Thursday, October 20, 2005

after the walk





the finish line...snug in the hotel bed





Nearng the end





snowy scenes





aspens and eliza





mountain set




montage






Just north of Sonora Pass after a cold, cold night passed near Wolf Creek Lake.

October 20, filling in the gaps

And time flies by … The days of hiking have abruptly turned into days of sitting and resting, eating, wandering, wondering, etc. As we found ourselves off the trail, we found that most of the things that had made up our days for so long had, quite simply, changed. In conversation, at all hours, in our minds, the main concern each day was no longer when we might finish or how far to go today, but where we might lay our heads for a few days at a time, which highway we should take, and (gulp) in which direction? And, slowly, so subtly and slowly, the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to more and all of a sudden here we are settling down again back into the hustle bustle of a sedentary life away from the wild of the woods. We came down off the trail, thumbed it back on down the road, headed south, then west, then north, slept on back porches and in guest bedrooms, in hotels and sprawled out secretly on damp, city beaches. Days to weeks and ultimately we made it back to a place called home.

October has really been a blessed month for Eliza and me. The transition from hiking to resting to vacationing to traveling and back to working (on getting work, in my case) again has been nothing but fun. A seamless flow. No Break.

Currently, Eliza and I are working on resettling in the Bay Area (in California). She’s already started a new job at East Bay Habitat for Humanity as their Volunteer Department Manager. She rented a studio in downtown Oakland. I hear it’s just perfect, but I’ve yet to lay eyes on it myself. She worked hard and saw maybe a hundred places before snatching this one up. It is in a nice neighborhood, close to Lake Merritt, within walking distance to work, conveniently close to public transportation and shops, has hardwoods, gas stove, etc…

I am currently back in New York, spending a little time with my brother, sister-in-law, nephews, planning on taking a couple of weeks to see the folks, catch up with my sister and her husband in Ithaca, aunt and uncle upstate. After the hike, I had thought about possibly continuing to travel some on my own. A trip to Portland seemed appropriate, perhaps a jaunt down to LA where I had been making tentative plans with an old college friend to work on some recording. But, then, arriving in El Cerrito last week (we spent the week with Eliza’s former housemate/landlord, Jan Schilling in the east bay), the drive to keep moving had completely evaporated. I was where I wanted to be and the only obvious thing to do was to start in on job hunting and apartment searching, make appointments and stay busy, ride the buses, see the streets, walk to avenues, meet prospective employers and neighbors. Every day for over a week, Eliza and I both set out from El Cerrito on buses, bikes, BART, together and apart, to search and meet and do all that we felt we could do in a day. It was good and busy and we both feel accomplished about things. The trail is in us in all of this. We are motivated to make the most of every day. Taking care of logistics, arranging schedules and time, getting things done—it all comes as second nature now. I think that I learned what it means to be goal oriented out there this summer. I can feel it as a sort of guiding sense now, an underlying focus and confidence that no matter what the hurtle, it is passable, it is temporary, it is nothing but time.

I wish now that I had kept on writing when we stopped hiking three weeks ago, instead of letting that part of my routine change as well. I wish, too, that I could have been taking pictures of all the places we stopped and saw, all the streets we wandered and the strangers we met along the way (my camera was dead and my memory cards full).

