My time in Bellingham has flown away. I’ve kept busy with yardwork and accidentally kidnapping the neighbor’s dog several times. My life has been filled with pulling weeds in cold gloomy weather. Endless amounts of weeds.
But no more.
I’ve got my sister from Holden, and we’re packing to go.
Ready to hike the PCT.
My sleeping bag arrived, I finally got a pair of cool shoes I like (Altra Lone Peak). I’ve probably repacked my pack a dozen times (and am still trying to figure out the perfect location for everything that will sustain me for the next several months).
We finished sorting food and shipped our first food boxes.
Just have to put the rest of my things into gear tubs.
And return the neighbor’s dog, again.
I keep thinking I’m almost ready to go. The night is getting late. My two tubs and backpack are full of things. I play a game of tetrus with each new item I find that has to go somewhere.
Where did all these things come from?
I finally give up on the game and end up with a pile of ‘one last things’.
As I ponder what to do with this pile, it grows, evilly.
And so the night goes. Blaze and I taking turns on her computer with last minute emails, unsubscribing from things, dotting all the t’s and crossing the i’s. Drinking tea. Shoving another item here or there. Deciding if something is really worth putting back in storage. Trying to talk my thirteen year old cousin into being my sherpa for the trip. Buying a bus ticket to Portland. (Where the real last minute getting ready is completed with our dad).
Finally. Everything ends up somewhere. In some kind of container.
In the morning, I glare at the pile of ‘One Last Things’, and it magically disappears.
Stick my spatula in my coat pocket, and away I go.