Monday, August 29, 2005

>> . . . and most recently <<

Shade hitchin this afternoon at Donner Pass, comfortably seated in his lazy boy by the side of the road.

Sierra Buttes standing tall over the church in Sierra City.

The indoor climbing wall here at Pooh Corner. Shade pages through a National Geographic before bed.

Kind Jim Duffy goes at his Mexican Masterpiece.

Cute girl in hotpants crosses cold water early one morning.

>> Shots from Old Station and Lassen <<


Sailing the Heitman's lawn

Lassen's bubbling mud sea

Wolf at the Terminal Geyser
Date at the Drakesbad

August 29: Pooh Corner

We caught Shade five minutes after we broke camp this morning. We had apparently not yet arrived at the Creek when we stopped last night. We laughed about it and ended up leap-frogging with him throughout the morning. I-80 hummed its unmistakable Interstate tune from down the trail and before long we snuck under the massive four-laner via the narrow hiker/horse tunnels leading to the craggy peaks on the other side. The wind howled and threw sand in our faces as we came to Donner Pass and settled in to wait for the trail angel taxi at around noon. I had dialed the wrong number first off, so when I called again and got the answering machine, we worried that we had missed them altogether, that they had driven off to Reno for the day to play slots and that we might end up sitting in the half deserted, windy-as-all-hell parking lot of the ski academy all day long. I fell asleep for a moment or two on the hot blacktop, grit and sand stinging my cheek and bikers passed by every ten minutes, nodding over to Eliza who sat off in the roadside sand bundled up in her windshirt against the hailing stones.

Before long, however, Hellkat pulled up in the Pooh Corner mobile and we were saved.

The rest of the day has been typically slothful and relaxing. Bill Persons, aka Pooh, is a retired computer guy, and an AT vet from '96. Doing this is his way of pitching in and giving back in response to the angels of his own through hiking experience.

The house is gorgeous, situated on Donner Lake. There is a climbing wall in the living room, two computers for hikers to immerse themselves in the Internet as much as their hearts' desire, stocked fridges, cold beverages, kayaks, sail boats, the works . . .

We are stuffed and desserted. It is a quiet evening, each of the four hikers here off in his own corner reading or scrolling away in cyberspace.

Tomorrow it's back to the trail, of course. We are looking forward to hiking and to taking our break. Not to mention everything else . . .

August 28: The Shade chase

We ended up staying in Sierra City for most of the morning today. Jim Duffy kindly treated us (once again) to a very nice, leisurely breakfast down at the Buckhorn where we had eaten dinner last night and we were joined by Roy, a friend of his, who just happened to be there when we showed up. The four of us had a nice time. They both had many encouraging words for us and expressed over and over again how great it is that we are out hiking this trail right now, doing what we want to be doing with our young lives, living and doing and being active before it started to hurt too much to do so in life. Jim summed up the sentiment that we've heard from many of the retired folks we've met along the way that "one day you'll be up to here in responsibilities -- kids, family, work, a home -- and you'll look back on this trip and probably wish from time to time that you could trade it all then and there and just find a simple, easy happiness sleeping out on somebody's lawn, or sitting alone out in the woods, or swimming silently under a purple evening sky without having given a prior thought to the moment at hand."

Roy nodded in agreement. He advised us to stay out of debt. Never owe anyone your time or money.



We left town by 10:30 or so and, bellies quite full, started up out of the valley. Up and up and up some more was how it went all day long. We are climbing now into the high country. The Sierras. It will continue to be like this through to the finish. No more dropping down into hot valley floors to pass through towns. No more fruit flies. No more of the scrubby, fragrant black oak that we've been passing through at around 5000 ft.

The Sierra Nevada are around us and before us. Grand, serrated mountains have appeared in the distance today, as we walked the windy, rolling crestline at around 8000 ft. Alpine lakes speckle the nearby valleys and basins. The winds pick up and the descending sun leaves us with a goose-bump raising chill.



Chasing Shade. We hardly stopped moving today. The sun arched high and beamed down brightly, lit the world with a golden white, turned and hid within the wind and soon sunk back over our shoulders, highlighting the orange and yellowing, dry husks of the ubiquitous homogenous plant life up on top of the balded, craggy mountaintops.

Forgetting to plan out the day's water stops, we passed up a mid-day refill at a campground and ended up flying through the afternoon and on up into the mountains light and parched, hoping that the next seasonal creek would carry a trickle, but each time, just turning and shrugging to one another, and without more than a pause pushing on forward down the trail. Finally we hit a babbling tributary to White Rock Creek at sometime after 9:00, already shrouded in the deep darkness of the moonless August night. I drank water directly from the stream, as I have done more than a few times these past few days. Our filter is broken and I am playing roulette, I know. It'll serve me right, I suppose, when I end up spending next week's vacation hunched over, sweating on a toilet rather than gorging myself on huge home cooked meals and going out to eat at the old Ithacan favorites.



We never caught Shade today. He had said that he would be here at White Rock Creek, but may have moved on if he had gotten here with a great deal of light remaining.

We hope to see him in the morning and make good time to Donner Pass and arrive early on at this last Trail Angel's door. And that will be it for the angels and the magician of his trail; the last we can expect to see of their unremitting hospitality and generocity -- Pooh Corner, the final stop that we know of on this great length of trail, the PCT.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

August 27: Sierra City

We came into town, sliding way down into the valley from high atop the steep shoulders of the Sierra Buttes late this morning. We passed day hikers and mountain bikers out for the weekend, enjoying the beautiful mountainscape. Lakes glint brightly at all levels of the many surrounding, heavily glaciated basins.

We are excited to be coming into a rest day, to laze off some of this fatigue that has been weighing us down like a yoke this past week. Our steps have been fleet and light all morning. A shortcut down an old mining road took us steeply down into the small one-horse hamlet of Sierra City and the quaint main street welcomed us with its comely, small-town ease.



Shade caught up with us a few hours after we arrived. His box did arrive on Wednesday in Belden after all and he couldn't stand that we were pulling away out ahead of him. He's a racehorse and can't stomach the thought of being passed out here. It is nice to have him back with us for he next short stretch before we leave the trail next Thursday.

Also, we met Little Bump and Stick Girl, a couple from Florida, this afternoon. They are southbounders who we've been seeing in the registers since Canada. We all sat in the churchyard next to Jim Duffy's RV, where we were informed (originally by the Heitman's in Old Station -- Jim is Dennis' old work buddy from the Oakland Fire Boat Patrol) we could pitch tents. We stopped in to say hello to Jim for Dennis and Georgi earlier when we first arrived and he very pleasantly and graciously welcomed us to town, carfeully pointing out where NOT to camp near all of the hidden sprinklers. This afternoon as we all sat in a circle sharing trail stories (ahh, remember the mighty Napeequa . . . ). Jim came back around after a day hike up near Deer Lake and invited us all to join him to dinner, his treat. So, all six of us sat at the Buckhorn garden cafe and ate mushroom raviolis and had a nice time. I feel great and already good and rested up for a hasty return to the trail tomorrow. Hopefully the microwave burritos we had bought for dinner will thaw out well enough overnight and make for a good lunch tomorrow as we ascend back up into the mountains. This is our last stop below 5000 ft for the rest of this trip. It's high country from here on out. "Bring it on!" says Koala.

August 26: The future

After yet another morning lull, today turned out to be a very pleasant and invigorating day. Eliza and I once again discussed the psychological games we have been playing as of late, the thoughts we have been busy tearing ourselves up with -- the cycles of enthusiasm and the dull mid-mornings of morose boredom, the anxiety of having too much of this endless, knee-jarring walking to do and the exciting fear of having to figure out what in the world we will both end up doing after this hike. Eliza is now looking into a possible job prospect back in Oakland with Habitat for Humanity and I am still thinking of doing another year of leadership and restoration work out in Seattle. I could conceivably find very similar work in the East Bay, but that needs to be researched. Then also, I think I'd like to be back in school within the next year, at least taking classes to prep for a grad program, but the question is where to do it, when, etc. We delve into these topics very often now that the end is becoming a clearer reality for both of us. But then again, as I said yesterday, we've got a lot of hiking to do.