We stayed in Lone Pine with Pygmy and Mini-me for two nights. They were the hikers who decided along the way to stop and set up shop there in eastern CA. They have a little, dingy, dark, cozy apartment around the corner from the main drag where they were kind enough to let us lay our packs down and sleep the days and the end of the hard trail away after we left the hotel room at the Best Western that had been given to us on the evening of our finish. I recall that we felt somewhat bored and strangely fatigued during our stay in Lone Pine. Our hosts were most gracious and ended up inviting some other hikers who passed through town while we were there to come back and stay as well. We met Smack and Love Barge and a couple of other guys who were out to meet up with some other through hikers down in Kennedy Meadows. We had known the two girls’ names from the registers we had been signing in on for the past three or four months but had never once met either of them. It came as a pleasant and interesting surprise that they had both heard of us as well. Smack had hiked with Scrubs and Tomato up in Washington and recalled that Scrubs spoke of us frequently and with great affection. He apparently promoted this journal with enthusiasm as well. And both Love Barge and Smack knew right away who Koala was. It had apparently become a well known tale up and down the length of the pct. My dear Eliza was the girl who lost her shorts to the mighty Napeequa. We all shared stories and cooked a dinner together and later that night Pygmy and Mini-me led us through a series of invigorating Wing Chung postures. Pygmy put us all to sleep as the night wore on with tales of his past lives, of the days when he was a skid row tough guy in San Francisco and carried two pistols and wore a foot-tall, stiff Mohawk on his head, and his youth in a family of multi-millionare, made for TV product salespeople, and of his grandfather’s life as a Philipino man who changed his name to Sanchez (?) and moved to Tennessee, pretending to be a Mexican entertainer, to avoid persecution as an Asian during the second World War. It was all very interesting, but I was pooped. The next morning after coffee and pancakes, Eliza and I hoisted our packs once again and hit the road for Kernville, thumbs up, faces grinning.

We stayed in Kernville with Harry and Melanie, a kind couple on the verge of retirement, who we had met while northbounding in June and who invited us to stop back in after we completed our journey. So that’s what we did. They were very busy wrapping things up with their work (they work together from home as a sales duo in the seed supply business in the flower growing market) while we were there so Eliza and I pretty much did our own thing. We wandered around town, and hiked on a dusty southern CA horse trail near a creek and worked out on the equipment in their gym (!). We ate meals together, which Melanie cooked, and spent early evenings chatting about the news and local lore and our plans.

After two days super low key, we headed out to the coast and ended up staying with Harry and Melanie another two days at their summer cottage in Cayucas, just north of Morro Bay and south of Big Sur. We had an awesome time out there, did a bunch of beautiful walks on the coast, skipping down sand dunes, exploring the beautiful tide pools, sifting through the fog. I even got a chance to take a quick dip in the bitter cold Pacific waters.

We bid Harry and Melanie farewell at the Big Sur Jade Festival on Saturday after stopping to gape and gawk at the platoons of Sea Lions camped out on the shoreline by the highway. By the end of the day we found ourselves walking the streets of downtown Monterrey. We had a difficult time finding a place to camp and finally were fortunate enough to meet a couple of young guys who offered us a space on their back patio to pitch our tent. So, after a round of beers at one of the many local British pubs we headed up to their place and pitched our tent and slept wonderfully under the warm, opaque city glow in the sky.

In Monterrey the next day we wandered the streets all morning, walked with the tourists on Cannery row and checked out the other notable Steinbeck sites, watched SCUBA divers slip into the bay by a city park at a beach. At midday we checked ourselves into the movies and stayed for a double feature. Later we were back on the highway hitching north towards Santa Cruz. Our second ride was with a computer tech guy from San Jose who had been down in the Monterrey area sky diving. We had a nice time chatting with him and he agreed to go a little out of his way to get us down into Santa Cruz where we could enjoy the town before darkness hit and find a good place to camp. His name was Ken. He was 30 years old and he had recently been divorced from his wife. He had a 4 year old daughter living in a small town up in the mountains. As we drove around town looking for a place to hop out, he surprised us by offering our of nowhere to treat us to dinner at some seafood Italian place we were in front of. He insisted. We couldn’t refuse. So we sat and ate a nice meal at this upscale Italian place and once again couldn’t believe our good fortune. A lot of good folks out there.

That night we slept on the beach. It was gorgeous and the sea so powerful.

The next day after sitting through what I thought to be an absolutely ridiculous Bollywood flick at the Pacific Rim film festival and grabbing some cheap Mexican grub, we hit the road for the last time. We cut it close and just barely made it San Jose by dark from where we caught a bus to Fremont, where we got on BART and headed up towards El Cerrito. At 10:30 pm we sat chatting with Jan at Denny’s over burgers and pancakes. It was a sweet welcome home.


