Pacific Crest Trail. In a bar, Sierra City. 2010. 1 am. Barstools.

On my left sit two twenty-something dude hikers. On my right a man pulls money out of his weathered leather wallet. He doesn’t see a lot of women come through and he’s desperate for a lay. Behind me are his two big cousins. I turn to look at them. They’re looking at me.

The room is still as the bartender yells at the wolf to get out. The wolf sniffs under the bartender’s growls.

The dude hikers–sheep. The cousins are big though. Time to go.

I flip my backpack over my right shoulder and SPRINT–through the saloon doors and down a dark road and don’t stop until I reach the trail.

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