A Wolf Walk

Long time...

2008-06-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I last posted - nearly two years. I'll post some pictures from some more recent adventures. We are loving life here in California.

Here is Eliza a few weeks ago at the Cinder Cone on the eastern side of Lassen National Park.

2006-09-21T00:55:00.000-07:00

Trinity mountian peak

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rocky top

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The crew at Lower Caribou

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K Dizzle

2006-09-21T00:41:00.000-07:00

Kevin and Meg and us near Caribou Lake in the Trintity Alps

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after the walk

2005-10-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

the finish line...snug in the hotel bed

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Nearng the end

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snowy scenes

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aspens and eliza

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mountain set

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montage

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2005-10-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

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

October 20, filling in the gaps

2005-10-20T18:38:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-10-01T17:31:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:27:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:26:00.000-07:00

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'

2005-10-01T17:25:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:24:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Final Entries

2005-09-22T17:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

We are setting out now from Red's Meadow Resort on the last 160-mile leg of our journey. We may not be passing another phone before we finish this thing off, but the final entries will follow soon thereafter, if that turns out to be the case. Thanks to everyone for reading.

- Wolf

P.S. Also, if anyone has e-mailed me or would like to e-mail me use the following address from here on out:

retsofymerej@gmail.com

My PocketMail account expires soon and I don't know what will happen to messages sent to the pocketmail.com address once that happens. Thanks.

Sept 22: Devil's Postpile, check

2005-09-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

So we stuck around Red's Meadow and snacked and showered and relaxed in the sun for most of the day. And, yes, we did make it down to the Devil's Postpile to see the strange granitic columns. It was pretty neat, but it wouldn't have been a disaster to have missed it.

It's been a nice day off our feet, although again, Eliza is feeling under the weather . . .

We're shoving off soon, back out to our woods home and the little yellow submarine.

Sept 22: Devil's Postpile, almost

2005-09-22T12:22:00.000-07:00

We awoke eager to cover the short distance between us and Red's Meadow -- a mountain resort just down the way from Devil's Postpile National Monument.

We descended briskly. I feel good today, alive, awake. We chatted after a while after a good four miles or so of solo humming, the getting the bearings of the day we each go through while tromping down the trail.

We somehow passed right through the National Monument area without ever seeing the Devil's Postpile, which seems a shame. We figured we'd walk right by and get a good look, but it turns out we had to take a detour and after missing it, decided to forge ahead to the cafe at Red's Meadow instead of backtracking on these dusty horsetrails.

So, we're here at Red's now, feeling fine. Coffee's good. The sun is spackling the dusty yard through the big tall pines.

We're both feeling physically better now as well. The stomach bug has hopefully passed on through.

We'll be here for a while, snacking and lounging before setting out again this afternoon.

Sept 21: Autumn showers

2005-09-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

It rained on us in our tent last night. We had stopped in darkness and made a good camp at around 8:30 and I believe that the rain started falling at 10:00 or thereabouts. It came down hard for quite a while, off and on until at least 2 am. The tent leaked, but only minimally. I felt low and depressed as I lay there uncomfortable and damp in my deflating sleeping bag. The stop at Tuolumne had been very successful (we were able to resupply amply and eat our bellies full) but I left feeling a bit rushed. Mainly, I had wanted to do a little more PocketMailing/journaling but I only had a very brief access window to use the store's telephone.

Today, the skies are cleared and the sun is shining -- singing, even -- the mountains of the high Sierra are all around us towering and windswept. There is a dusting of snow on the highest, bare cliffsides, left from last night's passing storm, I'd imagine. It is truly incredible out here, more stunning and enormous than expected. The trekking is strenuous, but it is easy to forget the body and its woes in the presence of such magnificence.

We hiked down along the Lyell Canyon's meadowy floor and started in on our first big pass (Donohue Pass) ascent early. Lyell Mountain is the highest peak in Yosemite National Park at just over 13000 ft and we climbed up along it's wet, glaciated, jagged face to pass at by its long, luminescent glaciers at 11,056 ft. Looking back at the canyon floor to the meandering snake creek and the brown narrow meadows, the distance and our height is grand. On either side of the valley, forested walls rise steeply, up and up, and on top of these walls rest another world -- mountains, huge and looming, three-dimensional now and licking at the fast changing cloud forms. Shadows pass over the canvass of rocky grey and blue up on top of California. Water spills from the last glacial remains of the summer. The peaks are endless and infinite.

