I was racing through Eastern Washington on a two-lane road, risking reckless driving through the straight stretches, my headlights carving tunnels through the night. Nothing but sagebrush and orchards existed to distract me during this hour-long serpentine from Wenatchee to Pateros, and with the past three hours pressing on my lower back, I was ready for a tent and a sleeping bag. A beer, at the very least.
I shared the car with Will and Calvin and a weekend of climbing gear. It was our first chance that year, an eye in our hurricane of schedules. And on this side of the Cascade Mountains, the sun had already dried the cliffs of their winter. One day of climbing and two nights of camping and an eternity of driving down this aching, winding road when I rounded a turn and my headlights found a hitchhiker.