We're out on a jagged little outcropping, in camp, waiting for water to boil. A bee just got in the tent and sounds to be terrorizing Eliza -- she doesn't do insects or other critters in the tent, but who does?

The afternoon brought some wonderful views out north over the Lakes Basin of the Plumas National Forest and to the south of the rocky Sierra Buttes. Tomorrow we will roll into Sierra City where we may even stay the night.

August 25: Good times, bad times

Today was a tough one. We fell into a rut, both of us dragging, feeling weighed down by the prospect of the next week ahead of us -- 150 miles await before leaving the trail for a while. With a break on the horizon, the days seem longer, the notion is fixed that we're nearly finished -- but the problem is, we're not. 150 miles to go is 150 miles to go.

At lunch we came around, I think. We had been long descending down into the middle fork Feather River canyon and stopped to eat lunch on a nice bridge which crosses Bear Creek. There was a good shade there and the creek ran heavily and loud below us. After eating a big lunch -- tuna and bread, almonds, chocolate (thanks G&C!) -- we decided to take some time to simply sprawl out right there in the middle of the pathway. It seems we sometime forget to just relax. Some mid-day shivassana always helps a strained body and a worried mind. Before I knew it, I was half asleep, rolling over to nestle into Eliza's side. We lay together on the bridge for a good twenty-five minutes before rousting ourselves and setting out again and very shortly we both were feeling quite rejuvenated. The rest of our descent and the following long climb back up the other side of the canyon was filled with fresh conversation and our quick, mindless stepping took us back up to the highgrounds.

The scenery has been becoming generally more interesting than it had been since the Hat Creek Rim, although, still we have both been feeling bored with the general surroundings. We're definitely looking forward to the high Sierra as the climax to this whole thing.

August 24: Belden and beyond

It is strange. We are out here hiking so long each day and so rigorously plodding onward, day in and day out, that I can barely imagine doing anything else. I certainly think of other things, but actually doing? It's a stretch. We've become obsessed with making our miles, with putting every obstacle behind us, with finishing this walk, this trail. We couldn't stop now even if we wanted to. Something is pulling us along. There is but one focus.

It was probably the second day coming south from the Canadian border that we sat down together under a rolling wave of mist, no doubt, and tried to set out our goals for this long stretch before Eliza's friends' weddings during the first week of September. We really didn't know where to begin. A whole list of unknowns presented themselves. Will we need days off? Can we healthily and realistically sustain a pace of 25 miles a day? Could we handle even more? Is there any way we can possibly finish this thing?

In tackling such a long-term plan and such long-range questions, I've found that we'll go through a whole cycle of responses and establish a slew of corresponding goals. First, in a fit of optimism and enthusiasm, we agree that, no, we do not need many days off; that, sure, we can handle two months of virtually non-stop hiking. (We must have been strolling along a level escarpment somewhere at the time, gazing out over breathtaking vistas of snow-capped peaks endlessly fading into the hazy, blue distance.) The mind comes to drastically different conclusions, however, when the body is faced with the foot-pounding pains and the all out weariness of trudging across an endless tundra, mile after mile, up and down, over these tiresome and infinite mountains. And so we oscillate. Sometimes sure, sometimes surprised with ourselves, sometimes just too tired to go on. The zero has become an infrequent occurence, but still we fantasize occasionally.

We talk about this stuff every day. It is one of our standby conversations, our watercooler talk. "If we push for three days at 30 mpd, we could do a 23 on Thursday and have the afternoon off to get a hot meal in town. If we only take one zero from here until there, we'll be able to make Sierra City by Friday and hit the PO before it closes." And on . . .

Two hours later, exhausted, laid out on an exposed roadside somewhere, we'll reverse our plans entirely. "Stop in town. Ice cream. Sleep."

Yet, somehow, here we find ourselves -- still pushing, still pressing onward, going faster, putting in longer days (even as these days keep getting shorter and harder to face each morning). In the past two months we've hiked twice the distance we hiked in the first two months on the trail. We have little more than 500 miles before us. We have yet to flag in our commitment to doing this thing, even for a moment.



Today we passed through Belden, CA -- a tiny town on the north fork Feather River. We picked up a food drop there -- once again generously provided for us by Gary and Cheri -- and a memory chip for my camera that had only arrived moments before we did, and then we were off again.

Leaving town, we faced a very formidable climb, perhaps one of the steepest we've seen thusfar on the PCT. The afternoon was mild, though, and we were accompanied by a good breeze.

On and on we walked into the darkness, finally camping on the side of the chalky white, dusty trail.

The sunset was beautiful and broad. We had a great view of the surrounding hills and lakes as we descended along the south slopes of Spanish Peak.



The greatest moments out here are the quiet, unexpected, subtle ones -- the instants when the world seems to be just right; the colors, the sounds, the feel of the earth moving beneath your feet, busy in its orbit, sailing through space. The perfect sunsets, the cool gleaming lakes sucking you in, tree tops angle in to frame the empty blue heavens. The telegraph-tapping, clitter-clatter flapping of joyous-seeming grasshoppers in the sun and the occasional peep of a fleeing, flapping quail.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

August 23: Over Butt Mtn. and back to the Sierra Nevada

We said our goodbye to Shade this afternoon and pushed on over the last ridgeline between us and Belden, our next re-supply stop. He needs to slow down to meet a mail drop and would rather kill time at a campsite in the woods than in town camped down behind a building or shelling out big bucks for a hotel room. We've been having a really nice time walking and talking with him. It's too bad that our paths have to part.

Coming down from the crest this evening, we slipped and skidded uncomfortably, feeling battered at the end of a very long day -- the loose, eroded tread sending up a cloud of dust in our wake. We must have been at just about 30 miles for the day when we came upon a small, engraved metal sign posted along the trail, welcoming us to the Sierra Nevada.

So, here we are at last. These great mountains which have caused so much distress and pandemonium for this year's through-hiking community. We left them behind over two months and have since hiked a full half of the trail's length. Eliza had said, earlier today, that it doesn't really feel like we've been up on a mountain range for some time -- this end of the Cascade range is very low and scattered. So, here it starts, the penultimate stage of this journey.

The first long day of this stretch went very well. We camped along a babbling creek -- these streams really do seem to speak at times. I catch myself holding my breath and waiting for the words to clarify themselves as I am falling to sleep -- and had ample time remaining in the day to wash our dusty selves off and eat a nice meal.

Tomorrow, we swing deep down into Belden, all reports indicating that it barely qualifies to its being called a town at all. This should be our last big descent into and back out of the low valleys, of which we've dropped into quite a few in Northern California.

We passed 2100 miles today!

August 22: Breakfast of Champions

As it turns out, the Drakesbad breakfast was everything we had hoped (and dreamed) it would be -- cereals, fresh fruit, yogurt, cheese, fresh baked goods (oh, the scones), eggs and hash browns, hot, dark coffee. It was a fabulous feast and all for $4.50.

We lounged about and digested until 10:00 or so before setting out again with Shade. We all camped together last night, sharing a big tent which some random woman we had passed on the trail offered up for us to use while she and her daughter were away from their car-camping site for a few days. Today, bellies full (very) and legs rested (barely), we passed through the southernmost part of Lassen National Park, stopping to gawk at bubbling, sulfurous, mud pots and a steaming fumarole (The Terminal Geyser, our first side trip off the trail all summer!) on the way. The terrain was unimpressive for the most part and Eliza and I both felt a bit humdrum.

