Two days and 40 miles into this seemingly endless uphill hike, and the absence of his trail-hardened legs weighed heavily on him. Three weeks of languor on the Oregon coast had left his muscles feeble, their resilience usurped by layers of fat now sizzling away with every upward stride.
This new level of perspiration was unfamiliar; the AZT and CDT had parched his sweat before it could gather. The cooler coastal climate had done little to prepare him for this. Salt stains formed intricate patterns on his clothes, marking his effort.
His body signaled its distress: bewilderment, fatigue, muscle frailty, and the faint flutter of arrhythmia. Progress was sluggish, his legs protesting, and his VO2 max seemingly betraying him. The climb to 6,000 feet was a struggle, veiled in the smoke of a forest fire haze that painted everything a mesmerizing golden-orange.
Water sources were abundant, but it was electrolytes that he lacked. His mind felt shrouded, even sitting down to catch his breath was a gateway to unintended slumber.
Deeper thinking was a distant dream, his mind oscillating with mere echoes…
Water, water, everywhere
But not a salt to lick…
He paused at Ramona Falls, diluting his water with precious salt packets and rinsing his clothes, watching helplessly as essential sodium and potassium washed downstream.
A trail celebrity ambled by, for even the hiking realm had its luminaries. Triple Cowners, creators of ultralight gear, or just charmingly eccentric souls, they were the social butterflies around which people seemed to gravitate.
“Happy trails, John,” he called out to the passing hiker, who responded with a grin as if secrets danced behind his eyes.
Was it the recognition that elevated his spirits or was he high AF?
And why aren’t there drainage holes in the side pockets of the V2?
#PCTsobo #staythirsty