At the pass we meet two backpackers resting. They are loving the view, panting and chatting next to their tossed aside packs. We pass on and head into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. To our left stands Donohue Peak; before us, as we descend, a vast shimmering wet world of boulders and stone, tiny drying, draining lakes, more unidentifiable peaks. We descend into a wonderful alpine park, reminding me of Jefferson Park and Paradise Park in the Oregon Cascades with its meandering and crashing creeklets, swimming with little fish, drying out autumn wildflowers, red grasses, and stone lined pathway. Deer bound away from us in packs, but seemingly not out of fear -- they just want their space, just as we want ours.

We lunch on a big warm stone under the sun, laying out the tent and our bags to dry. We dig into our instant hummus and polish the meal off with big thick mint Oreos. What a life it can be on top of a mountain with sweets and sun aplenty.

The day is a grand one. We are reinvigorated, freshly inspired, excited for the rest which is yet to come. It is interesting how frustations will come to a head and despair will linger close at hand, when suddenly, out of nowehere (or out of ourselves, our minds, our hearts, even?) the light will change and the new day will be just that: new. Even the rain tht fell last night has seemed to freshen things up. Maybe it is just a (thankfully benign) reminder to take stock and be happy with what we've got.

Afternoon sun over Banner and Ritter Peaks, white spackling frenzy on Thousand Island Lake surface. We push on and make it a long day, making camp on ridge overlooking San Joaquin River canyon and Agnew Meadows.

Us sitting across from one another, crosslegged on folded foam pads, sucking up noodles as Venus shines first light of a wider universe briefly before disappearing (due to our planetary pirouetting, of course) behind opposite ridge silhouette.

Rubs in the tent on sore legs and starting an outloud reading of Steinbecks's "Travels with Charley."

Sept 20: Tuolumne Meadows, rain

2005-09-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

We walked this morning fast and fleet towards Tuolumne Meadows, food and fuel our motivation, it had to be a good day . . .

Right off we were blessed by another backpacker who we passed as we left our shoreside camp on Miller Lake. A wizened yet sturdy, and grey man, he approached us waving a half-pound bag of beef jerky. "I wonder if you all might want just a little extra weight for the day!" he called. Of course we would, was our response, eager always for something extra and unexpected to munch on. We stopped and chatted about our trip, the water ahead, trail conditions, etc. We all commented on the surprisingly ominous looking grey, cloudy skies overhead. And soon enough we were off and bouncing down the trail.

The stretch between Miller Lake and Tuolumne turned out to be a great relief. We had a long relaxing descent over gently descending pine-forested grounds, a nice mile and a half stroll over a dry meadow, more slight drop-offs and only a bit of switchback climbing.

The grey skies lingered throughout the day, creating a dreary backdrop to the stark mountain peaks starting to appear to the south and east before us. As we trucked along the Tuolumne River on our final five-mile stretch, pellets of icy sleet even began to fall, but only for a brief time.

All day long we had pleasant interactions with people we met on the trail. We passed a group of young school kids and their camp counselors who were amazed at how long we had been out hiking -- two of them said it was their dream to do this someday. A park ranger on horseback as equally impressed and supportive. We discovered as we continued to make our way further into the busy park civilization that he had spread word of our thusfar accomplishment to everyone he met along his own trip back to the meadows ranger station. Another couple was simply dumbfounded that anyone could do such a thing as walk for five months on end all the way from Mexico to Canada. Eliza has really perfected exactly how to tell people about our trip -- how to be succinct and avoid confusion by avoiding any lengthy description of our "flip-flop." I felt it really encouraging actually to be getting such a supportive response today. I suppose it helps when the overall motivation seems to be dwindling a bit.

At 3:30 or so we arrived at Tuolumne Meadows. We checked out the supplies at the store, which were ample and on sale due to the fast appoaching end of season (the whole thing shuts down next Sunday), and cleaned up a bit and went into the counter service cafe and ordered ourselves some burgers and fries. As we stood eating at the window, the clouds finally let loose and gave the bustling parking lot and the expansive sunburnt meadow beyond a good heavy shower.

After a satisfying late lunch, we went back into the store and did our shopping for the next week. This little place was awesome. They had a great selection of items, complete with organic foods, loads of cookies, excellent beers, and very reasonable prices to boot. All in all, I'd say it was one of the most convenient and high quality resupplies of the whole trail.