The afternoon was passing generally, normally, and uneventfully when we crossed Hwy 36 and were awakened from our sleepwalking by the unmistakeable sight of a cache of thru-hiker Bud Lights waiting for us in a styrofoam cooler by the side of the trail. We halted the march and raised a toast and even got so carried away as to hatch our game plan for the next week. The new plan is to race over the next 180 miles in six days, arriving at Pooh Corner, a trail angel's abode near I-80 at Donner Pass, then have a morning off before doing the 61 miles to South Lake Tahoe, from where we should be able to easily and directly hitch-hike into Davis or San Francisco on the afternoon of Thursday, September 1.

We are torn over it, as we are both feeling pretty beat lately and the prospect of six consecutive 30s in and of itself is enough to kill even the best trail magic buzz, but I think we'll start with tomorrow and see where we're at come nightfall. One day at a time . . .

August 21: Drakesbad

We were back on the trail by 11:00 this morning, the two of us along with Shade, headed south into Lassen National Park.

It was nice to have the company today. We had lots to talk about. Shade is 41 years old, an ex-Air Force man, an elementary school teacher, a Peace Corps vet. We all shared stories of our childhoods, our educations, our work experiences. Shade is interested in social mobility and the American Dream. His family was poor; his parents, uneducated. He wondered about our socio-economic status, where we came from. We talked about Affirmative Action and the 10% rule in Texas, recalling a "60 Minutes" story about a Hispanic girl who was admitted to U of T over an Anglo girl who had higher standardized test scores and a higher GPA, but was in a lower class percentile. Shade firmly believes in the merit of achievement. If the underprivileged girl works harder to overcome her environmental restraints then she definitely deserves the spot over the girl who does a mediocre job on a higher track. We talked about it for a while. He was passionate and compelling.

Later, we all walked separately. The dust was kicking up pretty heavily and it became hard to follow one another closely.

The trail was easy, well graded, soft. We passed a few very nice lakes, into which we would have surely been invited had we no been pressing hard to make the Drakesbad Guest Ranch by dinnertime.

And make it, we did. The last four miles whisked by and as the sun went down Eliza and I celebrated four months on the trail with a nice, full, candle lit meal and a carafe of Burgundy. We'll be back in the morning for the trail-famous breakfast before hitting the road again.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

August 21: Four months

Waking early here at Georgi and Dennis Heitman's forest home, I putter around happily, alone in the morning calm. Eliza will sleep well along into the morning, as is her wont. There are five other hikers here as well, spread out over the property, hidden behind tree trunks, around the corners of bushes and benches.



Georgi and Shade and I bustle around the kitchen, Shade boiling water, Georgi frying up the french toast, myself mixing up the orange juice. We all cram in around the picnic table and fill up on a big breakfast, washing it down with coffee and topping it off with cool slices of melon.



We thought we would take the day off but it looks like we are readying to go after all. The next stretch looks to be an easy, moderately graded, well stocked one. We'll go with Shade today and end at the Drakesbad Inn up in Lassen. They have half-priced meals for hikers including access to the on-site hot springs and showers. Their breakfasts have become legendary among the passing northbounders. We'll see come tomorrow morning . . .

August 20: Old Station

I experienced a brief highlight of walking this early morning. The wandering, dullish mind said nothing and the world held me in its great grasp.

We crawled out into the cold moonlit day before the sun had made its way up over the eastern horizon, the wind, once again, a brisk and teeth-gritting affair. We had the rare occasion to wake with a hot pot of oatmeal, so once we were packed up, there was nothing much to stop for until we had completed our 17-mile descent down into Old Station. The past few days, I've been losing my inspiration, I'm afraid. The miles have felt long. My legs are gettng sore and my eyelids are dropping to a droop without warning. I suppose it is just a general, and quite typical sort of fatigue. We haven't zeroed but once since leaving Portland a month ago; we haven't showered since Ashland, over 350 miles back.

This morning as we set off and my animal mind started in, taking over the landscape -- projecting a myriad and marvelous memorial to the many great breakfasts I've ever had, or ever may have, if a dawn ever comes to pass when I am bent no longer on the sole sole-pounding task of plodding forever onward, when I no longer have to dose up on Ibuprofen and settle for half a granola bar to tide me over until the next mac & cheese break . . .

It's realy quite incredible how close I can get myself to those images. All the sweets and savories, the perfect and the decadent, each and every sharp, awe-inspiring, lovely cup of coffee, from the quickest bagel shop stop to the most delectably drawn out affair -- it all passes before me, a terrible tasteless taunting, a torture of self infliction.

Bilbo Baggins climbing up through the rain, battered and cold, on a journey he never hoped for in the frst place, thinks endlessly to himself, "Eggs and Bacon, my fireplace at dusk, a good full pipe, my garden aglow in the morning sun seen from the kitchen window, cakes . . . "

Today, however, the unreachable treats -- the calories and the caffeine -- never had a chance. As the sun rose in the east and the orb of moon hung still over the mountains to the west, I realized suddenly how perfectly content I was. The morning was lifted to exaultation on a steady, crisp breeze coming up over the fault line rim. Before me stood the Cascades' last outpost and the snow covered peaks of Mt. Lassen. Back, over my shoulder to the northwest, the last silhouetted portrait of Mt. Shasta, standing solo in the sun.



Families of Quail errupt from slumber and burst from the scrubby brush as I approach them unknowingly along the trail. They blast off one by one in quick succession, out and over the rocky rim of the canyon disappearing from sight and conceivably resettling together again, nestling in, a little communal fold.



Down we go, to the valley below.



Old Station has turned out to be a nice stop. We ate enormous ice cream cones at the general store while country music shimmied and boomed out of the radio and the jolly proprietor gabbed and guffawed glibbly.

Dennis, one of the local trail angels picked us up after we made a quick stop at the Post Office, picking up some food and mailing home some more pack weight. Before we knew it we were showered and snacking and sitting pretty on the porch back at the chicken shack.

I lie in the hammock under shade of tall Ponderosa Pines, the breeze a warm bed beneath my back . . .



We've eaten our fill and shared our stories. Northbounders tell of things to come as we continue on southward. Burn, a section hiker from back east, has been sick and stuck in Etna for the past week. She tells of Donnie "Veto" getting off the trail and buying a motorcycle in Dunsmuir. Shade, our southbound partner of late, sits pouring over his data book, figuring dates and miles and wondering if he still has enough cash to finish this thing in the black. Late evening and a dip in the hot tub before bedding down with a Mario Puzo novel I found in the garage.

>> still more pix <<


Sweeping, craggy vistas...



The Beer Poet raises his mug of whiskey, mid verse.



The Newlyweds, Jym Beam and Rain Queen ponder their gruel.


Trail magic, Koala to Wolf.


Shamu's Trainer and Barnyard filling us in on their last two months.

>> more pix <<


2000 miles! Peace! Victory!


Huge-mongous and Lookout. Mother/ son team.


Seal of the State of Jefferson.


dirty man

Saturday, August 20, 2005

>> pix <<


Who's taking these pictures anyway? Get off the ground!


Stuffing it in, stuffing it in. Mix is Wolf's favorite.


Someone had better call the ice cream police. This is definitely not allowed! Scratch that. Koala weighed herself today and let it be known that she is officially a double-digit girl now. Keep on eating, Sweetheart.

>> random bits <<

Small Fry, watching our stuff in Seiad Valley.
Check out those guns! Oh, nice Mountain too.
Shasta looking fine this morning in the dawn lights from atop the Hat Creek Rim.

>> Koallage <<


Here we have Koala chatting with One Gallon. See how he reflects on life and lives totally in the moment.


Koala cools her engines and lets her gaze linger on Shasta.


Ooh, hot damn, that's a cool duct tape visor, girl! Go on!


Big Bright Green Cleaning Machine

>> yellow man <<


Here's the Wolf setting camp, wearing Koala's wind breaker to stay warm as the winds pick up.

August 19: 2K on the Hat Creek Rim

We arose early this morning, before dawn, and in the chill darkness started off towards the barren open flats to the south. We have struck once more into the Cascade range's crusted, volcanic lava fields. Lassen Peak came into view as we crossed the idyllic marshes of Baum Lake -- geese honking, the fields and waters aflutter with a fresh exciting feeling of life.

