The sky was dark and muggy, shivering off the dew that had accumulated during the night. I stared out of the passenger side window of Carolyn’s Ford Focus feeling guilty and nauseous. We didn’t’ say much to each other during the 45 minute ride to the airport. There wasn’t much to say. I was back from Texas for good, an experience that was perhaps a necessity but also a burden, and now, after only being “back” for a few short days, was leaving again for several months. The sky was filled with clouds and stars and the moon, and I wondered how it would look on the Divide, if it would appear the same way far out there, in the desert and mountains and prairies, as it appeared now.
Carolyn pulled up to the curb and we both climbed out of the car. I embraced her in my arms and looked at the smile on her face. “Everything is going to be okay,” she said. “I want you to have a good trip and to come home soon.”
“I love you,” I whispered into her ear as I tugged her closer, pushing my nose into her black, curly hair. I smelled her for a final time, trying to capture a piece of her to bring with me into the mountains.
“I love you, too.” She replied. “Please, don’t get maimed by any bears. I happen to like you just the way you are.”
“I’ll try not to,” I let out, laughing shortly.
I clenched her close to me and kissed her on the cheek and then looked into her wide, perfect eyes one last time. I could see myself in her pupils, my reflection unknowing and unassuming. Her gaze grounded me in place, threatening me with a certain warmness and kindness that lingered on the creases of her eyes. There was a severity to her that was apparent underneath the lines that supported her smile. It was a sternness that screamed ‘this better be the last time we say goodbye to each other for a while’.
With a final, weak smile, I turned around and walked into the airport, like I’ve done numerous times before. After walking through the sliding glass doors, I looked back at Carolyn after she had gotten into her car, and we made eye contact and enacted a final wave and a smile goodbye, and I watched her pull away from the curb and drive off. I felt empty and sad on my way to the kiosk to check my bag and print my boarding pass, thinking to myself, ‘what have I gotten into this time’?
It didn’t take me long to realize just how awkward I looked in comparison to everyone else at the airport that morning. For starters, I was wearing blue running shorts that were only long enough to reach the middle of my thigh, and I had on my wind jacket, also blue, which looked like I was wearing a thin trash bag around my chest. I resembled a giant human blueberry, I realized, pulling my cap down over my face, trying unsuccessfully to not be seen.
I should have been more accustomed to feeling out of place. I had thru-hiked before, and knew the feeling well, but I was far from the trail, and far from being alone in the woods, where such attire is more acceptable. I felt like a kid at private Catholic school who had missed dress down day, and showed up to school in khakis, polo shirt and loafers, while the rest of the school kids showcased their new jeans and sneakers and baseball caps.
I looked at people’s eyes looking at me, following their pupils downward as they looked at my short shorts and bare legs. ‘What a weirdo,’ they were probably thinking. But, honestly, I couldn’t really blame them for thinking these things. If I was part of the uninitiated and misinformed, I would have thought of worse things to describe myself.
It is always troublesome to travel with backpacking supplies. Even though my pack is small enough to fit in the overhead compartment as a carry on, some of the things contained within are prohibited on an airplane. There’s tent stakes to worry about, which, under x-ray surveillance, look like giant spikes which could probably be used to slay vampires. Then there’s hiking poles, which, for a brief moment were allowed, but were then banned again. And there’s also my knife, and various powders and pills in clear plastic bottles (which, of course, look like drugs), and a multitude of other things that resemble alien and out of place artifacts.
I hate checking bags because I get very nervous about leaving my gear to the devices of grungy bag handlers and turnstile depositories. Even though most of my gear looks like junk to the untrained eye, all this junk is pretty expensive junk, and all this junk is everything I need to hike. Having just one piece of something lost or stolen would be a huge nuisance, potentially delaying a trip, or having to postpone it altogether until a suitable replacement could be obtained. On this particular flight, I decided to deploy a strategy which involved checking a small bag with all the things I couldn’t bring on the plane (hiking poles, tent stakes, knife, drug-like substances and pills, etc.) and carrying on all the really expensive gear (pack, sleeping bag, tent, pad, etc.).
I eventually made it to the kiosk, checked my bag, obtained my boarding pass and headed to the security gate. I passed through without any issues as the x-ray machine snapped a photo of my ball sack, and proceeded to my boarding area after stopping to use the restroom, get a morning coffee, and look through magazines I knew I wouldn’t buy. I eventually sat down in a big comfy chair and waited for boarding.
