#bacon is said to break boulders when frustrated

[introvert-no-chameleon]

Of Monsters and McGuckets

Fiddleford just wanted to have his morning coffee in peace, but Gravity Falls and the Stan brothers had other plans.

AO3

Fiddleford Hardon McGucket considered himself to be a patient, level-headed individual. One had to be if they ever hoped to survive Gravity Falls, and, even more daunting, live with Stanford and Stanley Pines. Keeping them in line was an occupation in itself. His co-workers were two of the most chaotic and morally questionable people he’d ever met in his life. (Then again, as someone who had once made a giant robot to terrorize his ex-wife in an admittedly misguided attempt to get her back, maybe he shouldn’t be throwing stones in that last department).

The point is, when it came to dealing with uncommon and frustrating situations, he usually managed to keep a straight head. But on one deceivingly lovely morning, just when he’d went out to the porch to sit back with a nice cup of coffee and the sun had just begun to kiss the horizon, he saw two large monsters sprinting towards the shack, and. Well.

It was only reasonable that he’d react the way he did.

The first thing he did was spit out his early-morning coffee, ruining his only clean tie in the process. The second thing he did was dash into the shack like the Devil Himself was on his heels. Lastly, he slammed the door shut, locked it, and began combing the living room for the shotgun he knew for a fact Stanley kept around. He thanked the Lord Stanford wasn’t here, lest he’d be chastising Fiddleford for “harming” (defending himself against) a perfectly healthy specimen. Never mind the fact that half of these subjects of study had tried to eat him, no sir. Scientific discovery was always more important.

(Sometimes, Fiddleford wondered how on God’s green earth Stanford Pines hadn’t fallen to his death into a ravine or some other nonsense in pursuit of an anomaly. Heaven knows the man, while undeniably brilliant, was severely lacking when it came to common sense).

A bang rattled the wooden door of the shack. Fiddleford yelped, dropping the pile of books he’d been in the process of moving in his scramble to find the gun. He eyed the secret lab entrance and wondered if the door would hold them back long enough for him to make a dash for it.

“Fidds, we saw you run in, will ya just open the door?”

Fiddleford froze. That voice, while even more gravelly than usual (a thing he hadn’t thought possible) was definitely familiar.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” he said, dazed, as he walked over to the door and unlocked it. “Stanley?”

Upon closer inspection, he couldn’t deny that the square-jawed face that peered down at him belonged to Stanley Pines. There were some…notable…differences, such as the fact that he had glowing orbs for eyes, all his featured seemed to be carved from stone, he had ridiculous pointy ears and fangs to boot. He’d be right at home next to the gargoyles from those pictures of cathedrals he’d studied for his History of Western Art course.

“Took ya long enough,” said Stanley, ducking his head under the doorway and lumbering inside. Each step made the floorboard groan loudly, and for a few seconds Fiddleford thought the man would break through the wood floor. “Thought we’d never get back.”

“Stanferd, do ya have…fur?” said Fiddleford, stepping away from the door to let the other man in.

Stanford—it couldn’t be anyone else, not with that straight-backed posture and furrowed brow peering over thick-rimmed glasses—walked in behind him, hands behind his back.

 Hearing the question, Stanford adjusted his glasses, with a large, six-fingered paw. His facial features were lion-esque, as was his entire body, save from the colorful green, blue and red feathered wings that trailed behind his body. He even had a cute little lion tail poking out from a hole in his pants. “It appears so, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We may have a…problem.”

Stanley, who had gone to the fridge to get a beer, came back glaring at Stanford with those bright yellow orbs. “No shit, Sixer. I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

Stanford’s ears flattened against his skull. Fiddleford would’ve found it amusing if Stanford wasn’t now 7 feet tall and didn’t have large, sharp teeth. “Language, Stanley.”

Fiddleford considered grabbing some alcohol as he took in the situation. After a few attempts at forming words, he finally settled for the question he found himself asking on a near-daily basis. “What in tarnation did ya two get yerselves mixed up in now?”

“Oi, don’t look at me,” said Stan. He jerked his clawed thumb at Stanford. “Mr. Science here was the one who just had to walk right into a mysterious, glowing lake that he almost drowned in.”

