Claire Henley: Adventures West (The Starting Line)

  • Friday, September 4, 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).

“Walk good, Pilgrim.”

-Bear Claw Chris Lapp, Jeremiah Johnson

It began at the Chattanooga Airport at dawn, after waving goodbye to weepy- eyed, though proud, parents. I was on my way to the PCT. My biggest journey yet.

With a full day’s flight, I watched from my little window as the earth changed from rolling green to flat dust to veins of cracked ground ripping into orange, baron lands. Mountains like old volcanic stone stood between Arizona and California. Then came San Diego, a place of the sweeping sea and golden rugged hills. The sky was very blue, April climate hot and dry, and palm trees stood at twice the size as those in Florida. 

My plane landed on a runway right next to the Pacific Ocean, where pirate-like ships floated in the harbor. After collecting my pack at baggage claim, a young guy with long blonde locks named Guyana Buffalo (aka Michael) picked me up at passenger loading in a Prius with yellow pom-poms hanging out the window. Guyana Buffalo hiked the PCT the year before and said it wrecked him for the rest of his life, but in the best way. 

He drove me to Trail Angels Scout and Frodo’s home. Scout, a retired lawyer, and Frodo, a former biochemistry teacher, thru-hiked the PCT in 2007. After speaking with several other hikers from that year, they learned the first day in San Diego was disorienting due to the big city and lack of transportation to the trailhead at the Mexican border. As residents of San Diego, the couple decided that was not okay–that hikers shouldn’t spend the first day of the most fantastic trip of their lives in a panic. Thus, they deemed their home Hikertown and welcomed all hikers–free of charge–in need of a ride and place to sleep before their long trek began.

That afternoon, when I entered the bustling Hikertown, where hung by the front door a subtle painting of a wooden cross in a gold filigree frame, I immediately met over 30 hikers who were starting the trail the next day. Some, like me, went by their birth name; while others, like Ledge, Honey Badger, and One Step, went by the trail names given to them on previous thrus. 

After introductions, I followed suit, took my pack outside, and exploded it on the sunny lawn next to an elderly woman named Margaret who had just done the same. As we organized our packs, Margaret–muscular, cool, and full of life–told me she lived in California and had soloed all the Sierra, but never the 700 miles of desert leading up to it, so now was her time to give it a go. 

“Power to you!” I said, inspired. 

Margaret held her fist up high. 

When the moment of truth arrived, the one of weighing your pack to see the damage done, I was a little nervous but mostly relieved to read 38 pounds from the living room scale, a weight that included the consumable heaviness of six liters of water and four days of food. Frodo, a directive yet kind woman, paused from making dinner to check out my setup then said, “That’s not bad;” after which Scout, a whimsical man who spoke with floating hand gestures and twinkling eyes, patted me on the shoulder and said I looked the part. 

Dinner was a feast of cous cous and chicken–ice cream and homemade chocolate sauce for dessert–during which the hikers gathered in the backyard to chow down and connect. I ate next to a hip nurse named Kate who said that because she lost so much weight when she hiked the AT, she purposely gained 30 pounds for the PCT over the last few months by only eating doughnuts and drinking beer. 

“That’s one way to do it,” I said. And I liked that the women here had some meat on their bones. 

Before bed, Scout and Frodo gave a brief talk outside about being ambassadors of the trail. They said there were 1800 thru-hikers this year, and that we all needed to treat the trail and each other with kindness and respect. Scout  told how for the past three years he had been chairman of the Pacific Crest Trail Association, and how it was one of the greatest things he’d ever done. He said we were all about to do something few people ever did that would be the most extraordinary thing of our lives. So to savor every step.

The next morning at 6:00, after a fruit, frittata, and hot muffin breakfast, each hiker piled into a nine car caravan, the trunks and cabs loaded with packs. It was a one hour drive through rock-crumbled hills before reaching the Southern Terminus of the PCT. 

“I can’t believe I’m finally here,” I said out loud when I touched the famous wooden monument that reads: Mexico to Canada 2627 Miles.

The view from the trailhead was mountainous and wide, offering colors of the rainbow–the Painted Desert–and yielding to a row of beautiful windmills spinning on a light green pasture far away. The sun was starting to rise. Border patrol zoomed by on four-wheelers. A unique sense of serenity yet urgency came through. It was time to get on the lighted trail and walk–a 20-mile day to Lake Morena ahead. Thus, amidst the swarm of hikers, I strapped on my pack, grabbed my trekking poles, hugged Scout and Frodo goodbye, then walked a few feet to the border fence to stick my finger through a tiny opening to touch Mexico. 

Then I set foot on the PCT.

* * *

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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