We spent the rest of the dwindling afternoon of this last full day of our summer out in the brown, now sunny and warm, meadow sorting through and repackaging things, sipping on a couple of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stouts. It was a beautiful spot we had and we both felt good.

I wasn't able to use the pay phones to send out my journal entries and e-mails for some reason, but at the last minute I asked at the store and they let me use their phone which worked.

Eliza got word that she has the opportunity to take a job back in Oakland this fall with Habitat for Humanity, which is both exciting and daunting as it demands that we both start to make some real decisions about what our plans are following this trip's conclusion in a few weeks. I am really glad for her and it is a god job. Now I just have to wrap my own mind around the possibility of moving out to the Bay Area and finding work there.

We discussed this and other things as we set of again down the trail at dusk, the sun sunk low down into the heavy fast flying clouds in the west, silver lining and flashes of color illuminating the spiry mountain peaks around.

Darkness descended and we pushed on out of the park meadow area with the lights of our headlamps leading the way down the wide trail. Eliza commented appropriately that this trail is our home, and when we pass through towns or through these national parks with their rules and restrictions and car campsites and roads -- it is only then that we actually feel homeless out here.

So we walked our first steps on the John Muir Trail in shrouded darkness of night. Overhead, to the west, great flashes of lightning lit up the heavens without a sound.

Sept 19: Hard travelin'

2005-09-20T17:19:00.000-07:00

Difficult hiking continues today. This is surely how the trail will be for the remainder of this hike, all the way down to Whitney.

We slept warmly last night at below 8000 ft, which was a nice change. I awoke at some point feeling very sore and achy, had to unzip and stretch my legs and ankles for a while before falling back to sleep for the rest of the moonlit morning.

The Sierra's terrain is just as the name claims it to be -- serrated, jagged, tooth-like. We climb and then we drop. The trail is boulders and cobbles, slow going, hard work and frustration.

We came up over Seavey Pass early on and faced the great, remote expanse of Benson Canyon. I'm sure that my photos will fall sadly short of capturing the grandeur of this place. Looking out over the expansive basin, I think, "how can we possibly traverse such an impossibly rough set of crags, ravines, towers, cliffs and drop offs?"

We made a slow go of it. Eliza is feeling sick still and we are wondering if it is time to finally use the antibiotics we picked up before setting out five months ago. She has vomitted a few times and we both now have diarrhea. Tomorrow we'll arrive at Tuolumne Meadows and hopefully have a chance to call Varuni and see what she recommends to do about it.

We argued today about food and we both felt desperate and the whole trip seemed pointless, our desire to see this thing through vanished.

We walked on though and felt better soon enough. The days, while shorter than in the heat of the summer, are still long. We are both amazed at how quickly and thoroughly we pass through a cycle of emotions each day.

As we climbed to the highpoint at Benson Pass, again up over 10000 ft, we sang old Dylan tunes breathlessly to one another and had smiles on our weary faces, so glad to be nearing the top of our long climb for the day.

Sept 18: Up and down, this is Yosemite

2005-09-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

It was a quiet, introspective, suspended sort of Sunday. The morning skies were hung with whispy white clouds along with the normal jet exhaust streamers. The warming day had a hungover feeling to it, something of a wintry heartache and slow Zen nostalgia, when tears threaten but would never actually fall.

We broke camp late, with the sun and speedily, as is our habit now that the weather has turned. The terrain rolled and jolted us up and over endless rock outcroppings, in formations down the river valley almost like volcanic ash in their random spotty placement.

Before long we climbed up to a beautiful wide open breakfast spot near Dorothy Lake Pass. Eliza named the mountain mound before us "Jet Stream Peak" and I liked that. Here, we also entered into the Yosemite Wilderness, which excited us. What is in a name, afterall?

Eliza is still struggling with this stomach bug so we stop quite a bit now. It is a shame that she has to deal with that during this penultimate stretch here in the high country.

The rest of the morning and into the early afternoon we just plodded along, talking some, singing to each other, trying to recall the lyrics to too many half forgotten tunes. The south leading canyon was bound majestically on both sides by the huge, rugged, white granitic mountain peaks -- the type of thing one might expect to see out here in Yosemite. These are the things that really make you wonder about where this all came from. How incredible it must have been when the mountains rose up and the earth quaked from within so many millions of years ago? What must have the native peoples who ventured out to these remote and extravagent (not to mention inhospitable and often very dangerous) places thought? I wonder the same thing of all of the most breathtaking sights we've seen along this trail this summer -- Crater Lake, Mt. Rainier, the volcanic mud pits of Lassen . . .

