The State of Determination
Aaron J. Nicholson
RESOURCE Publications - Eugene, Oregon
The State of Determination
Copyright © 2012 Aaron J. Nicholson. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
isbn 13: 978-1-61097-805-7
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
Introduction
When you live your life in the manner I chose during my first twenty-two years—reserved, unadventurous, compliant, and above all predictable—you begin to develop a swelling inside. A pressure starts to develop: a pressure which, although barely noticeable at first, becomes increasingly irritating and eventually the foremost focus of your mind. All those years of discreet blandness and unquestioning normality fueled this bloating in my being. It became apparent that a release was needed, and that this release would probably be the most illogical, unplanned, and ridiculous undertaking of my life—a blatant backlash against my policy of predictability and reasonableness. As the pressure mounted, it required only the tiniest prick of a pin to cause a catastrophic explosion. That pin prick occurred in November of 2007.
It was my last term at Oregon State University. I was finishing up the final twelve credits of my English degree, which required only three days of classes per week. This meant that most Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays were primarily spent sitting on the couch in the front lobby at Avery Lodge, a student housing co-op and my place of residence. During these extended relaxing periods (some of which lasted as long as seven hours) I made a habit of starting small talk with the other residents who were on their way in or out of the building. If time were not pressing, many of these residents would sit with me for a few minutes to chat before heading off to class or to their rooms to attend to some sort of obligation they called “homework.”
On one particular day, my good friends Brendan and Jenny happened to be seated with me in the lobby. Brendan was a housemate and Jenny lived in the women’s co-op next door. Both are avid outdoor enthusiasts. The conversation turned to backpacking, and I began to discuss the five-day trip I had taken the previous summer. The trek had been from Elk Lake to Big Lake in the middle of the Oregon section of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), which, in its entirety, stretches from Mexico to Canada through three U.S. states. I had gone with my two long-time hiking buddies Andrew and Guy. I have always enjoyed the outdoors, but somehow, as I was speaking to my friends, my recollection of the pristine mountains and untouched wilderness areas caused me to become exceptionally excited. I mentioned to my pals that I thought it would be the experience of a lifetime to travel the entire north-south length of Oregon on the Pacific Crest Trail.
“Well, why don’t you do it?” Brendan abruptly asked.
“Yeah, it’s better than sitting on the couch,” Jenny added.
They both stared at me with encouraging looks on their faces, looks that seemed to be repeating their recent comments over and over. It was as if they had issued some sort of challenge and I had to accept. I gazed at the worn-out couch on which I was seated. My old friend urged me not to listen to them, but to stay and keep him company forever. I looked back at my human friends, who were still staring at me. The internal pressure began to provide a throbbing sensation. Suddenly, I exploded:
“Why the hell not? Yeah, I will do it!” Brendan and Jenny immediately applauded my decision. We began to discuss some preliminary logistics, specifically when I would leave and what I would pack. Then Jenny asked an important question:
“How often do you think you will restock your food supply?” I had never needed to use food drops as all of my previous backpacking trips had lasted just a few days. What’s more, I had heard that leaving supply packages in the care of resorts and campgrounds along the trail was somewhat expensive. I answered with what I thought was a difficult but not altogether unreasonable solution:
“I think I’ll just carry all my food with me.” I was immediately assailed by laughter from the duo.
“Do you know how heavy your pack would be?” Brendan asked me.
“Probably pretty heavy,” I answered, “but I can carry quite a bit of weight.”
My good friends, either thinking that I was joking or that I would soon realize the impossibility of such a task after purchasing all of the food to be packed, did not press the issue further that day. They merely voiced their support of my decision to hike the entire Oregon section of the Pacific Crest Trail.
December 7, 2007 was the day I graduated from the University. I moved into a dilapidated lime-green house in Corvallis with a few former Avery Lodge residents. Wanting to save some money for the big adventure (and continue to pay rent), I spent the next few months desperately searching for a job. I started looking for copy editing and the like, thinking that I should put my English degree to use. My failure in this endeavor soon caused me to question whether it had a use. Eventually, I began to apply for server positions at local restaurants, desperate for any sort of income. Most places viewed my degree as an over-qualification and would not hire me for fear of losing an employee in a few weeks, that is, as soon as I found a way to take my first career step. I began to despair.
In mid-February, however, things began to look up. My good friend and hiking buddy Andrew informed me of his intentions to travel to California to make some quick money as a petitioner. Apparently, political and business interests that wanted certain initiatives on the ballot would pay on a per-signature basis for petitioning services, and a mutual friend of ours lived with a petition coordinator in the San Jose area. Andrew had done this four years earlier and made quite a bit of cash. He encouraged me to join him. Although I was hesitant at first, I crunched the numbers and realized that I would be flat broke in less than two months. With no other options, I consented to go with him.
My housemates threw me a combined birthday and going-away party on the first day of March. Great fun was had by all, from what I can remember. The next day, Andrew and I packed everything we thought we’d need for the petitioning trip into the back of my orange 1977 Toyota Celica GT. The suspension was nearly bottomed-out. On the morning of March 3, 2008, we departed. After buying several tanks of gasoline on the way to San Jose, I had $36 to my name, most of which was the cash in my wallet.
The petitioning stint was more lucrative than I imagined. We spent seven weeks standing in front of large retail stores and meandering around farmers’ markets asking strangers for their signatures on a collection of completely unrelated petitions. Of course, rejection was common, but with a big, cheesy smile and a well rehearsed pitch, a surprising number of passers-by were willing to sign. Every day was the same, except that once a week we would knock off early to organize our signatures for submission that evening. It was tedious, to be sure, but by mid-April I had saved a respectable sum. By this time most of the ballot initiatives had been qualified, and Andrew and I decided to return to Oregon.
I still had a room (and a fifteen-inch-high lawn) waiting for me at the green house.
