Claire Henley: Adventures West (The Prevalence Of Providence)

(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).

I needed this walk up Sonora Pass. Big Spoon and I had traveled over one thousand miles, and the last stretch through the rigorous, white cliff climbs of Yosemite Wilderness nearly did me in. My body was tired, and as I hiked, my thoughts revolved around life beyond the trail. Then came Sonora Pass. I was a little ahead of Big Spoon that morning when I entered its saving gates. Save for the shrill chickarees that sang out from the pines, I was alone and looked out from the ridge. This new world of soft sweeping land, like a gentle hand urging me on, revived my purpose in my path. 

It seemed to work this way. Hardship would come, and, true to its name, it would be hard, quite hard, at times. But if you stuck it out, if you pushed through the difficulty, if you endured the times of trying tediousness, then something amazing, something resuscitating, something worth every ounce of your taxing struggle, followed.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'”

-Jeremiah 29:11

Sonora Pass couldn’t have been more pretty. Wide open meadows rolled into the sky. The mountains curved in colors of a calico cat. Red bled into orange bled into tan. It was brisk out; the hollows of the higher peaks still cradled some snow. As I walked, wind blew up the pass and coolly brushed my cheeks. A single hawk overhead spread his strong yellow wings and glided in the flowing wind.

“It’s called providence,” I told Big Spoon when he met me at the top of the pass. 

“What is?” He asked, his eyes fixed on the only violet wildflower springing up from the pebbled peak. 

“This. Where we are,” I replied. “The last several miles exhausted me, drained me dry. Many times, I doubted my ability to journey on. But where we are now, here in this new and beautiful place, I see I’m cared for in a way that’s beyond my control. There’s a power in the universe that knows exactly what I need, and when I need it, to be able to continue. And I believe it’s called providence.” 

Big Spoon nodded slowly, still watching the little flower that, though the wind blew and blew, was somehow able to stand firm in the crumbled soil of our celestial summit. 

Later that day, we arrived in Bridgeport. Bridgeport was an old town. The courthouse–a wooden slat structure painted in thick coats of white–had kept its doors open for one hundred and thirty five years. A red telephone booth propped against the outside wall of the local saloon. And the fame of the highway-side town came from the Victorian style Bridgeport Inn, where the White Lady, a woman whose fiancé died unexpectedly in 1887, hung herself in Room 16, her wedding dress on. 

We ate dinner at the popular burger joint called The Barn, during which time we consulted with our balding server on affordable places to stay. He recommended the Bodie Hotel across the street, saying, “It’s the cheapest place in town.”

We finshed our fries and shakes then walked to the Bodie Hotel. On the outside, the hotel stood like a dilapidated barn still decorated in Fourth of July ribbons and wreaths. Rusty hinges squeaked as we opened the door, and when we stepped inside the lace-curtained lobby, our feet sank into shag carpet the color of blood. The lobby let in just enough light to illuminate the dusty sepia portraits hanging on the wallpapered walls. The faces in the old fashioned portraits stared at us with sharp cutting eyes.

There was no one there, and the sign at the front desk read: “Gone for the rest of the day. To reserve room, go to Sports Bar next door. $70 per night. Checkout 10:30 a.m. -Janice.”

“What do you think?” Big Spoon asked as I cautiously sat in the rocking chair that had obviously been repaired more than once. 

“It doesn’t sound like anyone’s here,” I said. 

“I know, it’s kind of creepy. But our other options cost twice as much.”

“True,” I said. “And we’ll only be here a night.”

“So, we’ll get a room here, then?”

I glanced at the portraits and locked eyes with an old lady who was ghostly pale. “Okay, we’ll get a room here,” I said, my voice a little shaky and very unsure.

Our room seemed fine at first. The queen bed took up most of the space, and our backpacks took up the rest. But the bathroom appeared clean and the linens were washed. However, as I showered I noticed the mold crawling up the shower curtain, which, though concerning, did not distress me so much as the colony of ants I found crawling up the nightstand and onto the headboard when I got into bed. Big Spoon was showering when I realized the ants. He wore his Crocs as he bathed because the tub was too grimy for him to stand in barefoot. 

“These ants are worse than the ones we deal with camping,” I called to Big Spoon in the bathroom. 