Our long slow descent ended as we rounded gorgeous, serene Wilma Lake. Again, the huge granitic walls were just awesome. We recalled at this point the times we had visited National Parks earlier in our lives and how little we could actually remember of those trips. Was that Yosemite or Yellowstone? I remember taking a ten-minute walk but it rained so we left and took pictures from the car. We laughed at the idea that it would be a fitting commercial for Sizzler or some such food chain. The disgruntled kids, the eager father, the scolding mother all out on a vacation taking in the sights that nobody really has any desire to see anyway, and then the one thing they can all agree about . . . Sizzler. Thanks Mom!

Leaving the south shore of the lake our day's walk in the woods changed very abrubtly and very drastically. From here on out it seems that we are either going straight up or straight down. Our data book is in agreement. There will be no more mercy, it seems. The afternoon was grueling. We climbed up and we dropped down. The trail seemed haphazard and all too steep, winding recklessly to and fro, heading directly up gravel covered slopes and sending us skidding down the other side.

We passed two PCT hikers, Wildcat and Nickel, this evening. We have seen their names in registers since leaving Canada and finally got a chance today to stop and meet them. We passed them, it turns out, when choosing not to stop in Etna back in northernmost California. They are both middle-aged and full of good humor. They have slowed way down as Wildcat has some stomach bug and doesn't have the energy to fly through this tough terrain.

We bid them safe journey, forded the creek next to their camp, and hiked on another few miles -- up and over the next steep ridgeline and down to the next creek canyon.

We camped at Kerrick Canyon alongside another chatterbox creek.

Sept 17: Opening day

2005-09-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning to the sound of gunshots cracking the distant silence. Crack, thud, thud. The cold mountain wind coursing around the tent had kept me in a state of fitful half sleep for hours through the morning's predawn darkness. At some point, the sun still below the jagged eastern horizon, a group of chattering voices (speaking Spanish?) even floated in on the breeze. I tossed and turned. The cold earth had found its icy fingers a way in through the foot box of my sleeping bag. It was a surreal and sleepless morning, a struggle for shuteye and shelter from the stormy, blustery air outside. Finally, we rousted ourselves as the sun peeked over the crag to the east, out to face the bluing heavens and the dawning day. We broke camp quickly, racing against the chill, and made for the orange, sunlit cliff face where our trail was already busy warming itself.

Our plan was to hit Route 108 at Sonora Pass by mid-morning and hitch down to Kennedy Meadows (the northern of the two which our trail passes near) for a good breakfast and to re-supply at the store. On the way down to the pass, we noticed a strange orange spackling spread out over the rocky, red landscape. The cold morning air made me think of winter. I felt oddly nostalgic for the hills of upstate New York and the comforts of home. Rounding a bend by a set of volcanic pinnacles we saw more of these construction cone orange blots dappling the distant scene. What were these bright, bold figures? Are they people? We wondered aloud. And then we had our answer. Crack, thud, thud. Gunshots from up ahead. Dogs barking. The hairs standing up on the back of my neck. A primeval fear churning deep within my belly. Them's guns. And this must be hunting season, I thought.

And so it is. Today is opening day and the blood-hungry hunters are out in full force, toting rifles, clad in blaze orange. I didn't expect that it would be legal to hunt in Wilderness Areas, but from the looks of the crowd heading up into our Wilderness area today, it apparently is. Yippee. Where's my orange vest? Looking down at my drab hiking gear, I am not entirely sure that I won't be mistaken for an innocent, forraging deer one of these days. I guess we'll just hope that where we're headed will be too remote for most hard working hunters with day jobs to venture out for the kill.

Coming to the trail head at Sonora Pass we were delighted to meet up with Duck and Swift, two hikers that we last saw in Griffith Park in L.A. on June 6th or thereabouts. They had dropped us off after leaving the Saufley's together and had returned to the trail before we had. Then they flipped up to Sierra City from Kennedy Meadows, went north to Canada (we missed them in Oregon) and then finally returned to Sierra City just a couple of weeks ago to hit the Sierras southbound like many of the rest of us. Unfortunately, it turns out that this was their last stop. They had gone into Kennedy Meadows yesterday, had lunch, picked up their re-supply package, come back to sleep at windy, cold Sonora Pass and decided this morning that they had had enough. Their plan was to hitch west to Sonora and then make it up to the Bay Area where Duck's family lives. We were sorry to have to see them go. They were very kind, however, and offered us their re-supply as they would no longer have much use or desire for camp foods and candy bars once back in civilization for good. So we graciously accepted and decided to roll right on by Sonora Pass, no longer in need of a store to get us supplied through to Tuolumne Meadows -- 75 miles down the trail, and our junction with the John Muir Trail.