Stanford’s tail twitched, and he growled. “We almost drowned, Stanley, because you turned into 300 pounds of moving stone.”

“I was only in the lake because you started flailing around growing a tail and screamin’ for help!”

Ford sniffed, chin held up in that way it got whenever he’d start getting defensive. “Swimming with wings is incredibly difficult.”

“Yeah, I would know, I have them now.” Stanley stretched out his bat-like wings for emphasis.

Judging by Stanford’s bloodshot eyes and Stanley’s slouched posture, along with the fact that they seemed even more short with each other than usual, Fiddleford guessed that they’d been arguing on and off about this for a while. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now see right here, the two of ya best calm down, you’ll tear the shack apart if you start fighting bein’ like this.”

The two of them, while far from calm, quieted down.

“Right,” said Fiddleford. “So ya discovered some magic water that turns folks into monsters?”

“Yup,” said Stanley. “We found it in some hidden path behind some bushes and a couple of boulders.”

It’s almost as if it was hidden away for a reason. “Did ya at least remember where the path is?”

“Of course,” said Stanford, having the audacity to look indignant. “What do you take me for?”

“An idiot who got us turned into two walking Summerween costumes because he couldn’t just collect the water in a cup and some gloves like a normal scientist?” said Stanley.

“As if you would know what a “normal” scientist does,” said Stanford, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright, fellas. Let me just get some food in me and then we can go back out and get some samples,” said Fiddleford. “I need me some caffeine to deal with this.”

Stanford opened his mouth but Fiddleford stopped him with the same withering glare he’d give his son whenever he tried to step out of line. “Stanferd Pines, if ya think I’m gonna run around the woods with the two of you, in this here state, on an empty stomach, yer sorely mistaken.”

“Fidds has got a point,” said Stan. “You probably haven’t had anything other than that piece of toast since you woke up.”

“I suppose some food wouldn’t hurt…” said Stanford. “I did have an incredibly strong urge to maul a deer we spotted on the way over.”

Fiddleford was getting some bacon out of the fridge when he heard the end of the sentence. He straightened up and slammed the door with more force than strictly necessary. “Y-ya did?”

Stanford seemed to come to the same conclusion Fiddleford had, because he raised his paws up. “Oh, n-no, rest assured. I don’t have any inclination to eat you.”

“Thank the Lord…”

“After all,” said Stanford, rubbing his chin. “According to mythology, sphinxes only consume humans if they are unfortunate enough not to know the answers to their riddles.”

“Don’t I feel better,” said Fiddleford, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do ya reckon ya can still have some bacon and eggs?”

“Yes, that’ll do,” he said. “Oh! I must write down our findings in my journal. Now, where did I put it…” Stanford went up the stairs, muttering to himself the entire way.

“Ya know, he actually started running on all fours at least twice on the way over.” Stan grinned through another sip of beer. “was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Fiddleford sighed. That would explain the fighting. He rolled his eyes as he saw Stanley reach in the fridge for another can and shut it before he could. “Stanley Pines, it is 8 o’clock in the morning.”

“Ooh,” Stanley raised his eyebrows. “Two last names in less than five minutes, it’s a new record.”

“Stanley.”

Stanley pouted, and even with his new…physical features, Fiddleford still found it endearing. “Aw, come onnnn, Fids, I’m emotionally distressed!”

“Yer no such thing.” He smiled a soon as back turned to the other man. He took out their skillet and placed it on the stove.

“Y’know, I gotta hand it to ya. You’ve gotten a lot more assertive since we’ve met, it’s kinda hot.”

“Yer flattery will not sway me into lettin’ ya get another drink.”

Stanley laughed behind him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still bein’ serious. Ford didn’t even try to fight you about getting breakfast. If it was me, he’d be yelling at me by now about how we were wastin’ time and crap.”

“It doesn’t take much for the two of ya to get at each other’s necks.” Fiddleford cracked an egg on the edge of the skillet. Anyhow, that’s because he’s hiding away scribblin’ field notes. The moment he’s done, he’ll be tryin’ to drag us on out of here.”

“Eh, true.”

