saying.”
“A trail angel is someone who helps thrus.” The young man edged closer as his companions returned to examining the hiker box. “You know, thru-hikers. Like you. Someone hiking through from Mexico to Canada. Trail angels pick them up at the airport and take them out to the trailhead and stuff. Some let you sleep at their house.”
“I met a couple like that at Lake Morena. This guy does it too? He volunteers? Or is it some kind of National Park Service job?”
“He does it for free, of course. If he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart, he wouldn’t be an angel.” The youth tapped his heart, then let his hand fall lightly on Grace’s shoulder, as if by accident.
“Right.” Grace ignored his touch and looked around the porch. “So are all of you…thrus?”
“Naw, we’re section hikers. Doing a piece of the trail on a long weekend. We’re in school. We do this during breaks.” He’s grin widened as he hesitatingly stroked Grace’s back. “It’s too bad you weren’t here with us last night.”
This guy has no idea I’m almost old enough to be his mother.
Grace hopped off the porch. “Be careful what you wish for.” She entered the store.
Later, in her one-room cabin, she soaked her feet in the bathtub.
How am I going to get to Canada at the rate I’m going? One day on and one day off? I can’t make this a habit.
She thought back to Lone Star’s message in the hiker register at the store.
Thinking of you a lot, Just Grace, and wishing our legs were walking this path side by side. You stay careful, bonita chica! I’ll write you a longer note next time. Tonight I’m too tuckered out. Sweet dreams.
Grace wiped sudden beads of perspiration from her upper lip. She dunked her head under the water and came up laughing.
The next morning, her blisters felt better. But her pack felt heavier. She scrolled through the maps on her phone.
Next resupply stop’s almost seventy miles north . No more water running freely from a tap. Only a few water caches and streams. Also a few horse trough options. Hope I won’t have to use those.
The PCT looped around and across bare, dome-shaped hills. Occasionally, hikers passed her. When she tried to keep up with them, she fell quickly behind.
My legs aren’t only too short for Lone Star. They’re simply too short.
Choir Master, a fiftyish section hiker, caught up to Grace early one morning on a long, barren stretch. The man’s round face, bulging stomach, and thick legs made an incongruous contrast to the skinny thrus Grace had gotten used to seeing. He paused a moment to catch his breath.
“I’m on my way to completing the entire PCT in five years’ worth of long weekends.” His chest expanded and contracted at a concerning pace. “Saw your signature in the Laguna Store’s register. Wondered if I could catch up with you. I hate hiking alone. It’s so much more fun to have somebody to talk to.” Soft circles of flesh nearly obscured his eyes when he smiled. He reached out a spongy hand.
Scents of summer grass and Choir Master’s sunblock mixed in the dry air. Grace took in the baggy shorts and sweat-stained shirt.
He looks like someone who could use a friend. I wouldn’t mind some company for a change. It’s weird not having anyone to text or talk to.
“Do you like singing? I always find it’s fun to sing.” He strode alongside her. Grace didn’t have time to respond before he launched into a high-pitched rendition of “The Happy Wanderer.” The warbling sounded familiar, but she didn’t recognize the lyrics.
He’s singing in German.
“Do you know it?” He stroked his triple chins as someone else might stroke a beard. “It’s such a wonderful hiking song. It works well as a round. I’ll teach it to you so we can sing together. Sometimes I sing it all afternoon. Right through supper time.”
Oh, no.
She shook her head. “I usually like listening to sounds of the trail. Birds and animals. It’s
“A trail angel is someone who helps thrus.” The young man edged closer as his companions returned to examining the hiker box. “You know, thru-hikers. Like you. Someone hiking through from Mexico to Canada. Trail angels pick them up at the airport and take them out to the trailhead and stuff. Some let you sleep at their house.”
“I met a couple like that at Lake Morena. This guy does it too? He volunteers? Or is it some kind of National Park Service job?”
“He does it for free, of course. If he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart, he wouldn’t be an angel.” The youth tapped his heart, then let his hand fall lightly on Grace’s shoulder, as if by accident.
“Right.” Grace ignored his touch and looked around the porch. “So are all of you…thrus?”
“Naw, we’re section hikers. Doing a piece of the trail on a long weekend. We’re in school. We do this during breaks.” He’s grin widened as he hesitatingly stroked Grace’s back. “It’s too bad you weren’t here with us last night.”
This guy has no idea I’m almost old enough to be his mother.
Grace hopped off the porch. “Be careful what you wish for.” She entered the store.
Later, in her one-room cabin, she soaked her feet in the bathtub.
How am I going to get to Canada at the rate I’m going? One day on and one day off? I can’t make this a habit.
She thought back to Lone Star’s message in the hiker register at the store.
Thinking of you a lot, Just Grace, and wishing our legs were walking this path side by side. You stay careful, bonita chica! I’ll write you a longer note next time. Tonight I’m too tuckered out. Sweet dreams.
Grace wiped sudden beads of perspiration from her upper lip. She dunked her head under the water and came up laughing.
The next morning, her blisters felt better. But her pack felt heavier. She scrolled through the maps on her phone.
Next resupply stop’s almost seventy miles north . No more water running freely from a tap. Only a few water caches and streams. Also a few horse trough options. Hope I won’t have to use those.
The PCT looped around and across bare, dome-shaped hills. Occasionally, hikers passed her. When she tried to keep up with them, she fell quickly behind.
My legs aren’t only too short for Lone Star. They’re simply too short.
Choir Master, a fiftyish section hiker, caught up to Grace early one morning on a long, barren stretch. The man’s round face, bulging stomach, and thick legs made an incongruous contrast to the skinny thrus Grace had gotten used to seeing. He paused a moment to catch his breath.
“I’m on my way to completing the entire PCT in five years’ worth of long weekends.” His chest expanded and contracted at a concerning pace. “Saw your signature in the Laguna Store’s register. Wondered if I could catch up with you. I hate hiking alone. It’s so much more fun to have somebody to talk to.” Soft circles of flesh nearly obscured his eyes when he smiled. He reached out a spongy hand.
Scents of summer grass and Choir Master’s sunblock mixed in the dry air. Grace took in the baggy shorts and sweat-stained shirt.
He looks like someone who could use a friend. I wouldn’t mind some company for a change. It’s weird not having anyone to text or talk to.
“Do you like singing? I always find it’s fun to sing.” He strode alongside her. Grace didn’t have time to respond before he launched into a high-pitched rendition of “The Happy Wanderer.” The warbling sounded familiar, but she didn’t recognize the lyrics.
He’s singing in German.
“Do you know it?” He stroked his triple chins as someone else might stroke a beard. “It’s such a wonderful hiking song. It works well as a round. I’ll teach it to you so we can sing together. Sometimes I sing it all afternoon. Right through supper time.”
Oh, no.
She shook her head. “I usually like listening to sounds of the trail. Birds and animals. It’s
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