Day Six, Into Every Life

I am Here

Find me at a ball field on the edge of town, again just beside the river. A lot is made of those modern-retro billion dollar stadiums the taxpayers are funding these days, but I cannot of think of a more beautiful place to play baseball. It is well off the highway, fenced in by high trees and misty, steep sided mountains. Get your hips into it and with the right kind of wind, you could knock a ball into the river.

I woke up in Index in a driving rain. The night had been just a bit chilly. I was Achilles, pleased to stay in my tent and sulk until things got better. They didn't though and come ten o'clock I forced myself out into the weather. If there is anything worse than setting up a tent in the rain, and I doubt there are many, it is taking a tent down in the rain. It is cold and dirty and disheartening and you wind up with a pack full off sludge.

I hiked a whole ten minutes to the local cafe and installed myself at a table. The place is run by whitewater rafters (or devil worshippers; I forget precisely which), active young beautiful people. And like the town of Index itself, it was all unspeakably charming. They were all most encouraging and a very nice woman, let's call her Yvonne, generously subsidised my breakfast, which included, I'm not wholly ashamed to admit, no less than eight shots of espresso. I was also honored to meet the only man who has ever gone over Sunset Falls in a kayak. If you ain't impressed you should be. I saw the video.

It was all just enough to inspire me to get my butt back on the road. Where it rained and then rained, and then rained some more. And then it just went on raining. The road was narrow; the shoulders were worse; there were any number of blind corners. My "gay" hat saved my life a half dozen times. Every God-fearing American should have one.

I met few people on my way up the road, but they would all shudder or gasp when they learned I had spent the night in Index. "Weren't you scared?" they would wonder, "Do you have a gun?" No, thank you for asking. Bear in mind that this is just about the most good-hearted, almost unbearably charming little town you could possibly imagine. It has half as many people as did my high school graduating class and looks like it belongs in a model railroad. Devil worshipping, don't you know. They've got a reputation.

It's none of my business, I'll admit that, but I had to do some digging. Turns out they've got three or four Wiccans or Druids or something. Maybe fewer, I don't know. Let me repay their kindness by clearing something up. Devil worshippers sacrifice virgins to the dark lord and listen to Motley Crue. Wiccans think flowers are pretty and believe we should care for the earth. It's a subtle distinction, admittedly, but an impotant one, nonetheless.

"Index will burn in Hell," one man told me. God bless us, every one.

I had this to consider as I trudged on alone, uphill and in the rain. Just fifteen miles; my feet and I have entered into a truce. They will keep their pains dull and consistent if I promise not to take them for granted. Fair enough.

I arrived eventually, soggy and tired in the good town of Skykomish, Washington. I was here all of five minutes when up drives a new friend from Index in a handsome VW van. He was the one who turned me onto this campsite. I never would have found it without him and would have been alone in the rain. Burn in hell, my ass.

So here I am with a baseball park to myself. There's a cleanish flush toilet and a covered shelter under which I can orgainise my gear in the morning. What's more there is a sink with running hot water in which I washed my hair and my laundry. And I sponged myself off as far as was decent and soaked my poor sorry feet. I am meant to pay for the privilege of camping here but can't for the life of me figure out to whom I am supposed to pay. If a ranger doesn't wake me in the wee hours, Skykomish, I owe you fifteen bucks.

Peace.

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