I am back in New York now. Trying to fill in the gaps. Eliza started her new job yesterday. I’ve got one at an outdoor store waiting for me after the first week of November when I head back out West.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

October 1: Lone Pine, again. We're finished

It is 5:28am and neither Eliza or myself has gotten any sleep all night. Last night was the same -- tossing and turning, getting too hot or too cold, clammy, achy, etc. I can only think that we are both full of anxiety, our systems riddled with nerves as we close in on the end of this journey.

I am getting up now in these darkest, coldest last hours of night to get a jump on the day and rekindle our fire.

***

We had a roaring fire and a tin pot of chai tea along with our sparse breakfast before setting out one last time on this trail.

We passed a trekking party of about ten German guys within a half-hour and as we passed them, exchanged "g'morning"s and "where you headed"s, the usual set of pleasantries. They had just hiked Whitney, maybe yesterday, and, upon hearing that we didn't, one of the more boisterous of the bunch called out that we didn't have the balls to do it. I said we've been hiking for five months and ran out of food and he laughed back, "Oh, I've heard better excuses!"

What an ironic interaction to have on the day when we wrap up this gargantuan trip we've been on -- to have someone tell us we didn't have the balls to hike up a peak. All part of what is sure to be a bittersweet re-immersion into civilized society.

We're sitting up on some rocks aside the sandy trail, halfway through our day's hike, nibbling on the last of our rice cakes and prunes. I am deep in fantasy now about hot showers and huge, steaming pizzas, half gallons of ice cream, lying in bed watching TV . . .

But not for another 8 miles.

***

5:00 pm. We have returned to Lone Pine. The PCT is done. We are showered and clean and sprawled out on the double bed in front of the television at the Best Western. There are so many channels to choose from, yet, somehow, nothing seems to be on.

The final eight miles of trail flew by. After a while on dusty, rocky, steep and horse trampled tread, we found ourselves again on a comfortably graded smooth pathway for the final five miles following Cottonwood Pass. At the junction with the Cottonwood trail I tried to convince Eliza to cut down to Horseshoe Meadows early, but she wouldn't hear of it.

A half mile before we finished, on the north face of Trail Peak, we came upon a guy shaking out his shoes on the side of the trail. He said he had started a southbound through-hike in Canada earlier in the summer but had had to take a couple of months off, and was just down in CA doing a section hike. We mentioned that we were only a half mile from finishing and he very kindly and generously applauded our accomplishment, shaking his head, so proud of two people he didn't even know.

Within an hour we stood at the spot at Trail Pass where we had departed before flipping, which we had last seen over three and a half months ago, at a point less than 800 miles into our long journey.

We awkwardly kissed and tried to make a moment of it. It is a strange thing, standing there at the unceremonious end point at Trail Pass just SE of Lone Pine. It looked just as it had months ago; just a little less snow.

***

A funny thing happened later on. We were sitting at the trailhead for the Cottonwood and Trail Pass trails, cooking up a pot of mashed potatoes and tuna when down off the trail came a stream of German hikers -- similar to those we had seen earlier in the day. I immediately whisper to Eliza, "Go on, get us ride." So she approaches them and I hear congratulations all around. I look over and they are each hugging her in turns. "She finished the trail!" they applauded over and over again as more and more of these guys plodded off the trail.

Long story short, they give us a ride down from the mountains to Lone Pine. On the way, we come to an amazing realization -- this guy Heiko is the father of a girl we went to college with. She sang in the chorus and is best friends with Eliza's close high school friend Gillian. He loved to meet a couple of Cornellians and even called his daughter in Connecticut to tell her of the coincidence.

The Germans had just done a five-day trip up to Mt. Whitney and back and were incredibly boisterous and jubilant. Two vans-full met back in Lone Pine at the Best Western where they were meeting the trip coordinator to drink celebratory Heinekens and smoke cigarettes before heading out right away for Ridgecrest, whence they would each head back to wherever home happened to be.

And then, just as we were saying our goodbyes, the coordinator fellow says, "Hey, if you'd like, you can have our room for the night. It's paid until tomorrow."

