One Sentence – The Pacific Crest Trail

The Pacific Crest Trail, described by Wikipedia as, “a long-distance hiking and equestrian trail closely aligned with the highest portion of the Cascade and Sierra Nevada mountain ranges, which lie 100 to 150 miles east of the U.S. Pacific coast,” had lured me.

I hadn’t intended to hike the PCT on my own. My wife, Stella and I set out to conquer the trail together. Over the winter, we had tested gear and improved our fitness with practice hikes up steep hills, and then we quit our jobs, gave up our apartment, and put all our belongings in storage. The adventure, however, was always more in line with my goals than Stella’s ambitions, to be honest.

The 2,650-mile (4265 km) hike from Mexico to Canada would be phase two of my lifelong, self-created “triathlon:” In my 20’s, a decade before I started the PCT, I biked 3,300 miles (5300 km) across the country, from Maine to California. A decade after the PCT, I’m working on a cumulative paddle of 1,200 miles (1900 km) of the Inside Passage, the waterway stretching from Washington State to Alaska. The PCT hike was a critical part of my goals. My wife, always supportive, came along on the hike.

On April 4, 2005, Stella and I set off together from the Mexican border, heading north to Canada. As novices on the PCT, we didn’t have trail names. But I quickly earned the moniker Milkman, due to the fact that I had badly overpacked on that brand of instant milk. Similarly, a fellow hiker nicknamed Stella “Mrs. Clean,” for her miraculous ability to stay spotless through wind, rain and sun. She kept that up for 218 miles (350 km) of trail.

And then, on the PCT hike, she uttered seven words.

We had reached Idyllwild, California via road walking. It was a big snow year, and the trail was nearly impassable. Cathie, a trail angel who lives in Idyllwild, took us in. We were sore, tired, and hungry. We took showers, did laundry, and ate until we couldn’t move. I noticed too, that Stella was basking in civilization.

After a night’s rest — and with true gratitude — we set off down the mountain, crossing Interstate 10, walking past the windmills, and making it nearly to the Whitewater Trout Farm. As always, I was leading the way because Mrs. Clean had a hearty fear of snakes and critters, and it was my job to clear the trail, making sure there was nothing for her to encounter.  At Whitewater Creek, I peered down into the water. The springtime shallows were swarming with tadpoles, thousands swimming with newly-hatched fervour.

“Honey!” I yelled. “Come and look at all these tadpoles!”  Stella sauntered up, looked into the water, peered at me and said, with conviction, “I don’t care about those fucking tadpoles.”

Seven words. I knew, without a doubt that she was done with this adventure.

“Would you like to return to town?” I asked meekly.

Her affirmative answer had us trotting back to the I-10, at the fastest pace we had walked in days. I called our friend, Mike, to pick us up. We silently drove to his house in San Diego to regroup.

So, there we were, with no jobs, no home, and all our stuff in storage.  What would we do?  That impasse was a defining moment in our relationship — and I credit our conversation as part of the reason why we’ve been married for 24 years.  You see, we agree that in any relationship, there has to be “me time”, “you time”, and “us time.” Stella calmly said that she would head back to her hometown and spend time with her family while I hiked as far as my legs would take me.  When I was done with trails, she would pick me up and we would continue our life together.

I waved to Mike as Stella drove her rented car out of the driveway and headed back to the PCT. I was sad to leave her but being a goal-oriented guy, I had that other tug that kept me going.

As a solo hiker, the quiet let me think often of Stella. We had met and fell in love in Taiwan, the country of her birth. I learned Chinese so we could communicate better. I had left her in Taiwan, and on my way back to the US, I passed through Lhasa, where my Chinese became an advantage in negotiating a bus to carry some waylaid travellers, me included, to the Nepalese border.

After mountains of paper work with our government, Stella arrived in the US a few years later and we married. We moved to California and I got a job with the YMCA in Medford, Oregon and Stella returned to school, learned English, became a nurse, affectionately took to our dogs and became tolerant of the outdoors. She did all this for and with me. And I loved her for it.

But the goal-guy had kicked in and between my memories of Stella, I dreamed about climbing the surrounding snow-capped mountains or paddling the ocean below those mountains. I also met up with strangers — strangers who became hiking buddies, who became friends. For example, Donna and Rob, a couple I hiked 1,621 miles of the PCT trail with. When they heard the story of my wife’s change of heart, they rechristened her — Stella’s trail name became — Tadpole.

And by then, I was anxious to return to her.