Blackberry juice stains my fingers, the thorns rasping claw marks across my legs as I climb into the dense, dangerous heaps in search of plump lunchtime snacks . . .

We crossed our 2,000-mile mark at around 1:30 pm at a road just east of the small town of Cassel. We celebrated our accomplishment duly with a pleasant water break by the shoulder. Last night, I suppose, could be considered a pre-celebration before the fact. We simply and utterly gorged ourselves on junk food at Burney Falls State Park's snack bar. It was microwave pizzas and burritos, nachos, beer, ice cream and ice cream again.



The heat is weighing on us this afternoon. We have climbed up to and walk now along the Hat Creek Rim, a baking, arid, exposed cliffside which runs the length of the vast lava bed floor of the the Hat Creek canyon. The views are spectacular -- Lassen to the south, Shasta still holding its position to the north, the valley so still -- it is clear, motionless, silent, like a painting.

Eliza is tuckered out and we are breaking under a stand of Junipers and Digger Pines. We are both extremely filthy looking and grimy with salt stained clothing and caked, blackened calves.

Camped out on the rim, beat from the day in the sun. Looking forward to hitting Old Station tomorrow . . .

Thursday, August 18, 2005

August 18: Scratched up legs and images of sugarplums

Food food food and more food is all the buzz down here at Peavine Creek today. We've met another couple of hikers here filling up, Wendy and Gordon Bell, and they are laying out the spread to what's to come for us in the next section of trail. It's got my mouth watering, eyes can't even stay on the trail now. Sometimes it feels like the trail itself is just an obstacle, an ordeal between food caches, trail angels and discounted hiker friendly restaurants.

Today, we've got our sights set on Burney Falls State Park. There are burgers being grilled there with our name on them and hopefully some more peanut butter and bread to keep us chewing through 'til Old Station where a much raved about trail angel apparently resides.

The hiking this morning has been ok, not too special, not too bad. We passed by a logging operation in progress -- lots of loader and dozers and other machinery just over the ridgeline sent eerie squeals and creaks, rumbles and snaps through the forest.

We're cooking up some pasta for lunch on the side of a logging road. the sun is shining and the birds are making a nice racket. It is a sweet summer day.

August 17: Chatting

The days are getting noticeably shorter. Darkness lingers as we rise each morning with our alarm at 5:30. A chill nips at our bare limbs as we set out on another day of walking.

This morning our trail took us on a slow ten-mile climb up out of the McCloud River Canyon. The cool air of pre-dawn was unusually heavy with an uncharacteristic and sticky humidity. The gnats, however, were relatively nonexistent. Perhaps later on they would have been out in more force. We were happy not to wait around for them. It is amazing how much effect these little factors have on the day's overall feel. Mosquitoes, gnats, overgrown brush, a cobble-strewn, uneven tread, poorly marked junctions, anything which makes the passing more of a chore -- these things can really dampen our spirits, I've found.

This morning we chanced upon a smallish, adolescent-sized black bear clammering through the brush to our left and above us off the trail. It lumbered down to the path about 25 feet off and still hadn't noticed us until the flash from my camera sent it barreling down the steep overgrown bank in a rush of panic. It crashed down and eventually disappeared all together. It was an exciting encounter.

Later, we flew and spirits were high. As we topped out on a scrubby, arid crestline around Grizzly Peak, we were deep in conversation, retracing all of the history we could, coming up with questions and incongruities, trying to note the basics of fact which surely must be looked up when the chance is had down the road. At points we felt pretty darned ignorant about things which surely we should know like the backs of our hands . . .

It was a great afternoon talk, however, and with our flowing, babbling stream of chatter, so too did the miles slip by unnoticed. We came to a spring at mid-afternoon and happened upon Billygoat once again. Billygoat is one of the PCT regs. His winters are spent preparing for next season's through hike -- preparing his home-cooked dehydrated meals, repairing and making new gear, living the pre-hike logisitics. What a life to lead. The guy must be 67 or so. Imagine retiring and deciding to last out your days in a constant state of physical challenge. Eliza notes that nonetheless it is a simple routine. Retirees seem often enough to be creatures of habit so in a way Billygoat's lifestyle may not be all that different from other folks'. I'd say it sure is. He says that he just couldn't take the transition back to ordinary life.

Billygoat says he doesn't care what Condoleeza Rice did today. I say, I wish I could see a newspaper right away. I guess part of me really looks forward to finding a new niche for myself out in the land of ordinary, of cities and people and work and routine.



On a side note, my feet are doing much better, having adjusted to the shoes as they've broken in a little more. The vitamin I helps too.

August 16: Boredom hits

Well, Eliza has announced that she is officially bored this afternoon. I am supposed to come up with something fun to pass the time. "The gnats and fruit flies aren't doing it for you?" I ask. Apparently not. Nor are they for me.

We are sitting in the middle of the trail eating "Munchies," some ridiculous cheesy mix with an ingredient list the size of Mongolia. We love them. Eliza is wearing her slick new duct-tape visor. Everyone we pass comments on it, that it is one of the coolest thing they've seen on the trail this year (gear-wise, that is).

The terrain on this side of I-5 is much mellower than the western, Castle Crags side. The grade is easy, the tread is pine needle softened, the views have been nonexistent for the most part, with the exception of some nice shots of Shasta early on today. All in all it makes for fast hiking, but we are both feeling a little lazy. It could be the low elevation and some subtle humidity, combined with the fact that we never rest -- it may finally be getting to us. It is difficult to know though. How important are sweeping vistas and beathtaking cliffside traverses? I would say not all that important in general. How do people get through the AT? There are comparably very few views out there and it is still a wildly popular hiking trail -- the most popular, in fact.

Eliza got sick this afternoon. Lost her lunch off in a thicket of poison oak. The flies have been a nuisance. I decided that we should camp early and take a breather. We deserve it, I reasoned. Eliza is extremely driven, but I don't want her health to be deteriorating so visibly.

So, here we are, camped earlier than we have in weeks, catching up on some writing, just lying around in our little sil-nylon home by the bank of the McCloud River under a stand of Ash trees.

August 15: Castle Crags

We walked on down into Castella this morning with all due excitement and anticipation for the town stop before us. Food, drink, ice cream -- lovely, refreshing images swam before my eyes like salmon stepping upstream through a cold river on a hot, cloudless day as the hot sun scorched the exposed, rocky tread and the latest in line of the insectoid pests to come out to play, the gnats, buzzed in my ears and tried for all they're worth to get into my juicy, nirvanic eyes (they were literally doing the dancing; my mind's eye merely transmogrified their vague dotted-dash image to fit my wildest and sweetest-toothed desires).

I found cell reception with a few miles to go and spent the last of my battery catching up with Mom and Dad. It turns out to be a great way to quicken those pre-town miles which otherwise seem to drag on endlessly. Passing by other hikers while chatting on my phone as we near town I feel torn between a sense of guilt, as one should never really be on his phone in the wilderness, and an underlying swell of pride, as if this is a right which I, a through hiker with nearly 2000 miles under his belt, have earned, Goddammit. Mostly, I am just glad for the distraction when I can get it.

We took a side trail, Bob's Hat Trail, off from the PCT into Castella through Castle Crags State Park which is adjacent to the Interstate here. We quickly located the PO, picked up our package of food which we had mailed from Portland, and settled in at a picnic table in front of the convenience store to sort and repackage. I treated myself to wild excesses of ice cream, soda, and beer and felt generally serene and accomplished sitting there at the dilapidated picnic table in front of the gas station overlooking I-5.

I ran up to the State Park to find out if Shamli and Sheila and Shamli's folks were there. Jim and Judy were, but were just leaving with Zoe, the girls' dog, for a swim. I scanned over the campsite and said hello to a couple of other random PCT-ers ad headed back to see what Eliza wanted to do for the night, stay or go.

