After a week and more than hundred miles of solo backpacking in the Norther Sierra, I approached my destination, a small town with the grandiose name of Sierra City. The last mile I had to walk on the side of the highway, with a lone truck passing every 10 minutes or so.
Coming the opposite direction, I encountered a heavy man with a backpack. We both stopped and started chatting. He told me that a friend had bet him that he couldn’t hike the Pacific Crest Trail. He had accepted the challenge and was on his way to the Mexican border. He was quite fat and I had my doubts, but of course I didn’t say so and instead wished him him good luck.
A few minutes later, I reached Sierra City and checked into the town’s inn. I took a long shower, the first in a week. My wive, who was picking me up, arrived a few hours later. To celebrate my return to civilization, we went for dinner in a nice tavern a few miles East of town. As we were sitting down, I noticed the heavy man from earlier sitting at one of the other tables.
“I thought you were on your way to Mexico,” I said.
“I realized I need some fortification before I set off for real.”
We invited him to join us at our table, and we had our dinner together. He told us a little about himself: He was a writer and he lived in the South of France. He was extremely well read. I tried to match his drinking and I don’t remember much except that he liked Joseph Roth. Later, he invited us to the bar. From the way the bartender was clearly familiar with, I could tell that this wasn’t the first night he had hung out there. We left the next day, and I never learned if he ever managed to depart on his hike.
Nehaveigur 