The hiking south of Sonora Pass has been a whole different monster. We shot straight back up to the crestline at over 10000 ft. and clammered across jagged, endless boulder fields for the next six hours. The terrain up here is stark and desolate. The wind is relentless and biting.

About four miles into the section (we are now in the Emigrant Wilderness) we crossed paths, yet again, with Billy Goat. He laughed his silly laugh and wishd us luck on he rest of our trip. "It's cold up in the high country," he warned. We watched him trek off over the impressive and stark grey, brown landscape towards a narrow, rocky gap in the saurian ridgeline.

The rest of the day was pleasant enough. We dropped down into Kennedy Canyon where we passed our 2400th mile marker and descended easily for the afternoon until setting camp early at a junction with the West Walker River.

For the first time since climbing Mt. San Jacinto in May, we built a nice campfire tonight. There was a fire ring set up alongside a big stone shelf and once we had the fire roaring, the heat bounced off he wall and lit up the whole camp with a warm orange glow. Eliza and I sat out well into darkness after finishing a nice dinner of freeze-dried sweet and sour pork and green beans, talking and laughing.

Sept 16: Gettin back into it

2005-09-20T17:16:00.000-07:00

We are breaking on the white, feldspar-flecked, sparkling trail under the beautiful blue canvass sky with close, low floating cotton whisps swiftly passing overhead. I gaze out over the Carson River canyon and make out the rich, chocolate brown of the bark on many a gnarled old Mountain Juniper, stark and stately they stand against the towering cliffs of chalk dust granite. I feel a pinl hint of anticipation that these stone faces will start speaking soon, telling tales of nothing having ever changed.

Around me here now are whitebark pines, tall and thin. Water crashes heavily in the canyon below. Up and to my left, Eliza stretches on a rough, pale boulder dome. The sun, way up and past her, further up the sky, still peaking down into the canyon and its chill, is making the scene hazy and dreamy. Eliza is feeling sick again -- or still, more accurately. She is afraid that she has gotten something in her stomach, perhaps from pond water, not boiled long enough. I don't know what to do or say. It's a shame that we suffer on our own in this life. Then again, this is a good spot to feel the sickness of creatures in your stomach, I guess. The clouds might be the perfect distraction. Something to focus and meditate on. The way their shadows flit over the uneven cracks and crags of the great stone faces across the canyon. Eliza is stretched out on her back in the sun now. The breeze is picking up and biting through my shirt and shorts. We are up and off now, returning for the first time to 10,000-foot elevations since leaving California three months ago.

We set camp tonight at a bitter windy pass, in the dry, soft bed of a summertime pond. We are having trouble cooking due to the quick licks of warmth stealing breeze and the thin air altitude.

We lie in our puffy, blue bags. I read Kerouac's "The Dharma Bums" outloud -- picked up at home, to reread here in the mountains he finds so uplifting and freeing.

We are three full days along now, feeling our way back into the swing of things. Eliza is still physically a bit uneasy, however. I hope that whatever it is just passes.

Sept. 15: Cowbell windchimes

2005-09-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

It is a blessing and a privilege to be here in these northern Sierras. Volcanic, striated buttes, open sweeping vistas, the coming winter's icy, desolate winds, free-roaming herds of cowbell-jangling cattle. There is quite a lot out here to stimulate the senses. I find it difficult to keep up. It feels almost like we are getting spoiled with all of this scenery.

Eliza is under the weather. We are taking lots of stops and have set camp early after a short nineteen miles for the day. The hiking is strenuous and we both feel weighed down under our packs.

Mama's Boy and Seattle Dave passed us as we lay talking in the tent this early evening. They plan on stopping just ahead at the saddle over the lake where we are.

Sept. 14: The weight

2005-09-20T17:14:00.000-07:00

We awoke this morning to a new morning's mountain chill. My body quaked and the world was once again completely new and foreboding. The sun had already started to lighten the sky outside the tent as we stirred. It was later than when we had been routinely rising before leaving the trail two weeks ago. The 5:25 am alarm will no longer suffice as we are now loathe to leave the cozy warmth of our lofted goose down dens before the frosty sparkle of the stars has dimmed to a subtlety in the morning's grey grim expanse.