Airports are the best places to people watch. The people that occupy airports are so diverse a group of individuals I’m not sure where you would be able to find a suitable comparison of persons in any other public arena. You have the business people with their suits and ties and black shiny shoes, the vacationers with their loose fitting shirts and flip flops, the college students with their hoodies and laptops, the families with their wailing children and strollers, the elderly and handicapped that ride around on the back of golf carts, the people who pick their nose, the coffee drinkers and the bar dwellers, the book readers, the iPod listeners, the smartphone users, the loud cell phone talkers, and so on and so forth. Wandering through an airport is much like peering, quite literally, into the melting pot of the good ole United States of America.
The types of individuals that are most fascinating are the people that get really angry at the service counters. I had been observing one such individual for several moments. It was a man, average height and weight, sporting a flashy blue blazer and tan khakis. His hair was slicked back on his head as if he scooped a handful of crude oil and combed it through his hair. He was getting increasingly frustrated at the attendant, like a child who was just told Santa Claus would not be coming this year because all the elves went on strike, demanding raises and better working conditions.
“What do you mean I can’t get a flight until tomorrow?!” he clamored at the top of his lungs, his face two shades redder than a recently slapped bottom.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but that’s the earliest flight that is available. We will give you a voucher that you can use towards your next flight with us,” the attendant replied courteously, smiling, almost mocking. This type of outburst wasn’t anything new to her.
“I don’t want a damn voucher! I want to go home!” he blasted, throwing his arms up in the air.
At once, an abrupt, loud clamoring began to fill the terminal. The attendant and man-child diverted their attention to the right, where a group of people were sprinting down the aisle like a herd of Clydesdale’s. Their feet pounded the floor beneath them, followed by the squeaky roar of their luggage being dragged from behind, some roller bags not even on their wheels anymore. I watched intently, mildly concerned, but more amused than ever, as the herd rounded a bend and headed in my direction.
As they passed, I counted over 15 people running at once. Sweat dripped from their faces as looks of desperation filled their tired, droopy eyes. One lady had high heels on. I watched powerlessly as the supports teetered on the edge of collapse.
I watched the herd continue on down the aisle, eventually turning around another bend which lead to the next terminal. Whatever they were trying to accomplish, I hoped they were successful. It would be a shame to waste all of that effort on a barely missed flight. As soon as they were out of site, a brief moment of silence filled the air as everyone tried to understand what they had just experienced. The silence was abruptly shattered by my friend in the slicked back hair screaming, “I demand you put me on a new flight! Today!”
Over the intercom my boarding group was called and I entered the line to board the plane. This plane was going to Denver, where I’d make a connection for a second flight to Spokane, WA. I then had to find a Taxi to take me to the train station in downtown Spokane, where I would travel west by train to reach the train stop in Glacier National Park in Montana.
I fingered the boarding pass with sweaty hands, checking my seat assignment in the right hand corner. My heart began beating faster before ducking into the fuselage. I stammered down the aisle holding my bag in front of me, trying my hardest to avoid hitting unsuspecting people in the head. My ticket said 40-D, the very last row in the plane. I shoved my bag into the last remaining overhead bin and plopped down in my seat. A sense of concern flowed over me as I buckled my seatbelt. I never used to be afraid of flying, but over the years I began to develop a certain type of phobia to it. Although the risk of dying from a plane crash is significantly less than the risk involved in dying from a car accident, I can’t get over the fact that I have no control over my destiny as a passenger of a plane. If something where to happen, like, heavens forbid, a bird gets sucked into one of the jet engines, my fate is ultimate. I picture what the scene would look like: the plane violently jerking downward, my gut wrenching up into my throat as the plane accelerates into an uncontrolled nose dive, lights flashing, oxygen masks dangling and banging against each other, people screaming and holding on for dear life, panic and disillusion paralyzing my body as I witness with utter disbelief the last few moments of my short existence.
I looked over to my right at the person sitting next to me. He was perfectly calm, surreal even. His head was tilted back and his eyes closed. He wore a half-smile on his puffy lips as headphones rested on top of his too big ears. He was not worried about his impending doom. He was listening to Mozart or Beethoven or Bach and dreaming of sipping hot lattes on a park bench in Paris on a warm summer’s eve. I hated him.
After 20 more minutes of playing out crash scenarios in my head, the plane backed out of the gate and proceeded to the runway. Grinding, blowing and screeching sounds sent nervous ripples down my spine as the plane accelerated. The pilot pulled the nose upwards and the plane bumped and rumbled as it ascended to 30,000 feet above sea level, breaking through clouds. The sun shone through the window as I peered out over the white canopy below me as the black-blue sky rippled in the horizon. My heart rate dropped once the illuminated seatbelt sign vanished, and my breathing returned back to normal. I closed my eyes and reclined my seat. I tried picturing Montana in my mind: the mountains, the trees, the trail. A smile came over me for the first time that day, and I thought: Here we go. Here we go again.