Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the large hole in our rain fly. If we couldn't light a silly stove in the backyard, how were we going to be able to light it in a driving rainstorm? Angela's ever-optimistic chirp roused me from my musings."Duffy, help please." It turned out that darn stove was pretty tricky. Fifteen minutes later we finally had it lit. We whipped up some chewy pasta and as I choked it down it occurred to me that we were out of our minds.

It all started over a year and a half ago. I was flipping through a popular men's lifestyle magazine when I came across a headline that captivated and taunted me—"Be a Man of the World: The 10 Adventures of a Lifetime". The list included a little bit of everything that might define macho—mountains and motorcycles, Cadillacs and kayaks, animals and air travel. At that moment, sitting in my drab Philadelphia apartment, I felt viscerally stirred by this challenge. It poked sharply at my insecurities—it was bad enough to be a prematurely balding, single twentysomething, but to be further mocked by a magazine that I depended upon to unlock the secrets of female pheromones was too much.

I pondered the adventure options. It so happened that I'd recently read Into Thin Air and a quick review of the plot convinced me that I wanted no part of 29,000 foot peaks—especially one like K2 that was described as "a mountaineer's mountain. . .high, technical, mean." There was one choice, though, that didn't seem so impossible: hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). After all, it was just walking.

A whole lot of walking. Don't get me wrong, I love the outdoors. In fact, my relationship with it began early, since I was raised in the 1970s by parents who at the time were essentially still living in the 1960s. Not only did this mean that my childhood wardrobe was liberally tie-dyed, and that our "family" van had a bed built in the back (I am told I was conceived on this bed), but also that we did plenty of communing with nature.

I'm loathe to admit it, but in addition to nostalgia for my childhood, one of the primary factors motivating me to hit the PCT was the insidious passage of time that until a couple years ago my mind had blithely ignored. At age 27 I am far from over the hill but nonetheless am beginning to tangibly appreciate that the days of my youth are numbered. It might not be long before mortgages, children and chronic lower back pain will hold their sway over me, effectively guiding me through a painful period of adventure withdrawal.

There were, however, quite a few barricades between the trail and I. First, I was actively enrolled in medical school. And med school does not easily lend itself to just 'slipping away' for 5 months or so to go hike some trail for an adventure kick. A second problem was a more frightening one for me—who was going to hike this thing with me? It was a nice idea but it was unlikely that I would muster the guts to pull it off on my own.

Then I began dating Angela, or as I sometimes call her, Chigger (this is actually an affectionate name). It didn't take me long to learn that Chigger didn't have much hiking or outdoors history. In fact, given her upbringing, I got the sense that a run along Wissahickon Creek in Philadelphia proper was what she considered a hardcore backcountry experience. But what she lacked in practical experience she more than made up for in spunk.

Over the last year, we have spent hours scouring the aisles of REI looking for the perfect equipment list, compiled our own 30 book library on long-distance hiking, dehydrated hundreds of peaches and sampled all sorts of freeze-dried meals. We have even managed to get that stove lit again on a few occasions. Now we are closing in on Day One on the trail and praying that we don't forget anything.

I hope you will join us in spirit on our long trek up the Pacific Crest Trail. We will have a lot to learn and even more to experience. Come along for the ride, ur, walk.

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