Scott D. McLean, MD

Today is day number 254 of 2024, my gap year between a career in clinical genetics, a medical discipline heavily weighted towards diagnosis of rare syndromes, and creative writing, an occupation of unclear promise, likely peril, and certain predilections for impostors and dilettantes.

The photo is yesterday’s sunset over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, from Deception Pass, Washington.

Last week we were hiking in Snoqualmie Point Park. Our son and his friend, both 3^rd year ER residents, were mountain biking while Paula and I took an easy trail to a lookout, a small bluff with a narrow vista to the Cascades to the north. It was warm for Washington – mid 80s – though for us San Antonians not so much. On the way down, we met a man on his way up. His T-shirt was saturated. He carried a small pack. He asked us if we could give him a ride to his car, which he had parked at another trailhead across the ridge, probably 8 miles away. Of course we would give him a lift, though Milton, our trusted campervan, was over a mile away. He sighed with relief and turned with us to descend, explaining that he had been hiking since 10 AM but had miscalculated the route and was so tired and with that started to stumble. We caught him.

Chuck was 29, diaphoretic, hyperpneic, and not making much sense. We sat him down and gave him most of our water. One of us stayed with him, the other went back to the car for food, though we begged more water and several energy bars from other hikers on the trail. We pinged our GPS coordinates to the emergency room docs we knew were close by on bikes, and they met us along a graded forest road. Chuck felt better. He was wobbly at first but rallied and walked out with balance and humility. Got a ride to his car.

While he and I were sitting alone on the trail, he confided that 3 days earlier his wife asked for a divorce. He was hiking to try to find a path to emotional safety or to some solace that defied definition, I suppose, though he forgot to bring a buddy, enough water, or food, and the paths he took were unplanned. These things happen when the bottom drops away from your world. Seven complete strangers helped him survive this tough segment of a bad stretch of his journey. I hope he finds more help.

There are plenty of conclusions one can make. There must be a moral to the story, but some days you just don’t know.