For a moment, the eggs sizzling and snapping on the pan filled the warm silence. His stomach grumbled as the savory smell of cooking food reached him. “Stanley, can ya hand me the coffeepot?”

The floorboards creaked behind Fiddleford. A shadow loomed over him. “Stanley?”

“…You’re not, uh, scared of me or nothin’?” Stanley’s voice had gotten so quiet Fiddleford had hardly heard him.

Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley, who despite his size was hunched over, looking mighty small for someone who was now a literal boulder.

“Why on earth would I be?”

Stanley blinked meekly. He gestured towards his entire body. “Uh…’cause I look like this?”

Ah. He did try to threaten them with a shotgun. Some of the unease he’d gotten rid of returned, but he tried his best not to show it. He swallowed down his fear as best as he could. “Should I be?”

Stanley frowned. “Eh, I mean, I feel different, but not in a “eat somebody” kinda way. I do have a very strong urge to perch on the roof and attack pigeons.”

“Fascinating.” Even without his caffeine, his scientific curiosity was finally starting to get the best of him. “Well, gargoyles are known as guardians meant to ward against evil. Perhaps you’ve developed some sorta protective instinct…”

He stopped mid-ramble. Even without eyes to speak of, Fiddleford could tell Stanley was avoiding his gaze.  

Fiddleford brought his hand to Stanley’s cheek. It felt warm, to his surprise, like rock that had baked under the afternoon sun. Stanley peeked up at him. “Darlin’, the only thing I’m afraid of is the damage you’ll cause around the lab if we don’t turn ya back. Yer like a bull in a china closet as it is.”

Stanley chuckled, leaning into Fiddleford’s touch. “Somebody has ta make things interesting around here.”

Something crashed overhead, quickly followed by a string of curses. A series of heavy objects thumped against the wood overhead.

“I’m alright!” called Stanford’s voice. “I simply knocked a bookshelf over my person, but this new form is surprisingly durable!”

“Things are interestin’ enough as it is,” said Fiddleford, his brief moment of curiosity gone as soon as it came. “Where in tarnation is the coffeepot?”

“Relax, Fiddlenerd, I’ll make ya a fresh one.” He went over by his side, giving him a playful shove that sent Fiddleford to the ground. “…Oops. Sorry, uh, forgot about the whole…stone thing.”

Fiddleford glowered up at his boyfriend, taking his hand as he helped Fiddleford back up. “Yer lucky a got a soft spot fer ya, else I’d be mighty cross.”

Stanly gave him the gentlest peck on the top of Fiddleford’s head. “Once I have my human body back, I’ll make it up to ya.”

Stanley gave him a cup of his precious lifeblood, black with two sugars, just as he liked it. Smirking, Fiddleford took a sip, getting warmed by more than just the coffee. “I’ll hold ya to that.”

*

Somebody please give Fiddleford a raise. 

Comment on what monster you all think Fidds should be, and I may do a second part. I've read some people make him a scarecrow, and I considered making him a centaur.

#mystery trio au #mystery trio #gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #fiddleford mcgucket #young fiddleford #young stanley pines #young stanford pines #young stan bros #fluff #fiddlestan #monster falls #gargolye!stan #sphinx!ford

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 12: Family Dynamics

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

Safe on their home island of Eremita, the hermits need to practice, grow their magic stronger. A day in the life of the illegal guild of hermits includes food- practice- more food- practice- contemplating of life.

---------------------------------------------------

The Order returned to their island, healed by the remaining Asklepions and left with more questions than answers. They know almost nothing more about dark magic, despite fighting it twice now. When they thought husks only appeared around crystals, Danes proved they can move. When they believed they understood why a husk appeared, the monsters just tore apart their theories. 

One thing they did learn from the two experiences is they need more training. More experience, especially against dark magic. The hermits were strong, but the forces of darkness were stronger. But before any of them can take on each other, they first need to take on breakfast.

Which is a challenge in itself. Half of the hermits want to jump right into training, ignoring the guild hall and insistence of TFC. The other half are easily enticed by the scent of food. 

Grian is practically vibrating in his seat, to the point that Iskall has to reach out and press his hand on the blond hair to keep him seated. “Who thought it was a good idea to give him syrup?” 