So they all pile into their vans and wave goodbye and here we are, trail magic to the end . . .

Sept 30: Forrester, past Whitney

We slept fitfully last night, nervous I think about our plans to climb Forrester Pass at first light and then push ourselves all day to try and make 24 miles to a point where we will (for one last time) drop down below 10,000 ft and be able (one last time) to enjoy a campfire at the end of the day.

It was icy cold as we speedily packed up camp. Our route ascended steadily up and out of the last of the gnarly lodgepole and foxtail pines. Soon we were back in the now familiar glaciated, gouged moonscape of the Sierran high passes. Ahead, above and behind numerous lofty, looming plateaus, stood a sheer wall of gigantic peaks. Somewhere up there was our pass. The light of the new day gave a brilliant orange glow to the highest, easternmost facing peaks suddenly and slowly, irregulary, descended down to fill our great sprawling canyon with gold.

The pass took us three hours to overtake. Snow covered the trail completely for the second half of the climb and we lost the track a number of time. Fortunately one or two others had been over since the snow had fallen earlier in the week so we were able to follow their prints and avoid having to post-hole our own steps as we neared the pass and the snow became much deeper.

To sit at a pass, or at any point, I suppose, so high above the rest of the tiny, speckled world is an envigorating and peace-instilling feeling. We worked damn hard all morning and as we sat at the top at 13,200 ft, I felt just plain good. I felt accomplishment. Not just for the morning's effort, but for the whole summer, all 2600 miles of this trail which we've walked on since April. Looking over at Eliza, I am daily amazed with her strength and fortitude. She has impressed me out here.

Sept 29: Glen Pass

We are camped up high tonight, tucked away early in our bags, preparing for a good night of sleep before a long day tomorrow. Center Peak is reflecting the last orange rays of the sunken sun, its crown looming above the lodgepole and foxtail pines surrounding our secluded, cold campsite. We are above 10,000 ft and thus, have no campfire this evening. We've been getting used to having them as a matter of course out here -- a whole new backpacking style for us -- but at this altitude in Kings Canyon they are prohibited due to the fact that fires use up the wood at a much higher rate than it can be regenerated. We cooked early and did all our camp chores in daylight, so that now we could be cozy inside the tent as the sun disappeared.

The hiking was great today -- exhausting yet envigorating all at once. We broke camp leisurely at Woods Creek, taking time to boil up some hot apple cider and coffee and warm ourselves over the rekindled flames of the fire we had had last night. Our main goal for the day was to get over Glen Pass and push on to get into good position for tackling Forester early tomorrow. Forester is the highest point on the entire PCT at 13,180 and we'd like to break the climb up as well as we can between two days.

Glen Pass was a hard, but beautiful climb. After crossing the isthmus between the Rae Lakes we started climbng in earnest, soon following a nice set of big-booted footsteps through the well packed, melting snow. Looking up from the glaciated bowl at the foot of the final ascent the pass looked utterly inconquerable. There was no way we were climbing up that sheer, snowy face. One foot in front of the other, though, and soon we were topping out at the craggy pass, just behind our friendly big-booted footprint maker. We sat, the three of us under the sunny, clear sky admiring silently the vast open views on either side. To the south, the mountains were snow covered up high, but immediately before us the trail was much smoother than the stretch we had just ascended and completely dried of ice and snow. Soon enough we were bouncing down the trail, happy to have one more pass behind us, breathing easy in the fast thickening air.

Sept 28: Pinchot Pass, slow down

It was a frigid morning. Hiking up and out of the river canyon where we had camped was foot-numbing and icy, the trail snowbound without a break. We followed a lone set of footprints which had glazed over with ice overnight to help stay on the trail. Coming into the sunlight out on the highland basin above, we still weren't able to shake the chill. Even as our bodies heated up and we sweated like a couple of furnaces, the feet stayed frozen.

Pinchot Pass was visible before long but we trudged on towards that gap for well over three hours before finally making the summit. It was a difficult morning. This is how it will be then. The snow was drifted and cruster over. The switchbacks were steep and uneven -- very rocky and frustrating to get over.

