Day 30: The ups and downs of trail life.

July 4
6 miles

Today is exactly one month from when I started this little adventure. It is also the day Kacie leaves.

I wake to sounds of dumpsters being collected at 7am, but am not ready to get up. I have a knot in my stomach, and I know today is going to be hard. My eyes begin tearing up, and I let the salty flow drip down the side of my face, making a little puddle on my sleeping pad. Kacie looks at me, and now we're both crying. The idea of losing my hiking partner, my trail motivator, my companion in adversity and triumph, seems like more than I can handle. It was one thing to hike by myself for the first two weeks, but then to go back to being alone after knowing how reassuring it is to always have someone with you...it is a reality I didn't think would be this hard.

We pull ourselves together and breakdown camp (for the last time), and make breakfast together (for the last time), and I'm trying desperately not to dwell on the sadness. Kacie doesn't have to leave until 3pm, so we're planning to hike the loop of the Falls, and spend our last day getting in some easy walking.

The Falls are even more spectacular in the noon-day sun, and we take even more pictures, and enjoy the easy 2 mile hike around the Falls and to Lake Britton.

We have one last lunch together, take showers in the coin-opperated facilities, and get ice cream to finish off the day. Kacie drops me off at the visitor center at 3, we cry and say goodbye and I watch her drive away, feeling weighted down by more than my pack. I spend the next hour hiding my tears, charging up my phone, blogging, and hoping the heat of the days starts winding down.

I decide to hike out of here tonight instead of spending the 4th in the park--it seems too sad, and I feel as though I need to leave this place, or I might never have the energy. There is a river in 6 miles, so I head out at 4pm, unsure of whether I even really want to continue.

Everything feels heavier. My feet, my pack, my heart. I sporadically burst into tears during the first two miles. The terrain is still relatively flat and easy, and I have nothing but time to dwell on my sadness, and feel embarrassed by the immense sense of loss that has filled me. At a certain point my eyes stop making tears, and I'm just loudly sobbing.  I turn on music for the first time in my entire trip, as a way to pass the time, or escape, but instead I am swallowed up in the melancholy playlist I choose, and it simply fuels my sadness. I had no idea I would take it this hard. Being alone again. I knew this section would be hard, but the reality of my situation--that I am completely, utterly, official alone, is a bitter pill to swallow.

The terrain starts to become more difficult, and I find that the harder it gets the more I am consumed by the here and now of the trail. I pass another hiker I know, Foxy, who was taking a nap off trail to avoid the heat, and it helps ground me that much more. I am a hiker, and I need to keep hiking. I am glad to be wearing sunglasses, so as not to reveal my bloodshot eyes.

It feels like a long 6 miles, and yet I cover the distance in only a little over two hours. When I get to the bridge I see two rocks that have been spray painted with "Live on!" and "Just keep walking!" I guess the trail knew I needed some reminders.

I skid down to the river and walk along a gully until I find what must be the "camping spot" I was expecting. It is extremely small, just barely big enough for me to pitch my tent among the rocks. I don't feel hungry at all, but I force myself to eat some meat and cheese, and then escape from the mosquitos into my tent. I call my mom, and Kacie, and my friend Liz, crying to each of them, blowing through my cellphone battery, but not caring.

Soon after my last phone call, as I am sitting in my tent, feeling sorry for myself and anticipating a long night, I hear a "hello."  It's a hiker named "Stumbles", who I haven't met yet, and he seems disappointed in the lack of available camping space. I tell him he is welcome to cowboy camp (sleeping without a tent) anywhere he can find, and he shrugs and says there is another hike "Maniac" coming this way, as well. Stumbles heads back towards the trail, deciding to continue on rather than camping here, and Maniac approaches to introduce himself. He's tall and good looking, and is the only guy I've met on the trail who isn't growing a beard.  He asks if he can cowboy camp here, and I tell him it's not a problem. He sets up his ground sheet between two rocks, and we introduce ourselves as he makes dinner. Turns out he got his trail name because he's from Maine (whew), and he tells me he just did a 31 mile day to get here because he was excited to go swimming. So excited that he skipped the Falls, and just came straight here. I feel for the guy because the creek is only a couple of feet deep, and the Falls were worth the visit. He ends up "swimming" in the creek anyway, by just sitting in it, and I wish I had taken a picture.

Maniac tells me that the night before he slept up on the rim, under a log, and it was the worst camping spot he's had on the trail. I look at his ground sheet between the two rocks and feel a pang of guilt for having taken the only spot, and pitched my large tent. I tell him that I have enough room if he would like to share my tent, and that it really isn't a problem. He thanks me, but says it's fine.  We talk for a while longer--he outside, slapping at mosquitoes; me in my tent, my head peeking out and avoiding the bugs. After a while he eventually asks if I was really serious about him being able to share my tent. I tell him of course, because he seems like an okay person (it's easy to tell the creeps from the non creeps), and he fits his entire 6'5" self in the tent.  After having shared my tent with someone else for the last two weeks, it actually doesn't feel cramped at all, and is oddly reassuring, even. The best thing is that he doesn't snore. It's nice having company, even the company of a total stranger, and a small part of me feels a little bit stronger; a little bit more capable of doing this. On the trail, once more.