“It’s not the breakfast, I can’t wait to get back to sparring!” Grian grins, turning to Mumbo. “You ready for another round of quickdraws?” 

Mumbo groans, head falling back and mouth falling open. “Gri, you know I can’t quickdraw my magic circle.” 

“Like, at all, dude.” Iskall hums, picking the skin off an orange. 

“That’s how you’ll get better! Learn by doing!” Grian points out. He knows that Mumbo struggles with his magic- it’s a lot of magic to handle, being a multi-mage. But he’s seen Mumbo’s strength, he sees the potential in his best friend. And only someone as equally powerful as him, like Grian, can take on that power. Once it shows itself. 

Stress walks by, rolling up her sleeves and brushing the rat’s nest from her hair. She sits down next to False, squeaking as the sharp slice of rock against metal cuts into the air. Stress realizes the shining alloy isn’t a plate. “False, haven’t we said before- no weapons on the tables?” 

“It’s no used weapons. This is brand new, just finished forging it last night.” She picks the chakram by the handle in the center, tossing the disk blade across the table to Wels. “Why don’t you give it a try today?” 

Wels laughs, giving the weapon a slice and a spin. “Let’s see Etho dodge this.” 

Etho, hearing his own name, abruptly stands up from his seat and scurries into the nearest shadow, a strip of bacon shoved into his mouth as he pulls up his mask. Doc and BDubs only laugh, divvying up the remains of Etho’s breakfast. 

Under the quiet seats under the massive oak, as old as the island itself, Keralis and Xisuma are studying. Keralis stopped by his family’s bookstore on the mainland, sifting through ancient tomes in hopes of finding something about dark magic. 

“Ugh, why does no one write about dark magic, sheshwammy?” Keralis growls, his thick south Lairyon accent struggling to say Xisuma’s central name. 

“Probably because it’s illegal to practice it, so no one knows anything about it.” Xisuma sets down another book, picking up the egg sandwich he made and taking a frustrated bite. “Though someone obviously does. But we need proof that this is dark magic, written proof.” He knows they can’t stop it themselves- that’s the arcane guard’s job. But after seeing all of Gildara abandoned, and most of the Asklepions killed, the least he can do is this. 

“You really think the pen is mightier than the sword?” False questions, raising an eyebrow. She presses her knife into the sausage patty on her plate, daring Joe to answer.

“I mean, when my pen can make a giant magic sword with fire and lightning, yeah.” Joe grins, pressing his chin to his open palm. A dangerous glint appears behind his glasses, and he uses the other hand to push them up. Sun reflects off the spectacles, making it impossible for False to see anything beyond the smirk and the light- infuriating her. 

“Cleo,” False grabs the pirate by her long coat and dragging her into the conversation. Without the paladin here to back her up, she needed someone else with a way with words. “You get what I’m saying. Tell me your blade there wouldn’t completely destroy Joe in a fight. I mean, all I’d have to do is cut up that journal of yours and your magic is useless!” 

“Well, Joe does have a point. Sure, your forged weapons are the best in the kingdom, and Joe is screwed if he ever has to face you without his magic.” Cleo pauses, watching the two. “But I’m inclined to believe that words should come before violence- which is why anytime Mr. Joe of the Hills here refuses to finish his breakfast, I remind him with my words that I’m going to break his knees before i actually do.” Cleo pulls out her sword, setting the tip on the wood table. 

Joe shoves the last of his pancakes into his mouth, quick to retreat from Cleo. He was asking for trouble with False, but he knows any of the women could easily kick his ass. Even as an S-Class. “Hey False, why don’t we take this debate to the training field, see how mighty the sword is to the pen?” 

“You can’t escape me forever, Joe!” Cleo calls, watching as the two S-Class mages run down the hill and onto the latter half of the island. Their home island, Eremita, was separated into two parts. The southern side of the island lays claim to where the hermits live. An odd mix of towers and forges, ships and caves. It was up to the hermits to chose their own style of household- which created some disunion of the overall complex, but allowed for each member to express themselves. Everyone helped, whether Scar packed stone bricks or False forged iron nails. 