We decided to go and hitched up the freeway and back to the PCT. A young couple of teachers from San Francisco on their way to Seattle gave us lift and we were off. Excited and feeling ahead of schedule, we began our climb out of the valley, up and away from the roar of trucks and traffic down on the interstate. The wave felt further and further away with each step. Maybe we could make Old Station by Friday night now; we've heard of a trail angel in the area. Walk, talk, quick, rejuvenated steps. And then it hits me: my pocketmail. It's sitting back in the payphone booth at the Chevron in Castella. Mention of an e-mail brought it to mind and I am stopped in my tracks. So back down we go, me cursing myself with every dropping step. It didn't seem like we had come this far up, did it? Fortunately, we caught a hitch within two minutes -- one that brought us down to the station and right back up, at that -- and this little bugger was right where I had left it, albeit hidden behind the four random highway travelers who were crammed into the booth as I nervously approached. "I wondered what that thing was," one guy said, cheerfully. I smiled and we were headed back down the road in no time.

Up the trail, we caught up with Shade, a youngish, fast-hiking elementary school teacher whom we've passed and been passed by numerous times on the trail, both North and South. Shade is really the one guy who is keeping the same pace with us and is at just about the same place these days. He is an interesting guy -- a peace corps veteran, a past AT through-hiker, a sort of modern day Melvillean bachelor, adventure and youth, clear thought and pure experience. At the same time, we've speculated that he may be quite the ladies' man as well.

We shared stories with Shade as we walked into dark, finally setting camp on a terrible slope with no other forseeable options on the horizon.

It was a good day. I am glad to be alive out here.

August 14: Shasta . . . sore feet

We've just set camp. I am utterly and completely spent. My feet are wasted, hot, near blistering. I feel lousy. The new shoes are not working out. I've been popping Ibuprofin throughout the day, and the minor discomfort seems to subside here and there, but tonight it just exploded. I don't know what I'll do. Send these ones home? But where to buy new ones now? It is a headache to think about. Do we have to do less miles? We are consistently putting in 30s. Are there shoes out there which can handle such a beating?

Shasta dominated our views today. We've been circling the huge 14000+ ft mountain (it's just barely shorter than Rainier) for over a week now, closing in on the steep glaciated slopes from the north, the west and now the south.

We swam in beautiful Deadfall Lake this afternoon and had a leisurely lunch by the water's edge. These times are the best there are, just lying around, taking in the nooks and crannies up on the cliffs surrounding. Patches of snow still remain of some of the highest, north facing faces. It is hard to believe that just two months ago, this whole landscape was buried, completely and interminably covered with white. The trees, Western Red Firs and Hemlocks, are gnarled and twisted, like the Junipers and Foxtail Pines living at the higher elevations in the Sierra and the various firs we have seen in Washington, where the weather can be so brutal for so much of the year. I recall June when nobody knew where to go or what to do -- before the Sierras realy showed any signs of melting -- people were flipping up to Ashland and coming south, or up to Sierra City and heading north and just hitting a wall of fifteen feet snow drifts and precipitous, steep, avalanche-prone rock faces through this whole section.

It is glorious to be living here, passing up and over such tremendous creations of time and energy. I just hope my feet can keep on keepin' me on . . .

August 13: Trinity Alps; Chasing Shamu

The race is on today. We've been chasing Shamu's Trainer and Barnyard all morning long -- all morning, that is, in addition to the past 1100 miles and over two months. They're just around the bend. They're just out of reach. Maybe today isn't going to be the day afterall. We've stopped for lunch -- PB and chocolate chips and walnuts on tortillas -- at a gushing, lush creek gully. My feet are killing me. Old callouses, tried and true, having lived smbiotically with the rest of my foot for over 1000 miles inside my old New Balances, are now out of place down there in the new Nikes. Hot and swollen, they're like a couple of gas station corn dogs, re-fried, immersed in a greasy pressure cooker, steaming.



Later, and we're pushing for 31 or so miles for the day. We've entered and left behind the Trinity Alps Wilderness today. Great red tallus slopes, lush, verdant meadows, views of snow skirted Shasta, and a panorama of the Trinity's Alpine high peaks -- glacier bound and quite beautiful -- provide the centerpiece for our passage through this parcel of protected land.



At long last, we've finally caught them. Coming around a bend, late in the afternoon, there they were sitting down in a not so picturesque clear cut, Shamu's Trainer and Barnyard (Shamli and Sheila), slack packs on their backs, exhausted expressions of half recognition on their faces. It was a nice reunion after we made our way over and sat down with them. How're you doin? Where ya been? Remember this, remember that? Etc, etc . . .

We ended up walking the next five miles with them and then taking a side trail up and over a ridge (I was really tired at this point and was in a state of dumb disbelief that we were putting in our 35th mile for the day and weren't even on the PCT anymore) to Kangaroo Lake where Shamli's parents were camping, as well as Heather and Matt, "The Boat People," with whom they had been hiking the day previous to this one.

We ended up having a wonderful, wonderful time tonight. Jim and Judy Tarbell were so thrilled to meet more hikers, and so interested in hearing our stories. They cooked up a feast of great food. We all drank beer and wine and slept piled into one campsite -- random couples were spread out at every available flat spot. We had met Sheila's mother a couple of times down in Southern CA earlier this summer, and it was nice to see the other set out and roughing it. These two have pretty amazing support out there, as do I, so I know how good it can be. Being that both sets of parents live here in CA, though, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to say that most every flip-flopper this year has gotten to spend at least a lunch break or had a passing conversation with Sheila's mother or Shamli's parents.

August 12: The Russian Wild

Ah, fate! Shifting sands of fleeting time and changeable weather! I have made a terrible decision. I have surely altered my life for the worse. I have chosen incorrectly and walked the wrong path at the fork in the trail. I have led myself, naked, into the hands of my enemy.

The other day when I opted to send home every last ounce of extra clothing that I had in an attempt to lighten my pack up a little, I must have underestimated just how important basic comfort was to me. I am long-sleeveless and full of regret. I have pants now, long underwear bottoms, and a tee shirt, and damn I am cold! Fingers crossed please for no freezing rains from here on out . . .

This morning, there was no water for 16 miles. The data book listed two sources which had dried up, so as we descended to Etna Summit pass we figured we might have to hitch into town just for a cold drink. However, we were blessed once again to find two green soda bottles full of clean, clear H2O waiting for us by the trailhead across the road. It would prove to be enough to bring us up onto the ridgeline again and down to the next water source five miles away.

At lunch, we were joined by One Gallon, whom we hadn't seen since Hikertown way back when. In passing up a stop in Etna it appears that we had missed his 25,000-mile party last night and somehow have today found ourselves out in front of the "wave" of flip-floppers that we've been trailing for the past two months.

We've entered the Russian Wilderness, the next in a whole series of brief wilderness areas we are to cross through in this section. The centerpiece, Russian Peak, is a white, chalky citadel, rising bluntly up out of the tree cover along a sharp, narrow ridge of watchtowers and spires. It is a striking sight to behold.

Again, the path has been difficult and wearing today. Unexpectedly steep, rocky grades have my feet pounding and my heart racing. Regardless of the ups and downs, however, we are trying to keep up a very swift pace through this extremely scenic and striking section.

It is exciting to have passed through the wave of hikers which has been barreling down the trail in front of us for the past 1200 miles since leaving Canada. As we have started crossing paths with the northbounders here it has been disappointing to fnd that already these champions of the high Sierra have tired of talking about their experiences. They seen too many flip-floppers and just want to go on their way. "There sure are a lot of you," they say, "maybe a dozen in the last day." Now, as we move out in front of this bunch, hopeflly we'll get a better taste of how people actually fared up in the high passes and down in the swift, icy fords.

August 11: Marble Mtns.

