From behind me, I heard a voice, “Where do you need to go?”
I tried to smile in order to hide the deer-in-the-headlights feeling that coursed through my veins. “We’re trying to get a ride back to the Pacific Crest Trail. It’s about four and a half miles east of here.” I was trying to remember details to be as forthcoming as possible about our destination. “The trail goes under the freeway.”He smiled, “I should probably talk to my wife, but I think we can probably help you out.”
I professed my undying gratitude, as we followed the man to his car, and I meant it. His wife agreed, and Thunder and I crawled into their car. They introduced themselves as Tim and Karen. Tim said they had a tendency towards helping wayward souls like Thunder and myself. As they dropped us off on a frontage road by the I-10 underpass, we thanked them again for their help.
Under the I-10, Ricola, NAFTA, and A-Train joined our crowd. An ice chest squatted between the couches filled with beer, soda, Gatorade, and raisins, a sign that some trail magic had found its way to our motley crew. According to Angelhair, a woman dropped the chest off on the side of the road with a wave and drove off with nothing else said.