We took our time breaking camp, eating breakfast, packing and repacking our packs, figuring the best way to fit in the extra gear and the bear canister. The prospect of a full day before us and the heavily laden unweildy cold-weather ready packs have us both a bit daunted as we start in on mounting this high country. Two weeks seems to have done a job on our muscle tone and respiratory systems, not to mention our heretofore unfailing fortitude in the face of hardship.

Early on we passed a few other hikers. We assumed that they were weekenders or day hikers, but while stopping to admire the reflection of a set of cliffy mountain crags in the crystal surface of Showers Lake we were joined by a southbound through hiker named Mama's Boy. He said he recognized our names from registers and informed us that there is a sizeable pack just behind us, up to a dozen now including Zed and the Gimp, and Wildcat and Nickel and others.

We made good time today. We were both eager to get that feeling of progress back.

We camped at a small pond near a road and had another cold night to contend with.

Sept. 13: "John Muir walked away into the mountains..."

2005-09-20T17:13:00.000-07:00

We had walked for 1100 miles with only a single full day's rest. We had covered a total of 2313 miles over the course of the past four months. And then we came down out of the woods onto the paved shoulder of Route 50 and stuck out our thumbs. We've been off the trail for almost two weeks now, travelled back and forth across the continent. And here we are again back up among the pine trees. The point of departure is somewhere straight ahead, off down the road, along the shoulder of Highway 50, south of Echo Lake.

We're rolling down the Interstate eastbound away from San Francisco, a last leg awaiting. The home stretch. A drop in the bucket. Is it really just a drop in the bucket? Could 350 miles ever compare to such a miniscule thing? Headed back, it all feels so strange. The 350 is a bit daunting to me, as I look out over the fantastically white, boulder strewn cliffsides. Yet, at the same time, we are both, I know, feeling excited, eager, anticipating a positive and relaxing re-immersion into the out-of-doors.

For me, this break has been a good thing. I spent a few days here in CA, visited with some friends, hung out in sunny Davis and sat alone in chilly, dark movie theatres drinking Cokes and feeling a timeless feeling.

There has been a lot of moving and traveling this past week. Cars, planes, trains, buses -- it all happens (they move) so fast. It is amazing that we can move so violently, so swiftly and at such short notice, without so much as a fleeting flinch and it is just the way it is, all in a matter of course. Looking out at the five-laner outside the window right now as we fly by the hazy Sacramento skyline -- so many people all burning gas, all implicitly trusting in one another to play by the rules, play it safe, drive carefully, watch out.

Another September 11th has come and gone. The world is a different word now than it was before that tragic Tuesday in 2001. This year, I was a passenger on two sold-out, Sunday afternoon flights, as was Eliza. Back in NYC, my mother and I reflected on our memories of the events which occurred four years ago -- where we were, how the news came to us, what we did, how we felt etc. We ate lunch in New Paltz with the editor/webmaster of this journal and he commented on the geography of the region saying that he hasn't driven into the City since without considering how the pilots in those planes looked down on the Hudson and used it as a guide down into the City towards their target.

The encroaching forest and the great, unmoving boulders around me now seem to say that such a thing should be an impossibility in this world. Change should never truly occur so quickly.

***

The rest of the day was spent relaxing in South Lake Tahoe. Jan, Eliza's friend from El Cerrito, took us out to lunch and the three of us took out a paddle boat for a quick jaunt out on the deep, clear blue water. Afterwards, we ate ice cream cones and popped over to the Nevada side of town to poke our heads into the casinos and drop a couple quarters in the slots before heading back up to the pass and setting forth once again.

Jan walked with us for 25 minutes or so before bidding us a good, safe journey. The trail was rocky and steep within the hour.

We set camp after two or three miles. Darkness descended suddenly and with it came a brisk new evening chill.

"Blog for Relief" Day

2005-09-01T06:37:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: We've taken the liberty of joining Wolf's blog with the hundreds more than one thousand others requesting support for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Donations may be made to the charity of your choice, including:

A list of particpating blogs can be found here.

August 31: Desolation Wilds

2005-09-01T06:31:00.000-07:00

The Desolation Wilderness is something to behold -- a stark, jagged, boulder-strewn, vast alpine lake-spackled moonscape. And it is something entiely different to hike across. It is a place so easy on the eyes, yet hard -- oh so very hard -- on the feet.