Eliza sobbed over frozen toesies at the pass and I cupped them with my hands and blew whatever warm breath I could muster out onto her feet. We saddled up quickly and descended down the other side. More tundra awaited.

Sept 27: Winter hiking, Mather Pass

Sitting here in front of the fire, under the big rock, the crashing water roars away down over the slope of soggy, slushy earth. The new day has arrived and, with it, no more snow. All of the firs and pines have sloughed off whatever clumps of heavy snow they had encumbering their still summer-sure boughs.

We come to, boil up another pot of water for a morning pick me up and set our sights on the trail for the day. All morning, we expect to descend under the fresh baby blue sky until we come to Deer Meadow around noon and begin the long, long, long ascent up 4000 ft to Mather Pass.

***

The morning was fine and we were cheerful. The sunny, warm air is such a relief after yesterday's wintery weather. Within two hours we pass eight other backpackers, all of whom were much less lucky than we had been in dealing with yesterday's storm. With the exception of one couple on the JMT planning on making Whitney and sticking to it, every other group we met seemed to be changing their plans due to the weather. I suppose it makes sense that you are only out here for a few days, you'd like them not to be miserable ones. I might rather go home too if it had ever once even felt remotely like an option.

Us, we just keep on walking.

Eliza had a spring in her step all morning. I was well behind her taking photos of the dazzling white peak and the glorious yellow Aspens and orange, autumn ferm patches.

The climb up to Mather Pass along Palisades Creek began smoothly enough, a regularly slow ascent up along a creek's canyon floor. Soon, it really turned into a climb, however, and I felt muscles starting to ache that haven't been getting much use out here. We huffed and puffed up long series of steep, rocky switchbacks until eventually stopping for a lunch break on trail looking back on the great peaks along the Le Conte canyon from whence we had just ascended. The sun hung beautifully and warmly overhead and the lower skies were filled with passing cottonball cumulus puffs.

And then came the final, big push. This turned out to be no joke. At around 10,500 ft the snow began to reappear at our feet. The trail was a rushing, muddy creeklet. Within a half hour our sneakers were soaked through and we were breaking fresh prints into the already icing and crusty snow in the desolate, rocky Palisades basin at the foot of Mather Pass. The sun was glaring violently so I gave my glasses to Eliza to wear -- she's already been snowblind and I figured it was my turn. And we walked, trudging up the steep snowy switches. By the time we had reached the top of the pass, the snow was caked up to my mid-shins and higher. Both of us were freezing and had to stop and rub our feet dry on a dry parcel of tread. The ascent had been an arduous, never ending affair. The trail was generally easy to follow as it was wide and unmistakeable even under a solid foot of glaring, cold icing. Difficulty - -and danger, perhaps -- arrose only when the trail underfoot and unseen became jagged and irregular. Occasionally I slipped or knocked my foot against a boulder awkwardly, but recovery was simple (hiking poles are the answer). At no point were we in danger of falling or anything as drastic or life threatening as that.

While very difficult and tiring, the trek up and over Mather Pass seemed romantic to me. I felt blessed to be out in this virginal, snowy tundra, sweating and swearing under the gaping, glaring heavens, Eliza right behind me, the rest of the planet below. The trail, it seems is really putting us to a test out here now just as we attempt to make a break for the finish. The Sierras are giving us a run for our money.

But even then, coming to the top of the pass, there wasn't much time to sit and reflect on the grandness of the situation. The opposite canyon was a sea of snow, treeless, and absolutely barren. The looming white mountains to the south were enormous and daunting. And there we were, shivering, watching the sun go down. So we pulled on our wet socks, stod shakily back up and started the snowy descent.

Fortunately, we warmed up quickly and the afternoon hike across the tundra was quite pleasant. It reminded me of the snow hiking I had done in and around Ithaca on the Finger Lakes Trail last winter as training for the PCT.

We came upon two poor guys who had been caught on the pass during the storm and had spent a difficult and harrowing night in the freezing snow. They were so relieved to se us and hear that the pass was in fact passable. They had planned on going south to Whitney but decided, forget it, and were going to try to exit in the next couple of days at Bishop Pass.

