a new record!

I walked nearly 25 miles today, which is now my new distance record. And it warn't easy, neither. As the walk dragged on, something told me it wasn't a mere 20-miler. It started nicely enough: Gay dropped me off by a beautiful lakeside park very early Thursday morning; the walk from there to the RV center where I asked for further directions (it turns out that MapQuest had noted a street-- Cottonwood-- that doesn't exist) was, as it turned out, 6.05 miles (just checked with Google Earth on my current host's laptop). From the RV center to the prearranged pickup/dropoff point was exactly 19 miles, but I didn't make the final half-mile (0.4 miles, to be exact). So: about 24.6 miles today, which beats the Samish Island record of about 23 miles. You might argue that I was able to do today's walk thanks to a lighter pack (during the Bellingham-to-Samish walk, the pack was 58 pounds, as Woody had noted) and better weather (it rained during the entire Samish walk)-- not to mention the fact that I did the Samish Island trek without any sleep.

All conceded, but today's walk featured something I haven't had to contend with much until now: real hills. The final five or six miles of the walk took me through a very nice neighborhood that wound up and down the contours of a local hill-- a tall sucker. The roads I was on tended to curve and to be angled at the same time; as before, I was often fooled into thinking a particular rise was done when BOOM-- I rounded a curve and saw more hill before me. It can be discouraging, after a while, if you're constantly expecting relief after the rise you're on, so... in my case, I stopped expecting. I also started switchbacking my way up the longer slopes as a way of easing myself up them without too much strain. I did have to watch for cars, though.

About five miles before the end of the walk and right as I was starting the descent portion, I ran out of water. Very bad news, but I kept in mind that I was a mere five miles from my goal, and noted that, even though my mouth was drying up at a discomfiting rate, I was still sweating, so dehydration wasn't a serious issue.

After a while, the descents became as difficult as the ascents had been; my movements were becoming more wooden and robotic; the pain in my feet was increasing, and my balance was starting to waver-- thank goodness for the trekking poles.

But the trekking poles didn't save me from my first (of what I'm sure will be many) fall. Yes, I fell today, right next to a construction site where a home was being built, somewhere around Mile 18 or 19; one of my knees simply buckled, and down I went. Not tragic: I wasn't hurt, none of the equipment was damaged, and I eventually managed to get off the ground, dust myself off, and lumber over to another porta-john to give vent to my inner turmoil. No one saw me fall, no cars passed by while I was down... no one offered any help. It was truly a Hobbesian moment: my glimpse of life as solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. I can attest that no angels swoop down to right you when you tumble. You just roll over, check yourself and your equipment to make sure nothing is detached or hanging at an awkward angle, then you grunt and slowly lever yourself to your feet with your trekking poles, being extra-careful with your footing from then on.

I'm still not sure what caused the fall, though the likeliest reason was simple fatigue. My right knee developed one of those gristle-y clicks you sometimes hear when walking; in my case, I felt rather than heard the clicking, which radiated through my flesh from my knee and into my torso, and eventually up into my head. Cool, eh, ladies? It was totally painless.

I was so damn thirsty by the time I reached Woodland that I bought three bottles of juice at a local Shell mini-mart and drank them all before attempting to contact my very patient and tolerant host Eric who, along with his wife, waited until very, very late so we could all eat dinner together. As the cool juice settled in my guts and the evening breeze began to freeze my soaking tee shirt, I got a bad case of the chills and had to dig through my backpack for my jacket, which I put on. My phone, whose battery had died during the walk, charged itself enough at the gas station's wall socket for me to tell Eric I wouldn't be able to make it to our appointed rendezvous point, and when Eric showed up at Shell, he told me I looked tired. And sore. True enough: I was moving like a mummy when Eric arrived; everything hurt everywhere. Still does. And now we know why: 'at warn't no twenty-miler.

While I've got more to say about my wonderful hosts, I'll leave those remarks for a later post. Right now, I need to check laundry and hit the hay. Another long walk to Vancouver tomorrow.


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