I'm driving down route 70 in Northern California listening to my favorite Rolling Stones album and the blissfully quite sound of my recently fixed pick-up. I see a garishly painted sign advertising fresh-baked apple pie a mile up ahead and I immediately start to slow down. My stomach grumbles in anticipation as I cut the ignition and step out of the drivers seat. I stretch and look around the tiny mountain town of Belden; I feel like everyone I see has just stepped out of either an REI catalog, a commune, or the wild west.
I take in my strange surroundings as I walk into a small gas station that is displaying the same advertisement for my favorite pick-me-up I saw a few minutes ago. The battered screen door swings shut behind me and I walk up to the counter to order my pie. I place my order with an older woman who has a kind face and hair that matches my own, and sit down at one of three small tables in the station to wait. Beside me I see a small woman in a large Bob Marley shirt sitting next to an extra large backpack eagerly digging through a medium-sized package. She looks up from her investigation, catches me staring, and gives me a small smile.
"That's one hell of a bag you've got there," I say by way of greeting, gesturing at the backpack.
"I call it Monster," she replies with a smile, "I'm hiking the PCT. The Pacific Crest Trail, it's a hiking trail from Mexico to Canada," she explains after registering my bewildered expression at the acronym.
"I see," I say, "that's quite a walk."
"Well I've got a lot to figure out."
"Don't we all," I respond, "well good luck, and try to avoid bears and men while you're out on the trail." She laughs at that and waves as I finish my pie and walk back to my truck once again. With a full stomach and a smile on my face I put my key in the ignition and think about where I should head next on this never-ending trip of mine.
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