We pushed on into dusk and camped on a tiny, round snowless patch along the South Fork Kings River, at the low point of 10,050 ft. before the short ascent tomorrow up to Pinchot Pass.

Sept 26: Muir Pass, snow storm

Eager and surprised, we climbed out of the tent this morning to face the reassuring blue sky. Could it be, we hoped, that the forecast we had been hearing (second hand) had been wrong? It's Monday, and no sign of rain yet. The heavy clouds which formed last night gave us some midnight droplets, but only for about 20 seconds. Maybe that was it . . .

I rekindled the fire we had going the previous night and put on water to boil for tea and coffee. We sat out in the warm glow of the burning wood and wondered why we hadn't been doing this for the past 5 months. Ultimately, I think we both agree that 5 months is long enough to do a lot of things, including having campfires and not having campfires. No regrets.

As we hiked up into Evolution Canyon, the clouds came together again, refortifying and strengthening after dispersing overnight.

The first drops came as we recrossed Evolution Creek, hopping on massive cubes of stone across the wide stream. We stopped and put on rain gear and long pants and forged onward into the wind. The rain didn't last, fortunately and for a while there was a nice break in the weather around us. We passed a number of tents along the desolate shores of the alpine lakes in the canyon and even saw some people in the distance waving to us from a cloudy ridgeline.

The climb to Muir Pass was gentle and easy. From a mile away we could see the stone hut placed there to honor John Muir and were surprised at how simple the ascent had been. As we made the last switches up the slope, icy flurries whisked around us and snow began to accumulate lightly on the ground. It was only a brief squall, however, and as we mounted the pass, we were greeted with a clearing sky.

The stone hut at Muir Pass is a beautiful little structure. The roof climbs to a honeycomb peak and stone benches line the perimeter of the 15' diameter, circular enclosure. An old fireplace is blocked up and a sign indicates that there are to be no fires. A placard reads that the shelter was built to honor the passionate work of John Muir and his love of the 'range of light.' It is to be used as shelter during storms but not as an overnight layover.

We dug the scene on top of the pass briefly before descending down the other side. Shorlty, the weather returned and we were engulfed by a blustery snow storm.

It was amazing all that snow. We giggled like kids, shooting pictures, having a time of it, losing the trail, finding it again, both of us awestruck at the beauty of the descending skies around us.

Soon, though, the party seemed to be coming to a close and that snow was not letting up. We passed a uniformly clad trio of guys headed up to the pass at one point. They laughed and pointed to the sky. "Day 2, and look at this weather," one of them called. We smiled and passed them by, but were both starting to feel a bit weary and worried about the prospects for the rest of the day. We were soaked through by now and the chill was setting in.

We pulled off trail and hid beneath a huge boulder which sheltered a nice sized dry patch and a little fire ring almost completely from the storm. It looked like this place had been used before on a day such as this. We looked around, debated briefly and then decided to hole up for the day right then and there. We both set to looking for dry kindling and I made a few runs out into the weather to retrieve some bigger, downed logs for later use, and before long we were huddled happily over a toasty little flame, completely safe from the continually gusting blizzard outside our enchanted nook under the rock.

We wondered at this point, "What if this doesn't end? What if we are off the trail?!"

The afternoon was beautiful and strange and we enjoyed very much looking out at the wintery world outside our ring of fire. At around 5 pm, the heaviest of the snowfall seemed to be subsiding and there must have been a good 8 inches covering everything.

Now, we wait and see what tomorrow looks like.

Sept 25: Muir Trail Ranch, storm's a-brewin'

It's early and the creek is beckoning us to awaken and face the day. The moon sliver still gleams through the pine boughs overhead, but the backdrop has lightened to a soft, baby blue. It is time, then, to initiate our arm flapping, misty breathed camp-breaking ceremony. Up and out, shoes on and shaky legs tested out, hands cupped together and blown hard into, tent down, bags packed, everything fast and efficient. We should be back on the trail within 25 minutes if we take an extra moment to eat some cold oatmeal before hoisting up.