The Marble Mountains of Northern California bring to mind some of the beauty of the Washington Cascades. The white craggy cliffs above. The deep, alpine, glaciated lakes. The vast, sweeping, steep meadows of wildflowers cascading down from the barren, snow-pocked peaks. Distant endless mountaintops fading in monochrome blues.

We camped last night on a whim with three other hikers -- Jym Beam, The Rain Queen, and Beer Poet. They had all hiked together on the AT in 2001 and had randomly run into each other yesterday afternoon. It was a fun reunion. Sitting at a campfire, telling stories, reminiscing, it was really nice -- something we don't experience much out here, just the two of us.

Jym Beam and the Rain Queen are also known as "The Newlyweds." This trek is their honeymoon. They were married in late May and at the last minute threw together their things and set out on this hike as a celebration of their commitment to one another. Beer Poet is a performer, a story teller, a lover of adventure and beer. I wish that I had recorded some of his spoken word pieces and poems; he was quite good, very charismatic. We all sat together. They talked a great deal about the AT, recalling names, places, towns and bars along the way (they were all very much into drinking). Eliza and I ate a late dinner by the fire, joining in at times, listening, happy for the company. At one point we all remember the events of September 11th, 2001 together, each one of us thinking and speaking of where we were, what we were doing, how it effected us. It was an interesting evening. We felt a strange connection between us all.



Today has been very beautiful, and difficult as well. The terrain has turned out to be pretty tough. My shoes are giving me a little trouble as well. Hopefully, they are just breaking in . . .

August 10: Seiad Valley

Down the mountain we flew this morning into Seiad Valley and the 51st State of Jefferson, USA. I don't know much of the history of this area, but it seems like it must have an interesting one tucked away somewhere. Isolated out here in the middle of endless green mountains. Backwoods; Live Free or Die. The logging industry has always lived here. Agriculturally, the whole region, stretching over the Humboldt County on the coast, is reknowned for its annually abundant and robust marijuana crop. Old hippie motorcycle towns. Vineland, in the flesh.

The town of Seiad Valley is one the very few that the PCT actually passes directly through. The Klamath River rolls heavy and sure down through the valley, a shining, snaking beauty seen from above. We had heard vague rumors of the town over this past week -- that the whole ordeal would be one big hurdle on the trail, that sacks of weed would come hurled at us from all sides, that we wouldn't ever want to leave. One thing we knew of for sure as we walked down Route 96 into town, past a few houses with their great overgrown gardens and kitsch, colorful lawn art sprawling out over the land -- we knew of the Seiad Valley Pancake Challenge.

The pancake challenge is a heaping tall stack of five one-pound cakes. It's something like ten bucks. If you finish, it's free and you are forever glorified, your image pasted up on the faded wall with all the other past pancake challenge champs. From reading the recent trail registers I knew that both Scrubs and One Gallon had succeeded thus far this year. One Gallon came as no surprise -- his name itself was derived from and lives on today as a legend on the AT. At the half-gallon challenge somewhere around the halfway point of the trail (the AT), One Gallon took the cake back in '82 when he completed not one but two complete half gallons of ice cream. Scrubs was more of a surprise -- this kid is just so small.

Me, I wasn't about to try something so ridiculous. Sure, I considered it, but God, if there is one thing I've learned out here it is that I would like to enjoy my food whenever I can and this was no way to enjoy anything.

So, no challenge was had, but a fantastic, long breakfast was enjoyed thoroughly by both of us. We then took care of our little errands -- PO, cleaning up, packing our food, etc.

The cook's son, Small Fry, hung around and helped us out throughout the morning -- named after his favorite lunchtime food. He was an exciteable, interested kid, nice to have around.

My new shoes arrived, which my mother had sent out along with some tasty snacks. I am hoping that they work out as well as my last few pairs.

Met Rain Queen and Jym Beam this morning and caught Lookout and Hugemongous (a mother/son duo from WA that we had last seen in SoCal) on their way down the road.



We were rolling onward ourselves by 1:30 pm. A six-mile roadwalk took us gently up along Grider Creek and out of the baking hot valley. We used our umbrellas as parasols and picked blackberries from along the road side, staining our fingers purple and filling our bellies with sweetness.

This evening, we came upon a campfire where Jym Beam and Rain Queen were sitting with Beer Poet chatting near the trail.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

August 9: The Siskiyou Mtns.

Back to the grind today. Up and at 'em, keep it moving. Wake up numbed and drained. Coerce those stiff limbs out of the bag and up to salute the new day. Deer have been the source of constant clatter in the woods around us. Cow bells have been tinkling in the valleys like windchimes. The day was hot. We walked the ridgeline of these fresh looking, colorful granite peaks, exposed and dusty. My mood, the day itself, moves quietly. A light somnolence lingers in the atmosphere -- sleepy summer slow.

Back in California, and it feels like it, somehow. Could those political boundaries mean something real in the natural world as well? Again, reptiles are dancing at my feet. Again, the endless, rugged, mountainous terrain of California is all the canvas can possibly hold. Again, we wake and walk today, as every other day.

The mountains have changed noticeably since crossing the Interstate and passing Ashland. The volcanic, still blacks and airy greys of the rocks and earth in the Cascades -- that narrow range crossing Oregon -- have been replaced by a rainbow of hues -- from dusty, psychedelic oranges and rusty red to a smooth, irridescent platinum.



It is dawn, the morning of the 10th. Out of the tent's flap the delicate pink of first light breaks the darkness, washes a window, promises a new morning. No birdsong, save the ocassional far off screech of some raven or crow, warms the still coolness with greeting. Eliza's heavy breath rises and falls still, rhythmically, greedily. She won't waste an instant on this floating boat of unconscious speed -- flat, motionless, drifting within.



Yesterday, we passed many more northbound through-hikers. The numbers, it appears, are much greater than we would have guessed. Dave and Kelly, a couple we met in SoCal and last saw at Richard Skaggs' home in the Antelope Valley -- curiously enough, I dreamt of him last night. He was engaged in a contest wherein he took center stage out on some rolling dune beach, went through a preparatory dance of some kind, then launched three dazzling orbs up into the air. Following this performance, the three balls, or four now, came to the ground one by one and set to bouncing around of their own accord. The contest was, I think, to get your balls to bounce longest there on the beach. Next I knew I was in a Burger King and having a difficult time getting my order placed. Just popped into my head . . . strange. Anyway, to return -- Dave and Kelly, whom we ran into today along with Super Dave, told us that they've heard that a group of nearly sixty hikers should be coming up behind them.

Sixty!

I am amazed. "Impassable," then, was the wrong word all along for describing the snow in the Sierra this year. Over the course of the rest of the day we pased another four or five northbounders, none of whom we had previously met. It will be interesting to see how many there really are coming up this way.



We're headed down the mountain and into Seiad Valley this morning. We've got packages to pick up and a breakfast to sit down to.

August 8: Goin' to California

We opted out of joining our hosts at an out-of-town raft guide party last night -- although bands and kegs are hard for me to turn down -- and hit the floor early (after watching half of Dune) in anticipation of the long climb out of Ashland today. The second night of sleeping indoors is always the one that really gets you on these days off. Sleep -- hard, solid sleep -- seeps through to the deepest of tensions tucked away between the spinal discs, separates the stinging soles of the feet from the aching, brittle bones. Going down was easy last night; getting up was a drag.

This morning, after hauling myself into a cool shower, I enjoyed another couple cups of coffee across the street at the Roasters and read a decent chunk of Annie Dillard's rambling memoir. I have been enjoying her writing but I think that I will abandon her before long for something a bit more compelling, something to keep me awake at night. Nick offered to lend me "The Long Walk", a true story of a band of POWs who escape a Siberian prison camp during WWII and trek across the Gobi Desert and over the Himalayas into India. It makes our hike sound like child's play . . .



Nick and Christina were still asleep when we set out down the road this morning. We hadn't the heart to wake them on their day off. They were great hosts, so kind to offer us space and comfort in their home even while they were busy at work for the whole day.

