What That White Boy Tongue Do

Chapter 1

Damien

The plane bumps as it lands on the runway, bouncing around a bit before it steadies. The first-class cabin erupts in applause. I barely hold back a groan. Why do people feel the need to do that? The captain’s voice crackles over the audio system.

“Welcome to San Diego, folks. Thank you for traveling with us.”

As soon as the airplane comes to a stop, people start jumping out of their seats. I lean back, waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off. I don’t often fly first class, but I figured this was a good opportunity. Might as well make some use of my trust fund. That’s what it’s there for, right?

As I’m waiting at the bag claim, a lady next to me eyes my outfit.

“Hiking?”

I smile at her. “I start a long hike along the Pacific Crest Trail today.”

“After a flight? That’s brave,” she says, laughing.

“True. I considered staying in a hotel near the trail and starting early tomorrow, but I’m too excited. It’s been too long.”

The lady spots her bag, and I help her drag it off the conveyor belt. She wishes me good luck, giving me a warm smile as she drags her massive suitcase away.

My hiking pack is secured to my back. Everything is prepped and ready for me to start my hike. I push my way through bustling businessmen yelling into their phones and moms with too many suitcases chasing after children trying to get to fresh air. 

A warm breeze greets me as I finally make my way out of the San Diego International Airport.

My Uber Black pulls up ahead of me and the driver jumps out, grabbing my bag and popping it in the trunk. I get in the backseat and check my phone. As I’m about to put it into the pocket of my hiking shorts, it starts ringing.

“Jordan, hi,” I answer.

“Hey, man. Got your message. You on your way yet? I’m so jealous, dude.”

“Yeah, but thank God your mom has you there. How’s she doing?”

Jordan, my colleague at Parker-Johnston, was supposed to join me on this hike, but after his mom’s fall, it wasn’t even a choice.

“Demanding, as always.” He laughs. “She’s recovering though, in the rehab facility for the next month. Thanks for asking. But how about you? You excited?”

“I am, yeah. I really need this trip to clear my head and help me make a decision, you know?”

“To be honest, I don’t see what there is to think about, but I get it. It is a big decision.”

“I know Parker-Johnston is the most prestigious firm in San Francisco and one of the most respected worldwide, but hearing about your work on high-end cookie-cutter condo projects reminds me exactly why I’m considering jumping ship.”

He laughs on the other end. “Yeah, like I said, I get it man. It’s a career-defining opportunity with an architectural rockstar. I’d take it.”

My pulse quickens just thinking about being able to start up a company with none other than the Trent Livingstone. 

“Have they still got you working on the new apartment complexes?” I ask, running a hand through my light brown hair. It’s getting a bit long on the top, and I resolve to go for a haircut when I get back.

Jordan sighs. “Dude, my hand is cramping from the copy-paste movements. It’s exhausting.”

“Keep talking that way and you may just make my decision for me.”

Another chuckle. “Well, it’s Trent Livingstone. He’s a living legend. You should take it.”

I smile. It was a huge honor when Trent reached out, wanting to partner with me to start a new firm. He wants me to come work with him in Mexico City before we open a new firm together in San Diego. He has contracts all over the world to develop some of the most exciting sites on the planet, like groundbreaking projects in Dubai, Chengdu, and Rio. It should be a no-brainer.

“We’ll see. He’s getting close to retirement, though, so it’ll be a lot on my shoulders. Who knows how much he’d even be doing day-to-day.” 

“Not to mention you get to spend a few months in Mexico.”

“I mean, I love Mexico City. One of my favorite places in the world, and plenty of hiking all over the country. But it would be a change, that’s for sure.”

Jordan speaks, but the line starts breaking up.

“Hey, buddy? I think I’m losing you. Give my love to your mom. You’re with me in spirit. Next time, you’ll come.”

I think I hear him say bye in the crackling distortion as we head deeper into the mountains. 

The scenery starts looking familiar. I feel an invigorating, aching pang of nostalgia as her face flashes in my mind.

Is this going to be my life for the next 2,650 miles? Just her face and memories of doing this trail together? 

