. A bankruptcy. An illness. A dead child. These hikers have been buffeted by a stormy life and are looking to the PCT for a release from their present hellscape.
Ryder was 14 when her Dad started coming into her room at night.
He told her not to tell anyone. That he would kill her if she did. It was a credible threat as Ryder had witnessed him commit countless acts of violence by that point in her life. Against her Mom. Against her older sister. She did not doubt her Father’s capacity for harm.
His nighttime visits continued on and off for years. Ryder never told anyone. She was terrified of him.
The night of her Dad’s arrest was the best night of her life.
Assault. Voluntary manslaughter. The monster would be locked away for decades.
Ryder was 17.
She met Ben in college. He tended bar at ‘The Quad’, a popular dive bar near campus.
They got married after graduation and moved to Perris, California. A small town in Riverside County. The suburbs. It was Ryder’s best shot at the picket fence, 3 kids, minivan, soccer practice life.
Ben was the first person she confided in about the abuse.
Two years into their marriage.
Ben couldn’t handle the revelation. He was angry that she hadn’t brought it up sooner. He couldn’t touch her after that.
He filed for divorce.
Ryder was 25.
After the divorce, she moved in with her older sister Angie in LA. Angie was 13 years older than Ryder and had never really been around when she was a kid. Angie had been out of the house for years when the abuse started.
One night, Ryder confided in her older sister. She told her everything. It was the first time she felt close enough to be vulnerable with her.
She learned that Angie had experienced the same thing she did. Their father had victimized both of them.
“But you left me,” Ryder said “You knew what he was capable of and you left me to fend for myself.”
“I’m so sorry, Ryder. I had to get out of there. Besides, I thought you’d be okay…you had Mom.”
“Mom was using. You know that. She couldn’t see what was happening.”
“I was going to kill myself, Ryder.”
“Maybe you should have”
Ryder was despondent. She felt the sting of another betrayal.
She stormed out of Angie’s apartment and didn’t look back.
With nowhere to go, Ryder was homeless. She owned a 2005 Ford Escape. Grey. That would have to be home for the time being.
That night, parked in the back of a Walmart parking lot (Ryder found out they would let her stay there overnight), she was scrolling through Instagram and came across a woman who was hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and posting video updates as she went.
Ryder went straight down the rabbit hole.
She binged everything PCT. She bought ultralight backpacking equipment and peppered REI employees with questions.
Within 30 days of watching that first video, Ryder was standing at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail. Ready to start her trek northbound.
Ryder was desperately hoping to see another hiker today.
She needed more food if she was going to make it to Mammoth Lakes. And she needed to figure out why she couldn’t keep anything down. But more than anything, she just wanted to hear someone’s voice.
Anyone.
She shouldered her pack and left the shade of the pine tree. She needed to get a few more miles today before making camp. As she hiked, her thoughts were consumed by the aches and pains in her body. And by how she should ration what food she had left.
15 miles a day. I can get to Mammoth in 4 days. No tortillas left. Only Snickers bars. 3. And oatmeal packets. 3. Half a jar of peanut butter. Maybe I can catch a fish…
“HOWDY PARTNER!” came a friendly southern drawl from behind. It startled her pretty badly, snapping her out of her mind and into her body. She whipped around to see who was approaching.
It was a young man. A boy really. He can’t be more than 21, she thought. He was wearing short shorts, no shirt, and a cowboy hat that he had cut in the back so it wouldn’t knock up against his pack.
“Hi, I’m Cowboy! What’s your name?”
“Ryder…”
“Nice to meet you, Ryder, is that your trail name?”
“No, I haven’t been given a trail name.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to fix that!”
Trail names are part of the culture on the PCT. You can’t give yourself a trail name. Your fellow hikers have to bestow one upon you.
Ryder and Cowboy (real name Peter) hiked together for the rest of the day. They talked about their experiences on trail and how much harder it was than they thought it would be when they started.
Ryder mentioned her food dilemma and Cowboy offered up supplies from his pack.
“Here take this” he handed her a full gallon ziplock bag of dehydrated chili, “it’s extra anyways,” he said.
Ryder’s heart swelled. She was relieved that she would have enough food to make it to Mammoth, but more than relief she was overwhelmed by the simple act of kindness.
The two made camp together that night. A welcome bit of company for both hikers.
“I have your trail name” announced Cowboy, after they had eaten dinner.
“Oh yeah?”
“Snickers!” he said. “because when I met you today that’s all you had in your pack!”
Cowboy grinned.
“I like it,” said Ryder, “Snickers.”
She laughed as she tried the name on for size.
In the morning, Cowboy was gone. He had said something the night before about trying to catch up to a couple of hikers he knew, Fuzz and Crew Cut.
These names. She thought as she rolled her eyes.
Ryder packed camp. She felt much better today. No more vomiting. And now that she had enough food, thanks to Cowboy, she didn’t feel rushed.
Walking down the trail that morning, Ryder realized that, for the first time since she set out, she had gone multiple days in a row without thinking about the abuse. Or Ben. Or even Angie. She had been totally in the moment. Totally on trail.
“HOWDY PARTNER!” She yelled into the air, mocking Cowboy’s southern drawl and practicing for the next hikers she would meet,
“I’m Snickers, what’s your name?”
She grinned from ear to ear.
Only 800 miles to Canada. Too bad.
MW 