How do you say goodbye to someone who left so suddenly…?Someone you were walking and laughing with a few days before?
Time passes differently on the road. Spend just one day walking next to someone and you may feel like you’ve known them for years. That’s the magic of hiking. We are all equal here: just people who walk in the same direction and carry everything we need on their backs.
Life comes down to the basics: wake up, eat, walk, eat, rest, sleep. And somewhere in that simplicity, strangers become family.
One night on Mount Laguna
I will never forget the night Ian limped into the Mount Laguna campground. It had been a brutal, windswept day, and it had ended early after just six miles. Our trail family had already taken over the site: tents scattered everywhere, a (legal) campfire going, and laughter filling the air. A full-fledged hiking party.
Ian showed up a couple of hours before sunset, clearly exhausted, but still with that soft, steady smile. He asked if he could camp with us and we were happy to make room for him.
That night, we gathered around the fire, shared stories, ate marshmallows, tried (and completely failed) a Jiffy Pop experiment on flames. Hank kept everyone entertained. At some point, we realized that Ian, myself, and another hiker, Diesel, were blogging for The Trek. It felt like such a special shared moment.
That was Ian. Calm, kind, fully present. The kind of person who made everyone around him feel comfortable.
The Kind of Hiker Everyone Admires
He was the last person I would have expected to get into trouble here. An experienced hiker: Camino, Alta Vía 1, Patagonia. He had been everywhere.
I loved picking his brain about his walks, watching his eyes light up as he talked about them. He always had great advice and always took the time to share it.
And he also appeared before the people. At Scissors Crossing, when Eagle Eye took a heavy fall, Ian stopped immediately. He made sure she was okay and then walked her to a nearby RV campground so she would be safe.
That’s what he was: a silent guardian out here.
The helicopter
The day he passed away, Eagle Eye and I knew something was wrong before we knew what.
A rescue helicopter arrived at full speed, low… too low. It looked like it could cut the ridge we were about to reach. We just looked at each other.
Someone was in trouble.
A little later, on a ridge before descending into the Anza Desert, I received the text message. A medical emergency at mile 140. The hiker had not made it out.
We immediately began going over every face we had seen that day. Who was ahead? Who had we passed?
So… no service. That night we camped in a canyon.
pink skies
I remember the sunset.
Bright and radiant pink. The kind that stops you in your tracks. The same kind of sky I saw the night we took my father off life support.
Pink skies are different when you know someone is there painting them for you.
Figure out
The next day, I pulled off the road at mile 139 and headed toward San Diego. I was planning to be at a baby shower, spend time with friends, and buy some cold weather clothing for the coming storm.
Shepherd picked me up from the trail. We had food at Paradise Valley Cafe before heading back to San Diego. He asked me if I had heard about the hiker who passed by. I said yes, but I didn’t know the name.
He picked it up. I read the words.
Ian Maclurg.
No.
No no no no no.
I said it over and over again, as if repetition could undo reality. It didn’t make sense. He was strong. Fast. Experienced. It had just happened to me the day before.
I checked Facebook, hoping it was wrong.
It wasn’t.
I felt my heart break. Everything would explode again when I passed the news to my tram.
Choose to return
When I returned to San Diego, a part of me thought about returning home for good. It would have been easy. I thought about my family, my cats, how fragile life really is.
I just wanted to be close to the people I love.
But then I thought about Ian.
I would never have wanted his passing to stop anyone from continuing their journey.
So I decided I would go back.
I found a small bottle of whiskey, appropriate since he had owned a distillery. I would take it to mile 140. Say goodbye. Take a sip for him. And carry the rest with me to Canada, as I carry my father with me every day in the ashes around my neck.
Mile 140
Christina took me back to the trail. She had helped me get to Campo weeks before and now walked with me when I needed it most.
We walked back under an incredibly blue sky. The birds sing. Wildflowers everywhere. It felt surreal, like a world apart from loss.
When We got to Coyote Canyon Road, I saw it.
«Ian», lovingly written on stones by our tram.
Tears flowed instantly, silently. I didn’t try to stop them. I took the whiskey out of my belt.
«This one’s for you, buddy. I’ll see you on the way.»
And while I was there, I thanked him for the smiles, laughter, and inspiration he so generously gave to all of us.
I took a sip and let the moment settle.
Taking it forward
That bottle will come with me to Canada. A small way to carry it forward.
Because in every sunrise over the ridges, in every mile beneath our feet, in every climb that requires everything we have, he will still be there.
Ian Maclurg loved this trail.
And he will always be a part of it.
Greetings to our sweet friend. I hope you are already on your next path, in your next life, enjoying every moment of it, just as you did in this one.
