I was making espresso at home this morning, with the last of my half-caf batch. Decaf, organic local fair trade swiss-water style, thanks for asking. I'm going through this divorce with coffee, as an experiment to cure my weepy PMS and maybe salvage my adrenals for later in life.
I pulled the portafilter out too soon, almost dumping the grounds in my coffee cup--my clean-up auto pilot, and my head flashed to my last real coffee moment. saying goodbye to the PCT in Portland, my old flame.
Deluxe and I walked down early from the hostel. One of the gals had informed me that some guys was waiting outside the women's dorm, waiting for me. I was impressed he was up because we'd also had a real whiskey moment the night before and I was the only one with a flight to catch.
We walked down to a fancy coffee shop, made of dark stained wood and old decorative gears. Black and white tile climbed part way up the wall. We sat on stiff couches with strong coffee. A vegan pastry crumbled when I pinched off a bite. It was over.
I was riding public transportation to the airport, climbing in a plane which would carry me even higher than Mount Whitney. No ice ax allowed.
I asked the clerk at ticketing if she ever went backpacking. When she nodded vaguely I peeled back the lid of my Jetboil, wrapped in a crinkled homemade coozie (ultralight, thanks for asking). The inside was caked in dried mac cheese from that cheap night in Vancouver. I wiped my fuel can off with a cheesy bandanna and held it up for the clerk to see. She smiled and accepted.
I threw my pack back on, the top rolled down low and cinched the waist belt against my then-thin hips. My shoes, only 500 miles old but dingy with the color of washing ton mud and snow--Canadian mud and snow,--felt cush against the carpet.
On Instagram, that bearded ussing readhead recnetly posed about this sentiment, which I felt so strongly at the terminus. I was soothed though that night, because I was headed to town behind my Tramily, to share a room with 6 stinky people.
Security checkpoint switchbacks made of plastic stands and rolls of webbing After this flight. baggage claim, security checkpoint switchbacks made of plastic stands and rolls of webbing. No ankle sprains today. No shuffling, reaching to retrieve my umbrella, of bending to fill my water bottle and tramping through the cascade. No post holing.
No sighing at that big open expanse, annoyed at the snow. or the sun. No breathy chewing through a snickers bar, or glacier goggles flicking me in the eye. And worst of all, no camp. no teasing Tramily. No STFU, Soultrain.
I didn't feel peaceful out there. Right up to the last mile I was tight with anxiety.
Joyful. Blessedly exhausted. glad grateful, happy and alive. But I learned that about myself. Ever driven, competitive, unstopping. I just thought the terminus would cure me.
Maybe its the coffee.