“I feel like I’m showering in the slime of a thousand slugs,” came Big Spoon’s reply. 

We tried to call the Sports Bar, followed by Janice–the hotel owner–to ask for a refund, or, at the very least, a different room. But it was late, and neither the bar nor Janice picked up. 

I slept in that nightmare of a place with one eye open. The next morning, as Big Spoon and I hastily packed up, we received a hard and startling knock on the door. Checkout wasn’t for another hour, but when Big Spoon opened the door, an old woman with fried black hair, deep dark eye sockets, and wide wrinkles that ripped from the corners of her mouth down to her skeletal jaw, started yelling at us to get out. 

The woman was Janice, and, apparently, she had another guest coming right that minute who had reserved the room we were in. 

“Good riddance,” I said as Big Spoon and I hustled out of the Bodie Hotel. We were in such a race to get out of Bridgeport, in fact, that when we went to the grocery store to shop for our next seventy-five mile stretch, we only stayed long enough to pick out and buy the bare necessities. 

Thus, over the next four days through the Toiyabe Wilderness, Big Spoon and I had to greatly ration our food. As thru hikers are always hungry, not being able to eat each time our bodies told us we should irritated us like an unrelenting itch our arms were too short to scratch. By day three of the four day stretch, we were mad with hunger. 

“Do you know what I want more than anything in the world?” I said to Big Spoon as we climbed up Carson Pass. A bountiful forest thrived around us, and Big Spoon answered above the sound of his growling stomach, “What’s that?”

“A big, fat, gooey chocolate chip cookie. Homemade. And hot.”

“I want fried Oreos from the Jersey Shore,” Big Spoon said. 

“Are those good?” 

“You’ve never had a fried Oreo?” Said Big Spoon, stunned. 

“No.” 

In his famished state, Big Spoon responded bluntly, “Claire, have you lived?”

We sluggishly made our way up the pass and didn’t reach the top until late afternoon. Here, the trail crossed Highway 88. Weary from hunger, Big Spoon and I dragged our feet into the parking area where a lady who worked in the Visitors Center was closing up shop.

Desperate, Big Spoon asked the lady if there was a vending machine inside. 

“Are you PCT hikers?” The lady asked. She had angel white hair and wore a forest green vest with a name tag pinned to the breast pocket that read, “Sue.”

“Yes ma’am, we are,” I said then added, “And we’re pretty hungry.”

“Say no more!” Sue beamed and dropped what she was doing. “Take your packs off and sit down at that picnic table out front. Thank goodness you came when you did! I was just about to lock up. Do you like hot dogs? They were grilled two hours ago. Or, do you like–”

“We’ll eat anything,” Big Spoon politely interjected. 

“Great!” Said Sue. She determinedly walked inside the Visitors Center while Big Spoon and I took our seats at the picnic table. 

“We just love to feed you hikers,” Sue said when she returned, her arms full with a Tupperware container of hotdogs, a bag of buns, bottle of mustard, and a half empty jar of pickle relish. We helped her set the delicacies  down on the table. Big Spoon dove his hands into the bag of buns as Sue opened the lid to the hotdogs. The smell of meat swirled into the air. My mouth watered so much I nearly drooled. 

“Do you mind if we each have two?” Big Spoon asked Sue while he separated the buns. 

“Eat them all!” Sue said, delighted by our grand enthusiasm to be fed.

We feasted until we were full, and it was divine. By the time we finished eating, Sue had finished closing everything up. 

“Goodbye! And thank you again!” We called to Sue as she walked to her car. We thought she was going to leave. However, instead of getting in her car to drive away, she got in only to get something out. Then Sue walked back over to Big Spoon and me at the picnic table. She held something in her hand wrapped in a paper towel. 

“Do you like chocolate chip cookies? I made them myself,” She said, unfolding the paper towel. Two golden cookies with melted chocolate pieces shined like rare treasures from Sue’s outstretched hand. This was exactly what I had wished for earlier in the day. 

“Call it the Law of Attraction; call it God’s power,” Big Spoon reflected after Sue left and the cookies had been devoured. “But when you need something bad enough, more often than not, you’re going to get it.”

“I call it providence,” I said, remembering the sweet taste of chocolate chip cookie that had graced my longing tongue mere moments before. It amazed me how perfectly this providence always took its plotted course.

* * *

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