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Resupply day in Forks. Half my trip is over. I have lived on the trail for two weeks, and my wits are uneased by speedy schedules, roaring engines and busy people that circulate about in the midst of civilization. Forks is a small town, all things considered, but to me it seems crowded, noisy, congested. I circulate through town, picking up provisions and supplies for my most ambitious undertaking to date. Tomorrow I will head to the Queets River Trailhead, once again solo, and attempt a 16-day transect of the Queets River Valley, off-trail, capped with a full traverse of the legendary Bailey Mountain Range. This attempt, this plan of mine, has been labeled by different well-meaning people as insane, inspiring, ambitious, and just plain crazy. I have never prepared so thoroughly for any single effort in my life. Two years of obsessive planning and consideration have culminated to this, and it seems unbelievable that it's here. Sitting on the porch, I count and recount my dinners, breakfasts, lunches, snacks, drinks. Approximately thirty-eight thousand calories, in various shapes and sizes, are sprawled before me in a multitude of gallon-sized plastic Ziploc baggies. |

