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.
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