The rings
(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big Spoon).
“They would not find me changed from him they knew—Only more sure of all I thought was true.”
-Robert Frost, “Into my Own”
Once Big Spoon and I got married, we became known on the trail as the HoneySpooners. When we bumped into hikers and introduced ourselves, jaws dropped. “No way!” The hikers would say. “You’re the ones who met on the trail and got married. Everyone’s talking about it. You two are legends.”
Over three weeks had passed since my and Big Spoon’s civil ceremony in Lancaster. We still didn’t have rings. In each town we hiked into, we searched the local shops for wedding bands but always came up empty. “The right rings will present themselves to us at the right time,” I kept telling Big Spoon. He nodded in understanding but replied, “I really want a ring.”
It was the day after we attempted Mount Whitney–shining blue in King’s Canyon National Park. Mighty mountains ruled over. All they were missing were scepters and swords. Big Spoon and I ate lunch by an icy alpine lake then made our way up Forester Pass, the highest point on the PCT at 13,200 feet. The sun was solar hot. The trail switchbacked steeply up loose scree. At the top, views of diamond lakes and silver peaks met our overwhelmed eyes. Snowmelt cascaded from the granite mountainside. We were seeing beauty, royal beauty, majestic in its power, stunning, and full of wonder.
That night we camped in the valley by a gurgling stream with slick black rocks. We waded barefoot in the cold water and washed our dusty skin. Though a pristine campsite, an army of mosquitoes battled for our blood. We suited up in long pants and head nets to make dinner then scrambled in the tent and zipped up tight. The next day, at mile 789, we hiked over Kearsarge Pass–known as the most beautiful pass in the Sierra with its blue-black crests and dreamy pools–to get into town. We reached the campground at the bottom of the pass in the darkening evening. A hitch to the town of Bishop 60 miles away didn’t look promising. Then a white van pulled into the parking lot and a group of backpackers unloaded.
Big Spoon approached the white van.
“Howdy. Are all of you hiking, or is anyone driving back down the mountain?”
“Where do you need to go?” The guy in the driver’s seat with spiky black hair and ear gauges asked.
“We’re on the PCT and need to ressuply in Bishop,” Big Spoon said.
“I’m going through Bishop,” the driver said. “I can take you.”
Four other hikers known as The Fellowship got a ride in the van, too. They were called The Fellowship because each night they read Lord of the Rings around the fire and even found a gold ring–their precious–buried in the snow at the top of Mount Whitney. The Fellowship stunk up the van. They were a group of dudes having a competition to see who could go the longest without doing laundry. Their shirts were stained black. I felt bad for the driver. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he agreed to drive us an hour off the trail. He rolled down the windows and didn’t say a word the whole way.
The driver dropped us off at the Taco Bell downtown. Bishop flashed with hotel vacancy signs and the neon lights of late night pubs. Big Spoon and I stayed at Hostel California in a coed room with queen-sized bunks. The hostel stood out in lime green and tarp blue paint. The ruddy, sunburned guests lounged on weathered outdoor couches with lit cigarettes on their lips, their heads swaying to the turned up tunes. We passed the patio to get to our room at the top of the creaky stairs.
“Hey! It’s the HoneySpooners! Those crazy fools got married after knowing each other a month!” The hangout howled as we walked by.
Bishop was a bit off trail, but it was the place to be. Big Spoon and I checked out the energetic hot spot the following day. Diesel trucks and 18-wheelers screamed by as we walked down Main Street, the smell of hot danishes from Schats Bakery guiding us. We ate ham and cheese croissants and apple turnovers for breakfast on the bakery’s front porch. As we ate, the Bishop Trading Post next door caught our eye.
“Maybe it has rings,” I said to Big Spoon as he took a bite of turnover.
“Maybe,” Big Spoon said, mouth full, a few flaky crumbs fluttering out.
A Great Dane named Bruce lay sprawled out on the cool cement floor of the Trading Post when Big Spoon and I entered. Novelty items like arrowheads, bull skulls, and old fashioned prints of the Sierra made up the shop.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Asked the soft spoken salesman with platinum hair and pale eyelashes. He sat at a table in the middle of the store, a Philips screwdriver in hand, tinkering with something. When he stood up, he revealed his size–the Great Dane of men.
“As a matter of fact, we are,” Big Spoon and I responded. We told the salesman our story, how we got married on the trail and had been searching for rings ever since.
“I have just what you’re looking for,” said the salesman with confidence. He walked briskly behind the glass counter, unlocked it, and pulled out a velvet display tray of handcrafted rings.
“These were made in New Mexico, and these were made right here in Bishop by a local artist,” the man said while pointing to the various rings. “Here, try this one on. It’s turquoise and sterling silver.” He handed me a silver band inlaid with vibrant blue stones.
“It fits,” I said and showed my ringed finger to Big Spoon.
“I can always guess a ring size,” said the salesman with a winning smile.
“It looks really nice,” said Big Spoon. He gazed at my left hand.
Next it was his turn to pick a ring. The salesman selected a nickel plated band fashioned out of a quarter. “Quite a unique piece,” he said and placed the ring in Big Spoon’s palm. Big Spoon brought the ring close to his eye and rotated it round and round. “In God We Trust,” he read. “It’s a Florida quarter.” Then he slipped it on. The perfect fit.
“I feel more married now,” I said to Big Spoon as we strolled out of the Trading Post with our rings. They lit up our fingers in a mesmerizing way. Our shining rings, our symbols of our unending bond
We walked to the green grass park across the street, sat at a picnic table, and spent the sunny day loitering under trees and looking at our jeweled hands. A Hispanic woman with long dark hair and deep dark eyes walked over with her son and sat at the table with us.
“Are you hiking the PCT?” She asked Big Spoon and me.
“We are,” I said and winked at the little boy who looked at us in our hiker garb like we were from another world.
The woman’s face brightened.
“Show her our rings,” Big Spoon said in excitement.
We showed the woman and her son our rings, and Big Spoon told our tale.
The woman’s face brightened even more. Her tan cheeks bloomed from her growing smile. Then she shrieked, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, how I understand. Have others given you much reproach? Oh, I understand. I was eighteen when I met my husband. I just knew he was the one. He was thirty-two. My friends and family thought I was mad, crazy, making the biggest mistake of my life. But I knew he was my love. I knew. We’ve been married now twenty-three years. I tell him today, if you ever leave me I will never marry again because you are the love of my life. So, I understand. You must live your life–your very life. Don’t let others control you, but follow your very heart. I tell you, I do, I understand.”
Later that evening, Big Spoon and I walked hand in hand to the high school rodeo at the Tri-County Fairgrounds behind the Best Western. The rodeo boomed with galloping horses, whimpering goats, jerking bulls, and hollering people in cowboy hats and stiff jeans. The bleachers where we sat were rickety and warm. The rodeo was chaotic, loud, and a show of pageantry. The young high schoolers had complete control over the mighty beasts. We were all mighty beasts with strong and mighty hearts, I thought as I watched the timed events. Then I thought of what the lively Hispanic woman at the park said: Live your life, your very life.
I looked at my torquoise ring then at my husband who was fixated on the horses in their reins and realized I was doing just that. I was living my very life.
* * *
Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:
http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks