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though; there’s a lot of them out this year. I’ve always wanted to kill one and eat it myself; heard it tastes like chicken. By the way, what would you like for dinner tonight? Last real meal for a while. . . .”
    We decided to head to our favorite fast-food establishment, Jack in the Box, and piled into the car. Over burgers, fries, and strawberry shakes, Bob told us about a hiker he’d dropped off just a few days earlier, Ricky Rose. Ricky carried a sixty-pound pack containing a cell phone and global positioning system (GPS), as well as a bulletproof, rubberized laptop. I’d worked hard to get my pack down to thirty-five pounds and still winced under its weight.
    â€œYou’ll catch up to Ricky in no time,” said Bob. “Can’t miss him. Skinny, bushy beard, big pack.” I wasn’t sure that such a description was going to be much help. It seemed like that’s what all male thru-hikers might end up looking like.
    During dessert, Bob advised us to also keep a lookout for Bruce, a middle-aged gentleman who suffered from Parkinson’s disease. Bruce’s goal was to hike the length of the California Pacific Crest Trail, a distance of more than seventeen hundred miles. This despite the fact that he’d been suffering from Parkinson’s for fifteen years and was receiving progressively less relief from his medicine. To prolong the pills’ benefits over the long-term, Bruce took them only twice a day. On the trail, this meant he’d have an hour and a half in the morning to break camp, put on his pack, and get going before the onset of incapacitating tremors, slowness, and clumsiness. After his evening dose,he’d have another symptom-limited hour and a half to set up camp, cook, and get into bed. In between, he would lack the dexterity to perform simple maneuvers such as adjusting his pack straps, unwrapping a Power Bar, or tying his shoes. By comparison, my worries seemed minuscule.
    Following dinner we returned to Bob’s house for an early night. Lying on a twin bed in Bob’s teenage son’s room, I listened to Duffy’s rhythmic breathing. Our last few days at home had been hectic and I knew I had to sleep, but my mind was racing. Had I packed enough dried milk for the three or four days it would take us to reach Mount Laguna, the first town along the trail? What if the seasonal creeks dried up? When would we see our first rattler? How did illegal immigrants survive out there without maps and gear? What were my parents doing? Tears welled in my eyes, as they often did when I thought about my mom and dad. Guilt weighed on me heavier than a freshly loaded pack. “Soon,” I thought, as I drifted into a tumultuous, shallow sleep, “just a few more hours and then I’ll disappear into the wilderness.”

Meadow Ed
    I’VE BEEN TOLD that when breaking in a pair of leather hiking boots, it’s best to proceed with caution. Wear them around the house a couple of times, then maybe wear them for a day in the office, and finally take them out for a series of three- to five-mile hikes. In theory, the leather should slowly soften and mold to your feet for the perfect fit. Sure sounds comfortable, but I’ve never met or heard of anyone who has successfully bent the will of a pair of new leather boots. On the contrary, boots typically bend the will of feet by inflicting torturous hot spots and blisters. Perhaps it’s this fortitude of spirit that warrants their status as expensive retail items.
    Similarly, the southern PCT doesn’t break thru-hikers in easily; instead, it begins with fifteen dry, waterless miles through high desert. But heat and lack of water aren’t hikers’ only concerns—there are also rattlesnakes, mountain lions, killer bees, and illegal immigrants to worry about. Thirst, fear, and pain will greet you on the PCT, and like a good ol’ pair of leather boots stuffed with callused,