The Line Becomes Blurred

I made thirty miles the first day from Maupin, all the way down to Antelope. It was the longest walking day of the trip, though when I woke up in the morning I was neither stiff nor in any pain.
I left Antelope at nine forty five in the morning. With water and food in plenty, if not in excess, and with a light step. Heading east, the small hills built upon themselves in the morning sun, and the road began to climb up out of the creek valley. The first three miles were only slightly such - the next four, more so - until, two hours into the day, I reached the first summit, above the fertile hills. It no longer feels like the Oregon that I've been walking in. The dense forests, held over from Washington, have given way to sagebrush plains and farming towns among the hills.
The muscles in my legs were strong in the ascent, but there was a pinging in my shins - the comings of a splint, and yet the pace was good, and the sun warm, and the shoulders strong.
The height that was attained in seven miles was lost in the next eight. On the other side of the summit the road fell away, curling down and down until reaching the John Day River, at the seemingly deserted town of Clarno. Four thirty in the afternoon. The pace had been steady, if not quick. Fifteen miles, and another twenty to the next town - Fossil. There was no intention, of course, after a thirty mile day previously, of making it all the way to Fossil. Somewhere among the hills, I knew that I would unroll the sleeping bag and drive in the tent stakes.
After crossing the river the road began to ascend again, but for no more than half a mile, before settling back down to follow Pine Creek.
I passed the Clarno Unit of the John Day Fossil Bed National Monument without stopping long. I read a few signs and drank some water, but the light was still good, and the weather held, under high, drifting clouds, and there were miles to be made.
Along the creek the sagebrush and sparse growth gave way to a canyon full of pine, and the hills on either side became steeper and rockier.
By eight o'clock I had gone twenty three miles on the day - a decent amount. The light was fading. The clouds were growing darker. I spied a place, not far from the road, that was level, was grassy and was protected. And yet the pack was not weighing me down. The pings in my shins had persisted through the day but had grown no worse. My feet were sore, but not painfully chaffed or blistered. Why not another few miles, now, and another few less to be made in the morning? I pushed on.
For the next hour the sun continued to fade, and by nine was all but gone. Another four miles lay behind me. The pace was as strong as it had been when first leaving Antelope, twelve hours previously. Still on, up the road.
A car stopped as it met me, coming the other way, and a window was lowered.
"Are you all right?" a woman called, and I said yes. "Do you have any protection?" she asked. "There are cougars out here."
"I think I'll be fine," I answered, though the thought of mountain lions in the rocky hills above me did give reason for concern.
"You're sure you're all right?" the lady called from her window, and I waved her on, into the night.
By nine thirty moisture began to swirl down in the headlamp glow. The clouds above had thickened and had blocked out the moon and the stars, but it was nothing terrible. Simply a light mist.
The road was climbing, again. Up through the pinion bluffs, up from the creek, and through the pace was still strong my legs were sore and my feet, as they came down on the pavement, had lost their spring. There was no good place to pitch a tent, now, though. No place at all, in fact, good or bad, and the wind blew harder, and my headlight pivoted constantly, searching the hills for glowing eyes.
"You're a fully grown human male,'' I reminded myself, "and you're carrying a full pack. They have no want to pick a fight with you. They are afraid of you."
The moisture thickened, now taking the form of a driving, fine, wet snow. Snow, two thirds of the way through May and an elevation of roughly 2800 feet. But it did not stick, and my clothes were warm, and to keep walking was the best answer. There was no desire to pitch a tent in the storm, and in these hills, even if I had seen a good location. But it was still seven miles into Fossil, and I had already walked twenty eight on the day, and now the pain was emerging, for the road had stopped climbing and began to descend, and the shins became inflamed, and I couldn't do better than to shuffle along at what I estimated to be only two miles an hour. Two miles an hour for another seven miles was unthinkable. I had ceased watching the clock, but I knew that it was late, and knew that I didn't have another three and a half hours in me. Unless, perhaps, there was no alternative.
"The mountain lions," I told myself, "are surely not hunting in this storm. They are surely sleeping, without any regard as to you." But logic is a lesser force than fear - for me, at least, and still I watched over my shoulder, and still my ears strained in the dark.
As the road continued to descend, the headlamp picked up pairs of eyes, in the hills, but they were sets of blue, and far apart on the brow - deer, or cattle, even, in the pasture.
Six miles. Five. Ever so slowly. The snow had become wetter - more like sleet - and I could feel the cold through my jacket and in my arms. I slipped on my sandals because the road was slick and freezing and wet. The idea that I could make it into town - that I would probably have to - took full realization. The pain could be ignored. The cold could be ignored. The fear could be ignored.
Four miles. Three. Another hour passed. The road leveled, and the step quickened, but only slightly, and was still weak. Through the storm, coming still stronger and still wetter, I could now make out a glow in the hills ahead. And farmhouses, though far between, began to appear alongside the road.
Two miles from town, knowing that I could make it, that I would, knowing that I would be able to sleep under city lights, I was taken by emotion. Without any knowledge that they were coming, tears spewed forth, and I cried, as I walked, harder than I remember crying in a very long time. And the tears seemed to bring warmth to my limbs, and the wet swirling air seemed not to touch me.
With a mile and a half to go my headlight pulled to the side and illuminated a pair of eyes - not blue and far between, as before, but a burning orange, some fifty yards above me on a slope. Staring down.
"What are you!" I demanded, from the road. "Are you a cat? Stay away, animal! Stay away!" The eyes watched, unmoving. "Two plus two is four!" I shouted, and repeated it: "Two plus two is four!" As I shouted, I continued to walk, my light fixed on the hill, and the eyes soon disappeared. Either the creature had moved on or the line of sight had become obstructed by the shoulder of the rocks. The fear did not hold sway. In that last mile, so close to my haven, nothing would bother me. After thirty four miles, soaked, pained, exhausted, nothing would bother me.
The lights of town grew close, and I walked slowly, steadily, into the outskirts. There was still the need to find shelter - a place dry and secure - but that would be simple. It was only a few minutes before midnight, and there were no cars, no peering eyes, no one to disturb me, wherever I should choose to lie. And even if they did - even if a cop car found me in its lights, say, I wouldn't have cared. The world had nothing to touch me with, in that hour. Neither nature nor man could hope to douse the fire in my chest. I was invincible. I was the conqueror of the night, the conqueror of the storm, the conqueror of my own pain and my own fear, and of the road. What thing - god or man or beast or tempest - could think to conquer me in that hour?
On main street I passed the post office - its door always open, its lights always glowing - and I entered into warmth, and set down my pack against the wall, and pulled off my wet clothes, and on the linoleum of the floor I collapsed, weak, and the line between joy and pain was blurred with tears, and the two seemed to become one. And I slept.