After a brief respite from the rain under the roof of the Grider Creek Campground outhouse, we continued our optimistic stroll (Nolan) / miserable plod (me) toward Seiad Valley. All that remained between us and at least a roof under which to stand was a short six-mile road walk. Less than a mile in, Nolan stopped short, distracted by a beautiful shiny penny laying in the dirt road. "Should I pick it up?" he asked, as if this was a matter for serious consideration. "No," I grumbled almost immediately, without even looking at what the potential treasure may be.
To give a little more detail about how I was feeling, I want to illustrate just how much I hate being wet. If I wash my hands and cannot immediately find a drying surface, my mind begins to panic. I once read a story by Ray Bradbury about a planet where it never stopped raining, and it gave me nightmares. When canoeing (which was a major part of my job the past three and a half years), I obsessively sponge every drop that strays from my paddle to the floor of my canoe in order to keep my feet dry. I currently own four rain jackets, two rain ponchos, and two pairs of rain pants, most of which were purchased during my quest to find a completely waterproof outfit for my hike. I. hate. being. wet. And what I hate more than anything else is having wet feet.
Getting back to our scene: It had been raining for the past 16 hours. My impenetrable rain outfit had soaked through hours prior. My pack was sopping wet and weighed an extra million pounds. My shoes squished out water with every pitiful step. Five of the six pairs of socks I had with me on the trail sat, unused, in my pack, because I knew they'd soak through within minutes of putting them on. What I had to look forward to after our six-mile road walk was a roof outside the post office under which to stand long enough to collect myself before setting up my sopping tent in the continuing rain. As icing on the cake, I had two oozing wounds that had been rubbing on my soggy raingear for hours. So when my frustratingly-optimistic boyfriend stopped to ask if he should bend down with his rainsoaked pack in his soppy raingear to pick up one measly penny, I could not think of a more pointless action.
Luckily, he did it anyway. Almost immediately, the following amazing pieces of luck fell into place:
1. The girl who worked at the Seiad Valley store, who we had met when we passed through a few days before and was camping at the Grider Creek Campground, rolled to a stop next to us in her truck. Her campsite had flooded and she was going back home. She drove us the six miles to Seiad Valley.
2. THE RAIN STOPPED. The heavens opened and a choir of angels began to sing. I bandaged my wounds and put on dry socks and Crocs. I could focus on the world once again.
3. We managed to hitch a ride to Yreka, a small town off I-5 that was 60 miles away, even though the man at the Seiad Valley store warned us not to get our hopes up since it was evening and not too many people were passing through the one-street town at that time of day. We were going to give it until 7:00 before we pitched our tent for the night to try again in the morning. At 6:45, an amazing angel named Elsie rolled up with her tiny dog in her tiny car fueled by homemade biodiesel on her way to Yreka. She didn't usually pick up hitchhikers, but we looked "nice enough." Elsie frequented Yreka and gave us lots of insider tips about where to eat, which hotels to stay in, and where to avoid drug busts.
4. We chose to stay at the Super 8 by the highway instead of the small non-chain motel we originally picked because it was slightly cheaper. There was no reason to choose the Super 8. We just did. We got a huge room with an amazing shower and plenty of space to lay out all our soppy smelly gear. This item gets even luckier in #5 and #6 below.
5. The Super 8 had a washer and dryer available. We did our laundry.
6. When getting change for the washer and dryer, I bumped into Mama Moab and her husband (from Athens, OH, of all places), who we had met (in addition to their son Jay and their dog Utah) on the trail twice before. Keep in mind that we were in a random hotel in a non-trail town 11 driving hours ahead of the regular hiking pack. They were staying in the room next to ours. They had a rental car they needed to drop off in Medford that very day. Medford, 45 minutes further north, was exactly where we were trying to go.
7. Instead of a $1000 flight to Cleveland, I found a $380 flight to Akron.
8. We found a decently-priced Super 8 within 1 mile of the airport in Medford, complete with a pool, hot tub, water slide, "snack breakfast," and shuttle to the airport (even at 4:00am, when we needed to go).
And so it happened that on July 1, four days after sliding down a mountain, two days after getting to Medford, 14 hours after flying out of Medford, and three and a half days after stopping for Nolan to pick up one measly penny, I arrived at home in Lakewood. I will never step over a penny again.
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