What a knife taught me about trust | The walk

I’m packing my bags for Utah. My spring test. Tent and duvet in the main compartment. Walking sticks and water bottles in the side pockets. TP, wallet and knife in hipbelt pockets. I unfold the Opinel and let it rest in my palm. A couple of nicks on the blade. Worn green paint on the handle. Rust on the hinge.

I’m not going to see Utah. I’m looking at sliced ​​salami on a bagel at Two Medicine General Store after my first CDT stint in Glacier. Fat-oozing cheese cut in the shade of a creosote bush in the California desert. Leukotape cut to cover skin irritated by AT salt. The PCT, the CDT, a part of the AT.

Six thousand miles.

When I was 19, I carried a Hunter folding Buck 110. A large knife: thick blade, brass bolsters, and ebony wood handle. 7.2 ounces. Heavy. But that was the point.

One day on the Border Route Trail in northern Minnesota, as wind-blown rain tugged at my poncho as I crossed an exposed ridge, I stopped for lunch in the shelter of a leaning pine tree, placed my food on a fallen log, and bravely pulled the Buck from my pack belt. I opened its sturdy blade, with the wind in my face, cut a piece of cheddar cheese, and then triumphantly stabbed the blade into the trunk.

If Hemingway were alive, I told myself, this is the knife he would carry.

Years later, while I was preparing for the PCT, my priorities were different. I was obsessed with weight. The Buck had long since found a home in the glove compartment of my car. My Swiss Army knife was too heavy, the blade was too short, and it didn’t have a safety lock. The Gerber Paraframe was lighter, but the blade was still too short and serrated. I needed something more. I spent days researching.

The Opinel No. 8 won: 1.6 ounces, 3.25-inch locking blade and beechwood handle. It felt good in my hand. Simple. The old world. French.

The Buck 110 Folding Hunter and the Opinel No. 8.

Six thousand miles taught me what a knife is for. Open replenishment boxes. Cut paracord. Trimming the rubber hanging from trail-worn soles. Rebel Vacuum Sealed Food Bags. Tighten the loose screws on the glasses with the pointed tip. None of that dramatic. Everything you need.

The cuts on the blade are not from any moment. The paint did not wear off in a single event. It was a slow buildup. Being reached, opened, closed, carried, dropped, picked up, cleaned, put away. A thousand times. This is how trust is built.

I have seen this confidence along the way. The Pinedale hiker who wouldn’t replace his tattered and patched backpack because of what they’d been through together. The woman from Glacier who proudly pulled her dented and fire-blackened pot out of her backpack, telling him about the places they had been. “Bent,” which took its trail name from its repurposed aluminum trekking poles.

I’m preparing for Utah because my body is not ready for the AT. Could I do a section this summer? I don’t know. Left hip replacement. New left knee that clicks. Arthritis in the right knee. Getting up from a squat takes longer. I don’t know what this body can handle. That’s why I need to find out.

But I know the knife will work. Absolutely. Definitely.

My body used to be somewhat reliable. Now it is not. The knife is.

I have carried it 6,000 miles and I imagine carrying it 6,000 more. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know yet. But what matters is that I can imagine it.

At 19, I thought a knife was for wolves, drama and Hemingway moments. Decades later, when purchasing Opinel for the PCT, I told myself it was for practical use. But I wanted that long blade partly to protect myself. My 19 year old self, still pulling me along.

After 6,000 miles: duct tape, worn soles, and eyeglass screws. See also: cxv6. The mundane won. Every time.

Utah will tell me something I’m not sure I want to know. I hope those first few miles settle on my body like a pair of worn-out jeans and my favorite shirt. That I will feel the things that brought me here in the first place. What is at stake is not hiking. It’s whether that person still exists.

Verde River Canyon, Utah.

I fold the blade of the Opinel into the handle and twist the locking ring. I feel its weight in my hand, so familiar. I hold him tight.

There is nothing I can do but hit the road and hope.

I slip the Opinel into the belt pocket of my backpack. Left side. Where it belongs.

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