The hitch out of Ashland took a little while but was no real problem. The weather today is surprisingly, mercifully, mild. We stood, thumbs extended, content to just stand for as long as need be. We munched on the lusciously ripe Himalayan Blackberries from their monsterous, thorned dragon vein arms which mound up on the roadside, as they do near most roadways here in the Willamette corridor in western Oregon.

Returning to the trail feels good. We passed another familiar section of trail -- probably the last until we hit our old tracks near Lone Pine in October -- on the wildflower-strewn steep meadows of Mt. Ashland. I had walked a short four-mile stretch a couple of years ago with Jacob and his parents and we sat for a picnic together to celebrate his father, Renato's, birthday.

Meadow Mary has been by again. She had left the familiar bag of apples and a register. More Northbounders had been through. Her dog, Sam, had unfortunately passed away in the woods just a few days ago. She wrote of the ordeal in the log. One Gallon, a veteran hiker with double Triple Crown credentials had arrived afterwards and dug a grave for Sam's body.

The two waves are now passing one another, it seems. The flip-floppers and the diehard NoBo-ers, those that wouldn't give up and went straight through the 500+ miles of snow in central CA to do this hike the way they always thought it should be done, finally coming together again!

So far, we've seen about ten that have come through all of Cailfornia. In the register today we see that Zip and Patch passed by while we were in Ashland. Another, "Whatever," we see on the trail this morning. He was kind enough to give us his maps for this section south to Seiad Valey, CA, where our maps await along with plentiful food boxes.

August 7: Zero

Zeroed out in Ashland for our first day off in almost three weeks. It's wonderful to be off the feet, with a house to relax at, a bustling little town at hand with restaurants and pubs and coffee shops and newspaper and movie theatres and . . .


We saw "Saving Face" this afternoon. It was pretty good, cute. It was set in New York City -- in Flushing and in Manhattan -- which was nice. Large, traditional Chinese family confronts contemporary issues and the human spirit triumphs in the end . . . blah blah blah. We dug the time, enjoyed the big bright lights and moving faces, ate a gigantic bucket of popcorn.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

August 6: Ashland

I read The Oregonian PCT blog this afternoon from the Rogue Valley Coffee Roasters in Ashland. Mark wrote on Friday, I believe, of the unexpected twists and turns that come up during the day as it unfolds out on the trail, the subtle shifts that, sifting by, seem to change everything.

The shifting winds blow in suddenly and rain clouds block out the sweet setting sun. The jagged, tough tread treacherously turns your light two-steppin' feet into a blistered, broken wreckage. A leisurely lunch opens onto a loose, new day after a morose, lonely morning and what seemed like a season of laconic, uninspired solitude cracks like an egg shell into fresh, sunny spring of conversation. The discovery of a cooler of cold soda is like finding a thick, gem-laden treasure chest unextpectedly stashed alongside an old pirate getaway route and a long-supressed, subterranean appetite surfaces to suck in the golden shine of the bountiful booty . . .

The moments which mean the most to me are usually of a much subtler mien, however. The obvious factors become hum drum -- surely part of the whole mind game of living, anyway -- but, the truer reagents are those which hit home swiftly but without any crack of the bat.

A lens filter thrown over the frame is a chance meeting and word of an old fellow hiker. A break in the mosquito bug war is icing on a cake which we had been too afraid to even approach before the blood-thirsty, red-eyed, airborn sea finally, fantastically, parted.

Thoughts lately have grown more frequently stale and dry. Plots for a fiction develop and unravel inside my mind, but the time never presents itself to sit and type out the unfound words. I barely find the energy to put down these meandering journal entries.



The passenger train rounds a bend along the rocky river bank. It is a caterpillar bound by instinct law to follow the path laid down years ago by sweat and blood of man. It is steel forged straight, fastened and bound to earth on stone, wood, and more steel. The mind inside the man plays tricks now as he watches the concave arc outstretching before him disappear into the darkness of cavernous shade. His headphones crackle and fade as the car dives into a mountainside tunnel and his radio loses its signal. Alone in the dark, he ponders the news of the old mountain's awakening.



We were welcomed this afternoon after a stop at Callahan's for a free through-hiker beer and quick hitch into town into the home of Nick Caselli, the brother of my good friend Jacob, and his girlfriend Christina. They are both river guides here in Southern Oregon on the Rogue and Klamath Rivers. They had just come home from a long day of rafting and we all enjoyed a relaxed evening of talking and eating together. They are both outdoor enthusiasts and took great interest in our trip. The conversation was easy and interesting. We spent a good hour discussing the horrors of big cat attacks; another hour on rafting bruises and blunders. Nick, who also guides climbing trips up Mt. Shasta shared stories of mountainering mishaps and then we closed out the evening with a viewing of "Slammin' Salmon: Whitewater Bloopers Vol. 1" Before seeing the video, I had thought, "boy, I wish we had time to ride the river for a day before heading out," but afterwards, no f-ing way. I cannot believe how terrifyingly rough those rapids can be. On another day, another year, when breaking a leg might be a little less debilitating . . . just maybe . . .

Saturday, August 06, 2005

August 5: The Green Raceway

Into a new section of trail this morning, where the PCT crosses a big chunk of BLM land, lots of roads, logging sites, etc. The guidebook claims this to be one of the least appealing, least scenic of any on this stretch of PCT through Oregon and Washington. There are loads of roads and not enough water. If you're not through-hiking, the author advises, try hiking a different stretch. Well, from the 30 or so miles we walked today, I have to say I disagree.

While we did pass a great number of roads, and the trail had very few on-trail water sources, the scenery was subtly, nicely, relaxingly appealing. The grasses are tall here in Southern Oregon. The fields bent and billow in the warm breezes. The big recreation lakes, while lingering just out of reach, a tempting sight, distances away, are beautiful, nonetheless, to behold.

We've got miles on the mind more than anything, and the tread has been smooth, so that makes a big difference in terms of how I am experiencing this section. We've determined to get ourselves into Ashland before the PO closes on Saturday at 5:00 if it kills us. The days start early, too early -- the sun has been slow to rise now that Fall is nearing -- and I feel daunted by the prospect of pushing myself for 12+ hours, covering 30+ miles in the heat of the day to come . . .

This evening, we took an unplanned detour down to Hyatt Lake for a late afternoon dip. BLM runs a big campsite along the lake and we enjoyed a cleansing, envigorating dip off their floating dock.

We camped along a dike, a mile and a half past the lake, cooking dinner in the dark. My body hates the evening now, My head wants to shut down, my back slumping over, finished. Feet feel the worst, the swelling and pounding reverberating back from the day's workout.

August 4: Sky Lakes, but no lakes

Oddly, the Sky Lakes Wilderness section of the PCT passes absolutely no lakes. The day was long and we walked fast and hard. The scenery was remarkably unremarkable -- lots of trailside debris, lots of blowdowns, very few nice views. We walked an alternatingly pleasant then abruptly jagged and rough trail. Not much to say about it. We walked 33 miles and the day became a bit of a haze. The feet are tender and sore and I feel the need for new shoes.

I haven't the energy to read or write much . . .

August 3: The jig is up

Before hitting the trail his afternoon, Lauren came back to the apartment for lunch. She had bad news. Apparently, the girls' boss had called them in this morning and said that their PCT party was to end promptly. They had already received one warning a while back, which had passed by unheeded, and word of their constant stream of unauthorized guests had gotten around again . . .

So, it appears that we may have been the last hikers to stay here with the fine ladies at 86-B. They are undoubtedly the youngest trail angels one could expect to meet out here. Not the usual retired couple with an extra RV to spare. We'll have to see if that trail angel article, which was to have been focused on them to some degree, ever gets published in this Sunday's Oregonian after all.

[Note: The "trail angel" article, featuring Koala and Wolf, was published on Saturday.]