We walked our last day down to Hwy 50 today. For me, it was a brutal, painful trek. The descent down to Echo Lake was interminably long and ankle-breakingly rugged. I am sure that to some degree my body was simply shutting down early in anticipation of the break before us. My socks, a pair that I've been rotating through since Mexico finally gave out, the gaping holes giving way to searing, sore hot spots -- the maddening pre-blister pain foci. My sneakers seem to have lost all rigidity; each and every sharp little stone, cobble, and boulder drilling into my pounding foot like an electric cow prod or some such thing.

We made it at last to the nice but uninviting resort spot of Echo Lake. The store had just closed but they let us in for a quick ice cream bar before we pushed on through and covered the last mile down to the highway.

We caught a ride with a nice, talkative guy -- Dan, I think -- who works for the California Conservation Corps doing conservation and restoration team work out near Yosemite. He had done a Peace Corps stint in Tanzania years ago and seemed to know exactly where we are at in our own lives. He brought us as far as Placerville, just east of Sacramento (this northern California is much larger than we had thought), and after a quick attempt at thumbing another ride farther west we decided that this would have to be home for the night and strolled into town.

We spent the evening watching horrified and stunned as the images of hurricane Katrina and its destruction rolled, over and over agan, on the TV above our table at the pizza place. Eliza sobbed in disbelief at the hopeless extent of human suffering projected on the insensitively broadcast Fox News special. We left soberly and climbed a hill to find a relatively secluded spot behind some Oak cover and set camp for the night.

Tomorrow, it's on to the San Francisco Bay.

August 30: Longest day

2005-09-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

Bill (Pooh) had us up and fed and out the door early today. He was clanging about in the kitchen, mixing and frying at 5am. The hikers were groggily filing in and out of the bathrooms, stuffing away sleeping bags, filling up water bottles, etc. Before we knew it, we had been piled into the back of his pick-up and were looking back down the highway as the yellow morning sun broke over the crest of the Nevadan Mountans to the east.

Within five miles of the trailhead at windy Donner Pass we had climbed up onto the Sierra Crest and were speedily, excitedly traversing the howling, frigid landscape. Lake Tahoe appeared before us as we ascended up and around Tinker's Knob and we were treated with expansive views of the massive body of water intermittently throughout the day.

We bade Shade a final farewell at a small creekside campsite and Eliza and I made for our longest day to date. At 7:30 we dropped our packs and plopped down under the fading sky. We covered 35.5 miles today, certainly the longest day so far and, given the reputation of the terrain to come, the longest of any day we will yet hike as well.

We are both feeling well, excited, rejuvenated after two huge meals at Pooh Corner.

One more day to go and then a break.

>> . . . and most recently <<

2005-08-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-29T22:45:00.000-07:00

Sailing the Heitman's lawn

Lassen's bubbling mud sea

Wolf at the Terminal Geyser
Date at the Drakesbad

August 29: Pooh Corner

2005-08-29T22:11:00.001-07:00

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

2005-08-29T22:11:00.000-07:00

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.

August 27: Sierra City

2005-08-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-27T12:24:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-08-24T12:03:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-24T12:02:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

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.

August 21: Four months

2005-08-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-21T07:31:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

2000 miles! Peace! Victory!

Huge-mongous and Lookout. Mother/ son team.

Seal of the State of Jefferson.

dirty man

>> pix <<

2005-08-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-20T17:50:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

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 <<

2005-08-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

August 18: Scratched up legs and images of sugarplums

2005-08-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:17:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:16:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:14:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-18T19:10:00.000-07:00

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.

August 9: The Siskiyou Mtns.

2005-08-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

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.

August 6: Ashland

2005-08-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

August 5: The Green Raceway

2005-08-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-06T18:48:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

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.

August 3: Three Angels at 86-B

2005-08-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-03T10:02:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-03T08:01:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

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.

July 30: South Sisters Lakelands

2005-07-31T11:52:00.000-07:00

The way has been rolling and green, under patchy cover of verdant, coniferous canopy today. Fallen trees, debris, small ponds, insects fill the narrow, closed views surrounding. I am feeling tired, a fatigue working through my body on this our 10th day of hiking in Oregon. The heat of the day brings relief from the swarming insects and we swim in the larger of the lakes, cleaning ourselves, breast-stroking out into the deeper waters away from shoreline, splashing, and finally just floating, face up, lungs full of air keeping our white bodies buoyant, drifting -- the view is a canvas of flat, brilliant blue, framed in the needlepoint of silhouettes -- dark greens and fuzzy browns, fir forest kingdom crowns.