The other half of the island, however, was left mostly untouched. A large field of grass, combed by the salty sea air, dotted with targets and barriers. A dirt circle cuts into the field, where hermits can duel one on one. Beyond the field, a large pond expands like an eye to the face of the island. Caressing the other shore, a dense forest grows on a slow rise of a hill, before stopping at the edge of the cove of a broad, sandy beach. It was a perfect home, a perfect place for an illegal guild to lay claim. 

Training grounds quickly filled with groups and teams, even TFC getting in on strengthening himself. He wasn’t going to let some little rock keep him down for long. “Hey Cub, lets show these guys a thing or two about magic.” 

The two silver haired, bearded men join the others well settled into today’s training. Deep in the forest, a soft explosion can be heard, followed by the giddy laughter as Zedaph leaps from tree to tree. Tango and Impulse struggle to follow him, and the birds diving for their heads don’t help. At the interface between trees and grass, Doc and Jevin have teamed up to amass an army. Objects under the devious control of Doc’s puppeteering magic, violent and unshaken to mimic the husks they fought. Jevin’s slime soldiers add bodies to the battle, flanking Iskall, Ren, and Xisuma. Hiding behind a barrier, Etho is waiting for the sun to reappear and for shadows to return, ducking his head as the chakram whizzes past. Despite his terrifying predicament, he has a coy smile on his face. 

In the field, BDubs is practicing his aim with Scar, shredding apart haybales with their unique magic. Plants grow from one, thorns dug deep into the tightly bound material. The other has been knocked over and crushed by a boulder, Scar cheering his success. And in the center of the dueling ring, Mumbo and Grian stand still as stone. The quietest Grian ever has been. In a flash, as simple as a shift in the wind’s direction, Mumbo rushes to summon his circle. A second later, he’s blown off his feet, Grian grinning with blue embers fading away from his fingers. Mumbo groans, rubbing the dirt stained fabric on his rear. “You couldn’t have given me a few seconds? It’s not like I’d ever win.” 

Grian offers an easy smile, waving Mumbo closer. “Come on, let’s practice the basics again. I know you can do it, friend.” 

The hermits continue into the afternoon, only stopping their training briefly for lunch under the cool relief of the oaken guild hall. Groups disband and reform, training and practicing and learning from each other. Trying to be better, stronger together. So that next time they come face to face with an enemy, or the dark magic, they can win. They will win. 

No guild is quite like the Order of Hermits. Apart from being illegal, they’re a mix of just about every kind of magic. A healing mage like Grian can stand side by side with Cleo’s underworld magic, no set skill required on requested. Varying strengths train side by side, not separated from better or worse. They all have something to learn from each other, even the strongest S-Class can be surprised by the newest mage. And often, Grian is. The magic is just as diverse as the people, the hermits that call Eremita home. 

Training is cut short by a squall, appearing like magic and blowing across the Ashioll sea. Broiling grey clouds engulf the sun, and quickly send the hermits scattering into shelter. Well, most of them. The ZIT trio remained wrestling in the mud, and BDubs couldn’t help but join in. 

Wels returns the chakram to False, a number of other hermits huddled around the blasting heat of False’s outdoor forge, nestled under the stone roof. Stress jumps back as an ember sparks out, nearly catching the trim of her robes. She rubs her exposed arms, the warm material of her fur coat wrapped around her waist. So much for the hot summer day. 

Joe and Cleo have made up, and are plucking books from his library to read as the rain pours down, laughing as they watch Ren skitter away to his home, ears and tail tucked. 

Xisuma sits at a window, looking out across the clouded green sea from his tower. He chose the Ashioll sea for a reason to make this his home. To start a guild here. No one else dared called these waters home. Old magic, magic so wild and arcane that not even the kiplings can control, residing here in these waters. Merchant vessels and battleships avoid the sea, and even the hermits don’t have every island mapped out. Though Grian and Xisuma are working on it. The sea was their safe haven, the island their home. 

Xisuma turns his head, glancing at the white envelope on his desk. The yellow seal bearing a sun remains unbroken. He’s not ready to think about his brother. He knows he could have valuable information, and is likely concerned about him, but he can’t bear to open the letter today. He turns his head back to the storm, watching lightning streak across the sky, smelling the scent of the void left behind by the bolts. He doesn’t need his brother- he has his own family, right here. 