We caught a hitch back up to the Crater's Rim at around 2:30. After debating on how to go about timing the next few days, we decided to push the limits of our systems and push into darkness tonight. It was a nice change to see the shadows descend, to follow the trail like an imperceptible path of dust, to set camp under an already star-filled sky.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

August 3: Three Angels at 86-B

Last night was a trip. We walked in the door behind Mariah, past the sorority-style construction paper sign welcoming us to the Casa de Luna (colorful marker drawings of bubbling cocktails and bottles of liquor scrawled beside the names of the three residents), and were met at the entrance way by Claire and Lauren (the other two trail angel housemates) and Mark [Larabee] and Ian [Malkasian], a reporter and photographer doing a month-long cross-Oregon trek on the PCT, covering the Trail and its unique and sometimes strange (often quite inspiring) culture.

Music was playing, beers were being popped open, cameras were clicking, names exchanged and promptly forgotten. We showered and borrowed clothes while our filthy rags sudsed and tumbled in the washing machine. Eliza went first and came upstairs wrapped in a black plastic trash bag which she had -- quick thinking, industrious girl that she is -- poked arm holes through and ripped a slit in the seam for her head, making a subtle but striking recycled bag-lady fashion statement which received an uproar from the livingroom full of boisterous college girls and journalists in attendance . . .

We talked and cooked up some of our camp food, drank a few tasty brews, watched as the girls came and went. Friends from neighboring apartments came by, rum and cokes were mixed, a bonfire might have occurred outside, more people arrived after the girls had long disappeared . . . finally, we threw down our bags on the floor in front of the TV while Mark, the journalist, watched the end of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" -- what a horrendous film, it was. That's two in a row in the bad movie department for us.


It's been a slow, but busy morning. We picked up a great package of re-supply food which my aunt and uncle sent out from Elmira -- thanks a lot, G&C, it looks like we'll be eating well this week! Also, we were happy to get a packfull of letters and notes which our friend Rachel had been accumulating and keeping for us in Lexington, KY. It is wonderful to read her thoughts. It makes me miss her and other friends from times and years past. Everyone goes his or her own way. Memories amass, stories to tell and think on . . .


I haven't gotten a chance to look at it, but these reporters are keeping a daily blog at Oregonlive.com in addition to their three times weekly column about the PCT. This Sunday, they will be doing a piece on trail angels, for which they interviewed us . . . maybe we'll make the page :)

[See "The Oregonian" links at right.]

Also, my sister, Sarah, is keeping a blog now after starting up her own new dance company in Ithaca -- Wide-Eyed Dance. It looks very exciting.

August 2: Up to the rim

People say that Crater Lake is one of the most stunning, beautiful places on this planet. In my short time, I've poked my nose into some far off corners, taken a good gander at some of the world's many natural, wild wonders and I must agree. What a place it is. The bluest of blue waters; an untouchable serenity afloat out over the immaculate caldera's lip. On this Tuesday afternoon, with a filing line of billowing, cartoonish, puffball clouds taking turns under the sun, even the steady stream of tourists -- motorcycle engines roaring, RVs lumbering by, ridiculous seeming people machines that they are (a Chihuahua sqeualing on the dashboard, beckons its goofy, elderly caretakers back from the rockwall of the viewpoint -- "Come back," he whines, "I am so alone!") -- even the camera carting caravaners are kept at bay, background fuzz behind the beauty of the vast crater.

We took the six-mile rim walk around a portion of the crater's precipice, passing parking lots and scenic viewpoints. I recall being here two years ago in July with Kevin and Eric, friends from back east at Cornell. We stood together and smiled down, had someone take our picture overlooking the half-submerged cindercone of Wizard island. We took the one trail down to the water's edge and dove off the rocks into the chilly depths. Today, however, we just walk, happy to have come to the place, to have our feet beneath our legs, carrying our minds and bodies and eyes, to bear witness to such a creation.

***

We had heard rumors on the trail this past week of "86-B". It was a code of some sort. Trail angel code. Apparently, three summer staff park ranger employees were taking in hikers. It was nearly 8 pm by the time we walked up the steps to the visitor gift shop at Rim Village, looking and feeling filthier than we have in months. I tried the magic words at the counter. "86-B?" I intoned. Nothing. The cashier, wanting to pack up an leave for the night himself, wore a blank expression. So, I asked where the rangers lived, and again, "86-B?"

The magic number had no effect, but we were directed to the park headquarters three miles down the road. This is where the rangers lived, perhaps our magic number might still come in handy . . .

A quick hitch and a brief search around the park info center grounds took us to the door of now legendary "86-B". We were limping by now, having put in 30+ miles as the sun descended over the tree. And before we could even lift a hand to knock, the door flew open and Mariah took us in, smiling angelically . . .

August 1: BUGS!

We awoke this morning to the awful droning hum of swarms of hungry insects hovering outside our tent. We were in a cloud of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. Leaving camp, hunkered down in our heaviest long sleeves, rain gear, head nets, mittens, the works, we set out miserably to face the day.

Before too long -- maybe three hours or so -- we had left the majority of the skeeters behind. We sat silently on an outcropping beside the trail, chewing on handfuls of nuts, breathing heavily as if we had just returned from battle. I peeled off my clothes and sat drying on a boulder facing the big rolling evergreen woods, the grey spackled lakes, the loose, hazy sky.

Overcast, breezy weather brought more relief throughout the day. The bugs were kept at bay almost entirely.

Eliza and I have spoken very little while hiking recently. We hike fast, keeping a two-and-a-half to three mph pace pretty consistently. We do take a great number of rest breaks.

We may be burning ourselves out. The mosquitoes certainly don't help. It's been twelve full days now that we've hiked without a substantial break. The little resort stops, cups of coffee, spontaneous dips in the lakes have been a great relief, but perhaps fall short of providing any genuine, restorative rest.

July 31: Shelter Cove, Diamond Peak

Up early in a cloud of mosqitoes, we hiked down on Nordic ski trails and across Highway 58 to Shelter Cove on Odell Lake. It was a busy but nice stop. They whipped up a surprisingly excellent Americano. E and I grabbed a few things from the hiker box and were back on our way up into Diamond Peak Wilderness by 2 pm. Two woman and one man, hikers going north were there at the Resort as well. Too much chit-chat drives Eliza up the wall and we leave in a hurry. Why do we have to share our day with every other hiker we pass? The resort staff, while helpful, seemed less than hiker-friendly, annoyed by our filthy presence. But who can blame them?

Diamond peak is a beautiful walk, way up until we lose the bugs . . . long, expansive views, recall Southern CA in a way, but the forests and the rolling hills, the rocky buttes, etc., are so protoypically Oregon.

I've been reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a naturalist memoir of sorts. It's got me thinking more about seeing things, about the phenomena of the natural world, about intentional frugality . . .

***

We perch ourselves, sweating and tired, up on a rocky outcropping on Diamond Peak's SE shoulder. Before us, outstretched, lingering magically in the orange sunset gloam is the forested, cozy wilderness. Further on, past the broad, blue waters of Summit Lake stand numerous buttes and exposed ridgelines, skeleton remains of a prehistoric landscape. Above the rest, the tall distant needle-point peak of Mt. Thielson is a jewel to behold. Eliza and I both love this time of the day. The low-angled light casts over my eyes a new focus. The moments pass fleetingly, great ancient living trunks turn red and gleam, the swaying fir pinnacles above bask in a heaven-sent glory all their own, darkness having already descended to the lower reaches of the understory.

***
Sitting at the stony, dusty switchback, I am beat but Eliza's got legs, so we leave our spot on top of it all and push on to Summit Lake. Arriving less than two hours later, after a speed walk hustle down from the peak, we strip down under a pink, erupting sky -- massive cummuli have moved in overhead, collecting the dying light, putting on flare and firework, showering the long lake with dazzling light. The insects swarm unbelievably as we charge into the cold waters, tripping, diving, floating out under the show.