***

We're sitting out on a bench at the Muir Trail Ranch now, the sun finally warming the morning air around us. Pat, one of the hands here, directed us to the shed where she keeps her hiker buckets and we've been pawing through, sorting things out, figuring our meals for the next week.

This morning, the last guests of the season departed from the ranch and the employees are busy now cleaning out cabins, tending to horses, having a generally relaxed time of it.

***

Back on the trail and the world seems like a different, changed place suddenly. The Aspens and ferns and all the low underbrush has all been splashed with autumn's colorful brush. Yet, at the same time, the air is mild and insects are buzzing around maddeningly again.

We entered Kings Canyon National Park as we crossed the South Fork San Joaquin River on a nice, sturdy bridge. Clouds have started gathering overhead, rushing across the canyon from the south and west.

***

We crossed Evolution Creek and are maing our way up towards Evolution Canyon. Eliza is relieved as the crossing was easy and safe. We have been hearing about how dangerous this creek can be since the first northbounders came through. It's good to be past it now.

***

Evening now and the clouds have solidified into one stormy, ominous mass. No rain yet, but we are preparing for it. The ground tarp is strung up over the tent and we are double bagging our dry goods. We have a nice crackling fire going and it is a wonderful evening, comfortable and thoughtful.

Sept 24: Aspen Groves

It was a frozen morning and ice lined our tent walls. We had camped higher than planned and this morning the meadows were a glistening, frosty white.

Hiking felt natural as we sped along, both of us moving easily over even the most difficult and cobbled terrain.

Near midday, as we descended from our first big climb up and over Bear Ridge -- nice and easy, all under Pine cover with padded, pine needle tread -- we started coming upon great, rustling groves of yellowing, autumn Aspen trees, the lean, sinewy, muscular trunks reflecting silver and white in the sunlight. The deciduous trees are a nice change of scenery after spending so many months under virtually consistent evergreen cover.

We lunched and dried our gear out alongside the South Fork San Joaquin River. I had been feeling drowsy and fatigued towards the end of the morning, almost like I may be coming down with a cold or something.

We climbed Selden Pass in late afternoon, again at 10,900, enjoying a spectacular view back north over Marie Lake as we gained our last bit of elevation.

The peaks are a flat, concrete grey and lakes speckle the canyon floors. One big poof of cumulus hangs far over the talest of the big mountains. Ahead of us, whispy mare's tails are brushed over the sky, left of the now setting sun.

The evening cools down quickly, almost immediately as the sun disapears behind a nearby ridgeline. We make for Senger Creek and set camp.

We have our schedule mapped out for the next week. The high passes are next after a short stop at the Muir Trail Ranch. As it stands, we expect to be finished on the 1st and back in Lone Pine by the 2nd.

Sept 23: Logistics solved

After a relaxing day at Red's Meadow, yesterday evening we set out and hiked a few miles up out of the San Joaquin river canyon and had a fine camp along a creekside with a warm, crackling campfire and sunlight to spare.

We were feeling good and satisfied with the life we've got. We were even cleaned up some after rinsing at Red's in their hot springs bath house.

Eliza and I have a lot to discuss about the future now that it looks like the job in Oakland is a sure thing. When to move there (for me), here to live, what kind of work to pursue, etc...

***

Today, we were up early and the morning wind snuck in and sunk its chilly teeth right into our thin, sleepy hides before we had a chance to get our systems going. Walking was nice and easy, however, and we just plodded the morning away once our fingers came to life. We passed a couple of nice, windy lakes -- Purple Lake and Virginia Lake -- without much ado and talked very little. Down to our right, the distant Fish Creek babbled at the bottom of its great, green canyon.

