Free The Walk by Richard Paul Evans Page B

problems with my route. The preferred (and by “preferred” I mean “legal”) route for bikers and hikers is Highway 2, a scenic two-lane road that climbs through the Cascade mountains up to Stevens Pass, one of Washington’s ski resorts. I knew that at that time of the year there would be snow at the pass, but Ipushed it from my mind. I’d deal with that when I got
there.
    I followed 132nd Avenue north to Redmond Road, then walked about six miles northeast into Redmond. By the time I arrived at the city center, it was around two in the afternoon, and the traffic was heavy.
    I was a bit conspicuous traveling through downtown Redmond with a backpack and sleeping bag slung over my back, and I drew a lot of curious glances, but I didn’t care. The first casualty of hitting rock bottom is vanity.
    From the heart of Redmond, I continued north up Avondale Road. The walk was flat, and the side of the road was wet and spongy, carpeted with copper-hued pine needles fallen from the trees that lined the route. As I walked farther away from the city, I noticed that my mood softened a little. The sounds of birds and water, the rhythmic fall of my feet, and the cool, fresh air untied my mind from the craziness of the night before. I’ve always
believed that a good walk in the woods is as effective as psychotherapy. Nature is, has always been, the greatest of healers.
    By Woodinville—about sixteen miles from Bellevue—my legs already felt tired, which was a bad omen. Even though I was an avid hiker and runner, the last four weeks I had sacrificed everything to be with McKale, including exercise. Not surprisingly, I had lost muscle and gained weight—enough at least that my pants were snug at the waist.
    There was a Safeway grocery store at the edge of town, and I stopped in for supplies and to get something to eat.I bought two quart bottles of water, a pint bottle of orange juice, a box of peanut butter and chocolate energy bars, two boxes of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts, two Braeburn apples, a Bartlett pear, a bag of trail mix, and a sixteen-ounce bag of jerky.
    People instinctively fear people with beards (like Santa Claus, or the homeless guy who sits next to you on the bus), when, historically speaking, it should be mustaches we most worry about (e.g., Hitler, Stalin, John Wilkes Booth).
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
    After some deliberation, I purchased a travel pack of shampoo and a package of disposable razors and shaving gel. I had considered letting my beard grow until I looked like one of the ZZ Top guys, but decided against it. The truth is, I’ve never liked wearing beards. I grew a goatee once, but McKale said it hurt to kiss me and threatened to withhold her lips until I shaved it off. (She also told me that it made me look like Satan. I don’t know how she knew what Satan looked like, but the goatee came off that night.)
    My pack was noticeably heavier as I left the Safeway.I continued walking north until I reached Highway 522, and turned east. I was finally free of suburbia. The forest around me was overgrown on both sides, thick with ferns, evergreens, and lichen-flocked black cottonwoods.
    In spite of the ballast I’d added, the walk became easier as the road gradually descended, and my pack seemed to be pushing me downhill.
    Seattle is amphibious. Even when I couldn’t see water, I could hear it somewhere, an underground stream or viaduct or a roadside waterfall. Under these conditions other cities would mold or rot—but on this side of Washington, wet is the natural state of things—like a salamander’s back.
    By four-thirty darkness was already starting to fall. As daylight faded, the temperature dropped to the low forties. I decided not to take chances with my remaining light and find a place to camp.
    I had just reached Echo Lake when I encountered a bank rising 30 feet or more into thick forest, providing a screen from the road. I climbed the bank, grabbing on to ferns and foliage to avoid slipping