Just when you think it's over...
You see, Ralph was bombarded by congratulations at the finale. They came in emails and text messages from friends, family, and travelers in distant states. It was something to laugh about, that this cotton polyester reindeer actually tugged at people's hearts. That somehow he had a character that brought him to life.
But all the attention went straight to that reindeer's antlers. He wanted more; to begin a new chapter with new encounters in the endless sunsets. I was approached with that look, as if I had committed a sin by not explaining the size of the globe. His studded black button eyes popped as if Mr. Columbus had sailed into America. Ralph never chose to tag along to the school house as a kid, he hated Math and early mornings. Consequencly it took him a shameful 19 years to discover the thing we call an atlas. "We've been smashed into the center left corner of this North America thing. There's so much more to explore."
Having a rational conversation with this deer in a state of hysteria was as rough as convincing the Cookie Monster he had devoured enough cookies for a day. The logic of this reindeer had ridiculous reasoning for another couch gripping adventure. He just didn't let up. Furiously racking my brain, he was right, I was jobless, And yes, my dear furry 80lb friend had been injected with glee by his human girlfriend. Yes my family was just on the other side of those spike-tall Sierra Mountains. So Ralph and I comprised: cheap Monsanto carrots and no more teasing of Rusty the dog in exchange for one last stretch. Just one more week! One more week hiking mountains in solitude, living natures interwoven sensations, and running as free as the wind.
In a mere sunrise to sunset we were transplanted back to the same road we began in Yosemite 43 days prior. I lay beneath the giants. Milking every last drop of fresh air and open space, Oakland was just a preliminary end. Zeb was repacked full of a weeks worth of a backpacking cycletouring mess, bursting at the seams. Without an editor to decipher my verbal lumps and to carry the tent and wine, oh that great O'Reilly to laugh with until tears of canned salted corn ran from happy eyes, the stuffed deer and I were alone in vastness. The tent illuminated with Ralph, a book, and my own company. Mosquitos still viciously sucked sweet blood, and one thing was certain in these woods - the bear canister. That piece of pastic junk I swore I would never haul again. Its bulky patheticness couldn't convince me that bears were dangerous. But they are when they've trashed your food cache miles from civilization.
These legs haven't walked more than a mile in six weeks. They had clanked around supermarkets, into woods to pee, and ice cold gas stations, twenty steps a day at most. Muscles unused for weeks were about to be awakened. Ralph set the fire within and I just couldn't resist. The urge to see more before winter blanketed and quieted scenic trails. Zeb, now burdened with a pair of running shoes and pack, was about to be tied to a tree. And Ralph and I continued to suck every ounce of summer from the year.
Show up carless and mention the words Edward Abby and the magic golden ticket is revealed. Campsites in the most touristy overbooked national park were gifted to us. It isn't hard to find people living off the grid here. And listening to their stories, fragments of a lifetime shared only with trees and rocks, it's fascinating. Thinking my journey was epic, I somehow stood once again bewildered. So thankful and gracious to all the people I met, for their stories, their generosity, and for our friends who eagerly encouraged us not to give up or stop writing even when thumbs felt paralyzed. So thankful to know there is something greater out there that nature teaches us; something not found in cars or squared walls and comfy chairs. And it is worth every drop of sweat and discomfort.
Thoes Sierra walls hide a gem within. Passes reveal a deep magic below. Burnt mustard painted meadows and deep crispy blue lakes. Streams ran dry from a weathered year of drought as if it's blue pigment were sucked clean from veins. But life still showed a rugged vibrance.
Having spent seven weeks in perpetual motion of seeing, listening, observing, and engaging, returning to the fish bowl
of society wasn't an ease. It's hard to give it all up, that magestic scenery which immediately instills a peace and quiet within. Unknowing how to replicate such a moment in time within grey cement city streets lined in bland colors. Smog congestion from chaotic metal moving aliens tormented inner spaces. It all seemed daunting.
But greeted by warm arms of family on the other side of thousands of feet of volcanic rock, Ralph and I were presented with a package. A trophy. An airy brown cardboard box strong enough to travel many miles. Inside lay a pair of new premium wool hiking socks, a Vons Market plastic bag full of 6 apricot clif bars, and a note:
Dear Ralph, I had also gotten 6 Carrot Cake Clif bars - tried one one day and became hooked - ate them all.
I looked up at my mom, contemplating the fact I really was about to remind this sixty something educated lady that Ralph was really just full of stuffed flurry. And as I started to say, "Mom, Ralph isn't really..." I was interrupted before I could get to the R word. (That word that brought him to life.) In the most elated voice her words shadowed a smile. Her inked letters sang, "They don't expire till April 2015." Just enough time for Ralph to pinpoint a location of delight, pack up our new socks and apricot sweetness and go. It's only over if you stop dreaming. Ralph only becomes lifeless if you stop imagining.
Until the next time...
Morgan Pass:
Italy Pass:
Ruby Lake:
Mono Pass:
Summit Lake:
Mary Lake:
Meadows:
Morning sunrise:
Merced River:
Trees:
Evidence:
DAY 41: THE LAST DAY
Miles: 43
The ferry showed us home. We were elated to be powered by engines. The laughter is contagious now and has plagued us to no end. It is hard to tell exactly what is funny and what is devastating and when to cry. It's hard to know where our home lives, though we've called for it out loud in our sleep. Yelled in bed for new tongues. Asked for forgiveness on make shift mattresses and swore to be more like our mothers and fathers. But we rode into San Francisco like it was our own city, like she was the queen of hobos and suites and I was the king. It was glorious. The celebration echoed all the way to Oakland.
We sat and drank with our friends who upon our arrival began to behave like mad dogs. It's strange to think that we have been gone and everything still exists here. All the people look the same and say the same things and smile identically.
The Oakland hills, naked under a black and starless sky, was our final camp; the earth rocked us to sleep with its gently shifting plates. For all we knew, the city lay in ruin, every building for miles felled by the mighty quake, but we went peacefully back to sleep. The entire bay was burning down all around us. And lying next to us, Ralph smelled like every day we have been gone, and every mile we have traveled.
The cliche tourist pose:
Home sweet Home:
THE END