They’ll do this, without Ex.

#hermitcraft #hermitblr #light of lairyon #lol #wizard grian #wizard iskall #wizard stress #wizard false #wizard mumbo #wizard wels #wizard cleo #wizard joe #grian #iskall #stressmonster #falsesymmetry #mumbo jumbo #welsknight #zombiecleo #joehills #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft au #wizard au #wizard hermits

[taylorowelch]

8/20 - 8/23 71 miles We slept late and decided to get a coffee and breakfast at the food truck. We loitered a while and talked to other hikers. Around noon we headed back to the trail which was packed. We both forgot what it was like to be on trail near a parking lot on a weekend day. Around ten miles in the people began to dissipate as we continued our long climb. We were still in view of Mount Rainier for a while, eventually losing sight of it and, as the sun sank lower, huge dark gray jagged peaks lined up along the sky. The trail was rough, made mostly of angular rocks piled up on each other, a slight depression just enough to follow a trail. I filtered water at a lake and another hiker we had met in town, Valley, caught up with us. He asked us to keep watch for him while he went skinny dipping. He jumped into the big green lake. The cold water pulling a loud yell out of him. When I left the lake it felt like I was climbing forever. I hiked with Valley for a while and we chatted. It was nice to talk to someone new. We took lots of breaks to look at Rainier and the other huge peaks ending in dramatic points against the blue sky. It seemed like they went on forever, rows of them stacked one behind the other, feathering out and on into the sun behind them. I hiked until dark. We had only done 15 miles but the climbing and the terrain made it take so long. I got to camp, set up my tent, and cooked dinner, teriyaki rice with bacon bits and smashed fritos, as the last of the daylight drained out of the atmosphere. I ate with my headlamp shining into my teriyaki rice. I crawled into my tent and felt exhausted and happy. We slept in and I was hiking at about 8. There were so many weekend backpackers, more than I had ever run into in one section. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. At about 9 I ran into a couple and chatted with them for a bit. They said they were trying to find a good place to watch the eclipse. That was it! The eclipse! They were all here for the eclipse! As I stood there talking to them I told them I didn’t have anything through which to view the eclipse and they gave me an extra pair of paper glasses they brought. Trail magic. I hiked on to a creek and a large waterfall. I filtered a little water and ate trail mix and watched the eclipse begin. I watched it there for a while and then left the creek, walking through a burn. The whole thing was so eerie and magical, the burnt trees towering over new wildflowers and shrubs in this half-light. It was like someone pulled a shade over the sun, replacing its light with a dusty glow. It was a beautiful, dull, hazy tint. Soon the light became normal again, and I ate my ramen lunch at another creek before a big climb. I powered up the climb, knowing I had to get it over with. At the peak of it I stopped at a small lake. It was green and receding. I drank water and ate trail mix and stared at the spruces on the edge of the lake, at the big silver peak behind it, at its skirt of gravelly-looking boulders just dribbled down the peak’s front. The world was so still and quiet. Pika squeaked from the boulders. A marmot whistled. I left shortly and began a long descent through thick smoke. I think it was from the fires in British Columbia. Supposedly that smoke is still lingering in northern Washington. As I descended, a grouse (a bird that looks like a wild chicken) landed on the trail. I felt kind of manic and I yelled “CHICKEEEEN” and ran after it. It didn’t even fly away, just waddled along kind of frantically down the trail. It stumbled off into a bush after a while and I left it alone. I crossed the Waptus river and found a little campsite on the other side. I chatted with some section hikers while I filtered my water. I cooked pesto pasta and drank electrolyte water. Feeling full and sun-soaked and tired, I crawled into my tent. When I awoke, tiny pieces of ash had settled on my fly. The morning was warm. Already I could tell it would be a hot day. I ate a pop tart in my sleeping bag, drank instant coffee and hiked out, up one steep climb and down the other side. The smoke was thick, the mountains across from me looked dusty and faded like an old photograph. We stopped for lunch and I ate ramen, thinking about the long afternoon ahead. We still had 2500 feet to climb. Dustin left before me from our lunch spot. I rounded a bend and watched as he stood a wet log on it’s end, about the length and width of his own body, and pushed it over, wedging it into channel of water in a river. He