William Mire is a wanderer who finds adventure in seasonal work and extravagant vacations. 

The morning sun hit my skin as I walked along the road holding up my thumb. A few weeks prior, I’d started dreaming of a beautiful trail. The Pacific Crest stretched through three states: California, Oregon, and Washington. I had decided against doing the whole trail, but the Washington segment sounded ideal: lush forests, booming rivers, and splendid mountain ranges. After about an hour of walking, a couple from Vegas picked me up. The man spoke in a rough voice and wore his hair up, while the lady had a pretty smile and wasn't wearing much. They drove me half the way before letting me go with a few kind words and a hot meal. After a bit of a walk, a man picked me up. He smoked a cigarette and took drags off of a dab pen. Hearing my destination, he told me he had once hiked the Oregon PCT, and agreed to take me the rest of the way. He left me at the threshold. 

My pack weighed nearly 50 pounds. I had about 25 pounds of extra supplies that any experienced hiker could have told me not to bring, but I wasn’t an experienced hiker. After a bit of walking, I came across a small lake where I snagged a trout. I made my camp in a small clearing.

Over the next couple days, I climbed up and down mountain ranges. One night, I set up camp by an eerie lake. As I fell asleep, I was put on guard by a terrible mix of noises. A strange beast was hiding in the shadows of the darkness. Deer took off running, and I clutched my knife close to my chest.

The next morning, as I came down a trail, I tripped and felt the large blister that had been forming on my foot pop. Once evening approached, I found a lake to rest at for the night. I caught five fish for dinner, but in the distance, I could see a tree bending against the wind and shaking back and forth across the lake. I'd heard of bears doing this, so I saved my fish in a bag under a rock in the lake for breakfast. Morning came, and I made a hearty meal of rice, oil, and fish. I snacked on leftovers while walking, which kept me going until I reached the road. I waited for the shuttle into the small tourist town.

Trout Lake was the perfect place to spend my twentieth birthday. I splurged and bought a room at a motel. The hot shower felt amazing until I realized that the mild itching I’d been feeling was poison ivy. The dirt I had been covered in acted as a soothing layer. Once removed, my body was on fire. I spent a while in the bathtub, covered in calamine lotion, watching TV. 

The next day, I headed to White Pass. I slept under Mount Adams that night and practically froze. It was the middle of summer, so I wrongly assumed that two sleeping bag liners were enough to keep me warm. I put all my clothes on and curled into a ball. In the morning, I noticed a layer of ice on my water bottle and made huckleberry hot chocolate courtesy of Trout Lake general store. 

The next stretch led me to Old Snowy Mountain. At the top, I was greeted by a beautiful view and people I recognised from Trout Lake. They had helped me drop a few pounds from my pack. They laughed as they told me they’d decided my trail name was Metric Ton. We all began crossing over. As I reached the highest point, the wind hit me hard and I put my glasses in my bag to avoid losing them. The ridge began sloping downwards, and I ran down the last steep part. 

The next day, I arrived at White Pass, which had a Kracker Barrel convenience store and a large campground for hikers. I bought a whole pizza and ate it in my tent. Thinking of the next stage of the trail, I found that I didn't care to continue. I wanted to go to the ocean.

I stuck my thumb out. A construction lady picked me up and drove me to her worksite a few miles down the road. After that, a redneck couple took me into town. I stayed the night there and left in the morning. I wanted to go through Seattle so I could ride a ferry across to the Olympic Forest. I figured it would take about three days to get there, depending on how nice people felt. As luck would have it, a couple picked me up. They told me they were from Seattle. After a short stop to hike to a viewpoint of Mount Saint Helens, they drove me there. I slept in a motel, and, in the morning, crossed to Kingston by ferry and took a bus to Quilcene. I made my way to Dabob Bay, where I spent a week feeding on fresh oysters and wild blackberries.

I took free buses all the way to Queets, then walked the rest of the way to my first oceanfront campground. I spent a week at this spot, leaving the bulk of my gear behind and taking a day pack to explore. I went on runs at the beach, found the Tree of Life and tide pools filled with mysterious creatures, and ventured deep into the Olympic National Forest.

Then I gathered my gear and stuck my thumb out again. A lady picked me up. She drank Fireball and smoked cigarettes as she drove, taking the long route so I could see better sights. She dropped me off and told me to be careful of who I trust. After a bit of walking, a man picked me up. He told me, “If you try anything, I’ll kill you.” I said, “Fair enough,” and got in. We talked about hunting and fishing most of the way. We reached Long Beach, Washington, where he dropped me off at my Aunt's house. This was my final destination before going home. I stayed a couple nights. She bought me a steak and we watched chick flicks. 

The next day, I spent nine hours on public buses to get home. I hopped off the last one in my hometown and had a five-mile walk left before arriving at my house. Not long into walking, a car pulled off to the side. I was greeted by the friendly face of an old schoolmate. He said, “Need a ride?” 

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Editor-in-chief — Andrew Fedorov

Rails Editor — Connor McFarland

Altitude Editor — Matt Gu

Open Road Editor — Nico Lethbridge

Deputy Rails Editor — Connor Noble