I don’t know how long I’ll last if it is.

“So, do you live in the area?”

“San Diego,” he replies. 

Okay, not very chatty. I try again.

“Do you make it out to the mountains that much?”

“I’m more of a beach guy myself. Give me a cocktail and a beach chair, that’s all I need. Occasionally some sailing. I used to be Navy.”

“Semper-fi.”

“That’s the Marines. We’re honor, courage, commitment.”

“Oh, nice, you get two extra.”

He nods, grinning at my civilian ignorance. I haven’t fought in a war. But I’ve hiked tens of thousands of miles against terrain that would challenge any commando.

The mid-morning sun streams between puffy clouds as the vast, large mountains loom closer. 

The last time I was on the PCT was six years ago, just after college. 

The hike was perfect until it wasn’t. Not because of the mountains, but because of her. Anastasia.

It was stupid to hike the entire West Coast after just a month of dating her. I had spent all of senior year waiting for her to realize that Albie Peterson, my friend from the architecture program, was completely wrong for her.

That didn’t mean we were right for each other, but it’s still the best relationship I’ve ever had. I felt like the luckiest man in the world to get to spend four months in the mountains with her.

“Our lives are going in different directions,” she told me. “But we can go in the same direction together until we both have to move.”

I got my dream job in San Francisco, and she’d be moving to Philadelphia. She wanted to settle down with a real commitment, and I wanted to be free.

And then toward the end of the hike, I finally decided I wanted to give it a shot. But then she was the one who wanted to be free.

I just didn’t believe her, though. The way she held me every night, arms and legs wrapped around me. It was perfection. And the way we laughed together during the day, never running out of things to talk about, even after months of the same scenery over and over again, it felt obvious. We would be happy together. I thought if I told her enough times, she’d realize it, too.

And then, after our biggest fight, I woke up in the morning only to find she had split.

I shake my head and close my eyes for a second, wanting to forget that memory. I thank the driver and head to the trailhead.

“Here we are again,” I say to myself, knowing I’m also speaking to the memory of her.

It’s been six years since I saw her, and I think about her at least once a week. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again in real life. Just in the memories I relive. 

I take a cleansing breath.

Can I really do this? 

Of course, I can. And I can reclaim this place as mine, not hers. It’s a fresh start, a palate cleanser to make a decision that could change the course of my life.

A place with only nature and crude structures to decide where I want to make my mark in designing and constructing buildings. With someone like Trent, it makes sense, though. He pioneered design that marries architecture and the natural environment, beauty and sustainability. It’s everything I believe in.

But there’s something about it that nags at me, and I’m not sure what. Something I’m hoping the PCT will help me figure out.

I double-check my bag, making sure my water is in easy reach, and quickly have a snack before I strap it to my back. 

My camera is in a holster for easy access. Jordan made me promise to take a million photos – his actual words – so that he can deal with the FOMO. I told him I’d do what I could, but it’s not like there are electrical outlets on the floor of the Sierras, so most of them would be of pretty early on in the hike.

I grab my phone out of my pocket and take a quick, smiling selfie with the sign for the entrance of the trail. I’ll send that to Jordan as soon as I reach somewhere with cell signal for as long as I have battery life. He’ll probably call me a fucker for flaunting it in his face, but he’d have a lot worse words for me if I didn’t send something.

Though it’s only mid-morning, it’s already warm. None of the PCT is flat, but it starts mostly downhill, at 3,000 feet elevation. Of course, that won’t mean much after a few miles, especially once I get to Mount Laguna, which is about 6,000 feet. That’s nothing compared to Mount Whitney a few hundred miles after that, which is more than twice that elevation at 15,000 feet.

I’m not in any particular rush to get to the end of the hike. I have a five-month sabbatical. I just want to take my time and enjoy it.

I look around at the low-lying green mountains rising over the desert. This here, this is my happy place. At the start of a hike with absolutely no idea what to expect except that it will undoubtedly clear my head and possibly change my life, as a thru-hike always does. 

I set off from Campos, California, and start my walk to Manning Park, British Columbia.

Here we go.