saw me and threw his hands up in excitement, proud of himself. We crossed the river and continued up the climb. I passed lots of weekend backpackers and section hikers. I noticed another thru hiker coming southbound. He stepped aside to let me pass. We exchanged the usual, “Hey, how are you,” and I paused. “You look familiar,” I said, “What’s your name?” “Blue,” he replied quietly. Blue wore a teal hat. He had long brown hair and a beard. He had a ukulele in his pack. “You’re going southbound?” I asked. “Well now I am.” “What day did you start?” “April 30th.” “That’s it. Me too. The last time I saw you was at Hauser Creek,” I remembered of my very first day on trail. A kind of astonishment washed over his face. It was funny. I remembered that afternoon perfectly. My foot hurt so bad. I couldn’t get my water filter to work. Blue sat there on sleeping pad talking about going five more miles and had so many things together. I sat there wondering if I would ever have my routine that dialed. If I would ever figure out how to use my water filter, If I would ever figure out the appropriate amount of water to carry. From time to time I thought about all the people I camped with that day and wondered where they were. Now one of them was standing here staring me in the face, two-thousand-four-hundred-some miles away from that creek. We shot the breeze for a little bit. We didn’t really know each other at all, but we knew each other better than we knew the day hikers, the weekenders. There was this strange bond there that I felt before with other hikers I hadn’t seen in a long time, this strong old memory that grew taught with all of the steps I had taken between then and now, reinforced by the idea that that other person and I both had taken lots of steps in that time, maybe in different weather, with different people, but the whole time we were doing the same thing. It felt good. We went our separate ways and I kept on climbing. I filtered water and climbed some more, eventually crossing Piper Pass and beginning to descend through a rock field, the sky all pink and light blue behind me. When I finally got to camp my feet hurt a lot. A few of the toes on my right foot have been numb for a few days. I heard that happens to some people. I made dinner and got into my sleeping bag, grateful to be going to town tomorrow. I accidentally slept late. I was walking by 8 and I was exhausted. My body was tired, my pack felt like it would never fit right, giving me a rash on my back, chafing my armpit into oblivion. I grew frustrated. I climbed slowly. My feet ached. I stopped at a stream and drank a liter of water and brushed my teeth. I felt a little better. I met up with Dustin at Susan Jane Lake and ate ramen and looked at data for Skykomish, the town we were about to enter. I hiked over Stevens Pass and under some ski lifts. I went into the lodge and got my package. Dustin and I broke down our resupply boxes and talked with a friend of ours, Pooperazzi (he always catches people in the act). We thought he was a few days ahead of us but he showed up right before us at the lodge. We hitched into Skykomish and ate burgers and fries and mozzarella sticks. I forgot about fried mozzarella sticks. They were so good. I stared at the table and drank the last of my soda, dazed from calories. I don’t know if I mentioned this before but when I was in Wrightwood I was hiking around a boy named Croc. He was eighteen. He said that every time he ate a Clif bar he could feel his body metabolize it, that he could feel the calories burning up and away. I felt like that sitting at the table, my body anchored firmly to the chair, my dirt-smudged arms cemented to the formica table, my metabolism rocketing away inside my skin. I could feel the burger and the fries and the cheese just burning up and away in my blood somewhere. After that we hitched a few miles more to the Dinsmore’s, a trail angel’s house. We showered and exploded our packs in the bunkhouse, throwing things away and sorting things and attempting to do laundry, even though the dirt never really seems to dissipate from any of my clothes. We watched Children of Men which, if you’ve never seen it, is a movie set in 2027 on the edge of dystopia. It was all so plausible. It was really nice to watch a movie, but that police-state-total-war society felt so close in time, like if the future of possible worlds was laid out in front of me, that would be one of the options I could point to and say, “Yes, this one could totally happen.” It contrasts so starkly to looking at those deep blue lakes, those sharp gray mountains, to that child-like optimism that my new, bright, slow existence has given me. Oh, I saw another grouse today. I saw a bush at my eye-level shutter and I peered inside it. The grouse, plastered against the steep hillside, looked at me with one big eye, terrified. It waddled up the hill away from me.

#pct