Unfortunately, Eliza is once again feeling the now familiar sickness in her stomach. Whatever it is, it's here to stay for the remainder of this trek. I hate that she has to be out here struggling with something like this, when the hiking itself should be challenge enough. Not to mention, this is our final push and to be distracted from the excitement and beauty just plain stinks. She is a champ, though, and perseverence is the bottom line. She won't hear of leaving the trail at this point, or even taking days off for recovery. The good weather seems to be hanging on by a thread and neither of us want to chance a freak monster snow storm while we're up in the high passes -- Muir, Mather, Pinchot, Forester -- above 12,000 ft, or anywhere for that matter.

Lately, we are thankful for every day of sunny, clear skies we can get. It has been our main concern all summer long as we made our mad dash for the Sierras that winter would hit early and hard and render our completion impossible. The locals and all the resort and national forest workers are in agreement that things are unseasonably warm and pleasant up here now, but you never know how it might change -- unxpected and on a dime.

The afternoon was spent climbing to Silver Pass, our high goal for the day. It was an easy enough ascent, not too rocky, not too steep. On the way up -- I believe we were in the middle of going through in detail each and every concert we had ever attended -- we were both utterly amazed to see a familiar face coming down the trail towards us. It was Pygmy, another hiker whom we had last seen all the way down in this neck of the woods three long months ago in June, walking down the street in Lone Pine. My mother and Kathie even had the chance to meet him. We had hiked near him throughout Southern CA and it turns out that once he got this far, he never left the Owens Valley. His girlfriend came to California from Hawaii, they rented a little guest house in Lone Pine, and even rented out a storefront to sell their own crafts and photographs. We laughed and stopped and caught up and got to meet his girlfriend, Mini-Me. They are on a hike up to Tuolumne but plan on being back in Lone Pine by the 1st. We were kindly invited to stop in and be their guests when we finish the trail and clean up/crash at their place for a day before heading back on down the road to wherever we go next.

Our run-in with Pygmy and Mini-Me coincidentally solved a big logistical dilemma for Eliza and me as well. This section of trail -- the John Muir Trail -- is unique in that it is the longest section on the PCT across which not a single road does pass. We come near to roads and there are certainly ample access routes onto and of from the trail, but no pavement actually crosses our path. The gist of all this is isolation. Just as there are no roads to be seen, coming across a town just doesn't happen and getting into and out of the mountains by foot is very very difficult. Our dilemma, and most other hikers as well, is how to resupply on the JMT?

What it boils down to at this point is: do we hike out 9 miles over Keersarge Pass and then try to score a really tough hitch down to Independence to resupply for the last 70 miles and an extra day to climb Whitney? Or: do we hike 6 miles off trail to the Vermillion Valley Resort where we've heard the management is sketchy and swindle prone and the atmosphere very lame (a truckstop with resort prices and lots of diesel and generator noise) to resupply for a very long final push of closer to 150 miles?

We've been going back and forth on this for a week now. We'd prefer, of course, to not have to get off trail at all. The stops in Tuolumne and at Red's were so convenient and turned out to have ample enough food selections to resupply at both places comfortably. We had been unsure of this prior to making those stops and were pleasantly surprised and relieved by both stops. Many people will send packages to these resorts but they charge pretty substantial holding fees and we didn't want to be held to anything -- dates, locations, or otherwise -- on this stretch.

Pygmy has informd us that another option does in fact exist -- the Muir Trail Ranch. It's not a store or a public resort. It sounds more like a fancy bed and breakfast. But apparently they have an enormous hiker box out of which we may be able to pull some supplimentary items to help us get down to Whitney without ever leaving trail. Pygmy says that the proprietor likes to keep it word of mouth and certainly doesn't want a non-stop flood of through-hikers inundating the place all summer, but is very friendly and follows hikers on trailjournals.com and will probably even know who we are when we arrive just from our blog.

So, that's what we'll do. No VVR, no Keersarge Pass. Muir Trail Ranch is a solid day's hike farther south than VVR so that cuts the final leg down by 20+ miles as well.

We were tickled to run into Pygmy and Mini-Me. After all this way, this trail still feels like a small, familiar place.

The end of the day took us up and over Silver Pass at 10,900 ft. The passes are incredible. We came down and camped shortly after crosing over and built a huge fire as the cold, high winds set in.