VICTORIA TO SEATTLE The Clipper breezes from the B.C. capital to the Emerald City. Bone-tired, I slump in the seat and sleep until downtown's skyscrapers loom.
Dockside, I peer at the street signs. I started this West Coast Trail jaunt by bus and dog-gone-it, I'll finish it the same on the #17. Soon as I find it.
"Amanda," a man shouts.
Puzzled, I turn. Only one person knows my arrival time and he's busy defending the public of Everett.
JB, my roommate of many seasons and countries, bounds forward and nearly hugs me off the ground, 55lb pack and all. "I'm picking up Elisa. Didn't you see her on the boat?"
Um. That would be the cyclist who checked in before me. Except my bleary brain didn't even register her face, just droned, "nice panniers," like a raga.
Together we swing by the Lighthouse everyone's coffee omphalos and then I'm back in the writer's garret, dogpiled by Jake and Molly Cat.
And home is good.
But not for long. In 72 hours, I fly out to San Francisco en route to the largest party on earth: Burning Man.