A Journey in Time                            

Part 2

 

There wasn't a vehicle in sight.
    The young hitchhiker was experiencing an unintended solitude as he trudged the shoulder with his burdensome backpack and surveyed the seemingly interminable stretch of hill and highway descending before him. 
    He was in the Cascade Range, in northern California, an hour or so outside of Redding, surrounded by a vast and rugged countryside of rocks and boulders and lonely, craggy terrain.
    The weather was fair, with sunshine, blue sky, and an occasional cloud drifting. That was in his favor.
    The remoteness of his travel route, however, had brought his forward progress to all but a standstill.

 

    He had been planning the journey, gathering the gear he would need, and preparing, for months. 
    It would be an adventure—hitchhike west for the summer and see America. Apart from the rides he would rely upon, he would camp and cook and be self-sufficient.
    And, some weeks earlier, soon after his high school graduation, the adventure had begun.

    From his home in southeastern Wisconsin he had made his way northwest into Minnesota, into the Dakotas, across to Wyoming. He had pushed northward into Montana, westward to Idaho and Oregon, and finally south at the Pacific to California.

 

    The rides had been good, and until the present moment, he had considered the spirited undertaking a success, on several counts.
    First, he had met an interesting cross section of individuals, on the road and along the way. Also, he had developed proficiency in the use of his camping and cooking gear. In this regard, he had achieved a desired degree of self-reliance, while expanding his horizons. 
    And, most notably, he had begun to see America.  

    In the Black Hills he had visited Mount Rushmore. In Wyoming he stopped at Devil's Tower. He saw his first bald eagle while skirting Yellowstone. He experienced Big Sky Country in Montana, and crossed the Rocky Mountains through the Lolo Pass into Idaho. 

    On a sunny afternoon in the desert of eastern Oregon, after being dropped off amid hundreds of square miles and innumerable acres of the region's indigenous sagebrush, he watched his ride turn from the highway onto a dirt trail leading to a ranch somewhere beyond the horizon. The vehicle grew ever smaller in the distance until it finally crested a hill and disappeared from view.
    In the stillness that followed, with no other traffic on the road, afternoon became evening, evening turned to dusk, and night fell.

    He camped adjacent to the highway. 
    During the long, quiet night amidst the vast acreage of green, aromatic sagebrush, the singularly sweet, pervasive smell impressed itself indelibly into his memory.

    When he reached the forested Oregon coast, he took in the vista of the Pacific Ocean, turned southward to California, and camped among the giant conifers of Redwood National Forest. Heading inland from there, the white-capped symmetry of Mount Shasta soon came into view.   

 

    Which had all brought him to his current coordinates, north of Redding, trudging the shoulder of scenic, deserted US Highway 97, in the wilderness of the Cascades.

   With the loss of momentum, the adventure had become an ordeal, and he had become an adventurer turned pack mule, burdened with tarp and sleeping bag and Sterno stove and canned heat and cookware and utensils and canteen and camp saw and hatchet and hunting knife and whetstone and waterproof matches and First Aid kit and food supplies and clothing and all that was required for self-sufficiency.

    He was finding himself thoroughly uncomfortable as he trudged along.
    His muscles ached under the load of the backpack. In addition, the nylon straps, despite their padding, squeezed his shoulders unrelentingly. The constant pressure and its adverse effect on circulation were causing tingling and numbness in his arms.
    He tried periodically shifting the weight in an attempt to restore blood flow. The effort was partially successful, but short-lived.

    Causing further discomfort, with each stride the aluminum frame prodded and pressed his torso and hips. 

    As for the sweltering he could feel in the small of his back, and the warm dampness there of his terry polo, there was but one remedy.
    He stopped and released the pack. Maneuvering the burden from his shoulders, he swung the load to the ground. 

    The effect was immediate. Unburdened, he was free.

 

    He stood, pack mule no longer, taking deep, leisurely breaths, enjoying the respite. 

    Languidly stretching and twisting, he slowly worked his shoulders and back. As he did so, he could feel his discomfort lessening, the tingling in his arms subsiding. 

 

    With his body recovering, he closed his eyes and, retreating within, relaxed and surrendered to the experience of the moment, inwardly exploring the sensations of his other senses—the unevenness of the gravel under his boots; the freshness of the air and the organic, outdoor mixture of scents; the warmth of the sunshine on his face; the rush of a sudden breeze through nearby pines, and then the gentle feel of it against his skin.
    In his mind's eye he pictured the deserted highway.  Instinctively he inclined an ear for the sound of a potential ride. 
    There was only the caw of a distant crow.

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            Part 3.

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