Claire Henley: Adventures West (The Trail Name Christening)

  • Monday, September 14, 2015

(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big-Spoon).

“I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.”

-Revelation 2:17

My feet felt restored as I stepped into the granite mountains of the San Felipe Valley the morning after the renewing RV park stay. I set a solid pace, followed by Flaco–a thin farmer with earth-stained hands. He told me about his life as we hiked up into the naked sun while skirting the edges of steep cliffs. In a thick South Carolina accent, he said he used to be married, but his wife left him years ago for someone with more money, and the only good thing he got out of the relationship was his daughter, who was now 28, but who he hardly communicated with now, because she, like him, had the wanderlust. 

“Do you wish you and your daughter spoke more?” I asked, and Flaco replied, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Maybe you could write her a postcard when we get into Warner Springs,” I said. “Because sometimes, for me at least, writing is an easier way to talk to people.”

“You know, Claire,” Flaco stated as if the bright light bulb came on, “that’s just what I’ll do.”

He passed me by, and for the next several miles I walked alone on the ridge through boulder fields and ant hills, among humming birds, spotted lizards, and horny toads. It was hot–dry heat, no breeze, sun high, hot. Sweat flowed from every pore as I hiked this hot tub of air where the scraggly dark green bushes and prickly cacti that grew in spurts along the trail offered little to no shade. At least I was covered from head to toe in protective desert wear. However, because my hands were exposed, they cooked to a golden crisp.

At mile 91–cotton-mouthed, tired, and ready for an afternoon break–I came upon the famous third-gate water cache that was fully stocked with many gallons of store bought water, stationed beneath a heavy blue tarp. (A water cache is an unnatural water source left by Trail Angels in between long waterless sections on the trail. They are usually available at certain dirt road crossings but not to be relied on because of the fact that they are unnatural and cannot produce water on their own. However, the third gate water cache was known for always being good and stocked, and I found this to be true as I filled my bottles to the brim with the cool, clean water.)With water resupplied, I hauled my pack up the sandy hill from the cache and made a spot for myself beneath the scattered thin shade of some low-lying junipers. Soon after, several friends–Saltlick, Pandora, and Big-Spoon–showed up and joined me in the shade. 

It didn’t take long for Big-Spoon–a tall handsome hiker with an intellectual seriousness about him–to notice my sun-stained hands that beamed in stark contrast to my white sleeves.

 “Those are some tan hands you have there,” he commented and everyone agreed.

After an hour of siesta, Big-Spoon and I returned to the trail to make our way towards the tent sites at mile 94. This was the first time he and I hiked alone together, and he skipped the small talk to sink into a below-the-surface conversation.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” He asked. “Or, do you think people can be married to more than one person and be better off that way?”

I thought a moment then responded that, because I was a Christian, I believed when two people married, they were joined together by God–a holy matrimony–and that the eternal bond wasn’t meant to be broken but remain for the rest of time.

“So, I don’t know if everyone has a soulmate starting out,” I said, “but I do believe that the person you choose to marry becomes your soulmate, because at that point you are united for life.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Big-Spoon responded. Then he went on to say the reason he asked was because he was an engineer who did a lot of analyzing, and he was trying to figure out this relationship he was in with a girl back in Florida. He said they hit it off great and did neat things together, like fossil hunting in the sea, but he just didn’t know how to know if he could spend the rest of his life with her or not, and he asked me what I did to sort things like this out. 

“I fold my hands and pray,” I told him. “And I also write. Because, when I write, things become clear.”

After saying this, Big-Spoon stopped and turned to face me, his cobalt eyes wide. “I just thought of the perfect trail name for you,” he said. 

“What is it? What is it?” I eagerly asked, for over the last week on the trail I had been very curious to find out my new name. 

“Hands. The name I thought of for you is Hands. You know, because your hands are so predominant with their tan and their praying, and also because you’re a writer.”

“Hands. Hands.” I rolled it around on my tongue. “Ok, Big-Spoon, that’s it! My new name is Hands.” 

The tent site we chose that night was situated on the ridge and looked out on the mass of mountains that seemed to melt as the sun set over them and shadows dripped down. Saltlick and Pandora pitched their tents here, too, and as the four of us sat on the dusty ground, eating dinner from our cook pots and watching the sky transform from blood red to royal purple, I told the crew I had been christened with the trail name Hands. 

Everyone cheered and said it fit. I knew it fit, too, when we all slipped into our tents–rain flys off to see the stars like white ink against the black-page sky–and my trail friends called out in unison, “Sleep tight, Hands!”

* * *

Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:

http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks

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