Dr. John William Lowder's premonition sent a chill down my spine. According to the newspaper, he'd told a friend"when I die, my wish is to be in the mountains, alone, and to have a few hours with God."
Dr. Lowder, a 69-year-old outdoorsman, was on his way from Mexico to Canada, thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), when he and fellow hikers faced a snowstorm in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Ignoring his old rule, "never hike alone," Lowder separated from his younger hiking companions so they could continue at a faster pace, perhaps to out-hike the brewing storm. Left behind, Lowder took a side trail headed towards civilization. He never made it. Along the way he fell into an icy canyon, breaking both legs and an arm while taking severe blows to the head. Although Dr. Lowder survived the fall, climbed into his sleeping bag and attempted to treat his wounds, he didn't survive the night. He spent his final hours, in the mountains, alone.
I dropped the old clipping to the floor and stared at the clutter—the spring REI catalog, discarded Power Bar wrappers, and my copy of How to Shit in the Woods. It had been over a year since I agreed to hike the PCT with Duffy, but now I was scared. I knew hiking the PCT was the experience of a lifetime, but I didn't want it to be my last.
As I pondered the potential dangers of hiking border to border, I found
myself reflecting on the first time Duffy and I set out to cover a lot of ground together.
Back in 1998, as part of our long, unusual courtship, my best friend Duffy and I decided to run the Philadelphia Half-Marathon with a few thousand other zealots. Thirteen miles in the blazing sun and the suffocating Mid-Atlantic humidity. Unfortunately, when it comes to running, Duffy's a gazelle and I'm a marmot. Darwin would have been proud—the half-marathon clearly illustrated which species was the fittest. When I finally crossed the finish line, dehydrated and nauseous, Duffy was waiting for me. He'd already had time to pick up some fluids and snacks and was looking very refreshed. After gulping down some water and weakly trying to eat a banana, I went home and
spent the rest of the day in bed drinking Gatorade while my roommate tried to convince me to go to the ER for intravenous fluids. Duffy went to the gym to play basketball. Months later, my best friend became my boyfriend and the PCT became our passion.
I must admit, I was snooping around Duffy's room when I came across Ray
Jardine's Pacific Crest Trail Hiker's Handbook. At first, I skimmed the tome casually, but by the time Duffy returned from downloading the excerpts from the Merck Manual into his Palm V, I was curled up on the bed reading about ice ax self arrest and weighing the pros and cons of corn pasta. I didn't know whether I wanted to hike the PCT in running shoes or boots—but I knew I wanted to hike it.
I've been on a steady, responsible track since high school. Standard fare really. I got good grades, played sports, graduated, went to a good college, got good grades, played sports, graduated, got a good job, and so on. I've been working as a writer for an advertising and marketing agency in Philadelphia for a few years now. And while I like my job and my little apartment and my urban, techie lifestyle, things are a little staid and predictable. I'm tired of maneuvering through life with a point and click. Iced lattes (and an occasional ice beer) are nice, but an ice axe—now that's exciting.
"Have you ever been backpacking?" Duffy asked. My answer belied my
inexperience. No, I'd never hiked more than 14 miles in a weekend. But it all sounded great. Getting in the best shape of my life and making lots of new friends on the way to Canada. Communing with nature and my soulmate while exploring deserts, mountains, and forests—it was just what I needed to break out of my rut and kick my life into high gear.
"You're blinded by emotion," a skeptic later remarked. Perhaps, I thought, but that's the joy of it. Someday, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren that I had an adventure, that I was wild, and that I followed my heart. Next year, Duffy will disappear into his residency. As a young doctor, he'll spend most of his time, and many of his nights, at the hospital. I'm not going to miss this chance to do something truly special with him, and for myself, before "real life" sets in.