July 29: Elk Lake

2005-07-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

We walked a fast, early 17 miles this morning to arrive at the Elk Lake Resort by 1:30 pm. The sun is high and hot in the sky; clouds dapple the horizon. Early on we passed two northbounders who had come all the way through the Sierras. The first, Tatoo Joe, had the dime-a-dozen disposition to stop and tell how many miles he's been doing, when he expects to hit the border, etc. I was impressed, however, with his claim to have lost 70 pounds so far on the trail this summer. The second hiker, Eric, was much more endearing and we spent a few minutes talking with him, asking about the snow and the river crossings. His poles were bent and his hair bedraggled, but he had a big smile on his face.

We picked up another re-supply package generously sent out to us by my mother. Kindness certainly comes not only from strangers. Thanks so much to all of our wonderful families who have been helping us so much.

We are now sprawled out in the shade by the water's edge, goodies scattered about, water about to boil.

Elk Lake approximately marks the same distance south from the Canadian border that we were able to cover north from the Mexican border before flipping up to Vancouver ~745 miles.

July 28: Three Sisters lava flows

2005-07-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

We walked this evening in a crimson glow. The sunset was a beautiful, tiered affair. Middle Sister and South Sister were illuminated, full natural red heads. Scattered treasure chest whisps floated to the west, silver lining turned gold. Black glass, Obsidian, crunched underfoot, flashed reflection at the evening lightshow.

***

The terrain was varried and new to us today. Coming around Mt. Washington, we climbed up and over the Belknap Crater, a great time capsule. Three millennia ago, liquid rock flowed down the slopes, finally cooling and cracking, leaving scoured tracks and thick, arid mounds to this day. Walking was tough on the feet throught the lava fields and we encountered more as we crossed Route 242 at McKenzie Pass and entered the Three Sisters Wilderness.

Many hikers are out today. We passed groups and horse riders and solo hikers right on into evening. Had a laugh and a sigh of relief when we successfully followed John's note to find Eliza's poles hidden near the first Hemlock, eight steps uphill, behind boulder pile . . .

At a register left by the road at McKenzie Pass by Meadow Mary (whom we didn't see in the flesh today although Eliza swears she saw her in Sisters yesterday) we read that another couple, Eric and April, had dropped off the trail. Their last log entry was short, scribbled, barely legible. It read: "Off the PCT, mile 1150"

[Eric and April" I wonder what did it. It could have been anything, really. Eliza and I both agree that, ultimately, if you've got other things that you are thinking about, other places that you think you could be, other options or obligations that are occupying your mind, you may be in trouble when push comes to shove. A few rainy days, a bad bout with the bugs, a sore sole or a seepy scab (I apologize, reader) and that's it. They're the second couple we've seen leave the trail in the past 200 miles. Another one bites the dust.]

For us, no mosqitoes around the dry, sterile lava flows today, at least until evening as we set camp here on the sandy flats just SW of Middle Sister's snowy summit.

***

I swam naked in North Mathieu Lake. The feet were sore and the water was perfect.

July 27: New shoes and the BLYC

2005-07-31T11:27:00.000-07:00

Eliza and I spent the afternoon with John Meier, the trail angel of the day, in and out of Sisters and Bend. We showered and chatted with him on his front deck while tossing the ball around with his dogs after checking out Sisters and sufficiently coffeeing up. John works with the Forest Service heading up a fire squad in the Bend district. He plans on hiking the Oregon section of the PCT next fall so he was very interested to hear details from our trip. He took his whole day off -- his first in ten days -- to shuttle us around and make this potentially very difficult day of tasks completely manageable and almost relaxing.

A brief fiasco occurred when Eliza thought she had lost her wallet and she spent a half hour running back to the coffee shop, the Post Office, the sporting goods store, etc, asking for a little hot pink waterproof wallet -- people didn't really know what the hell we were talking about. When it didn't turn up, we went back to John's house and sure enough it had simply found its way down into the deepest depths of Eliza's pack. Disaster averted.

Bend was scorching, just as it was the last time we passed through, two years ago, late July with Kevin and Eric on a road trip tour of the state.

We listened to NPR news in his pickup while driving back from Bend. More war in Iraq. The general (Kesey?) heading up the coalition forces says troop levels may start lowering by next Spring. Everyone that was interviewed says no way. Rumsfeld in Baghdad, charismatic as ever. British hacker extradicted to the US for trial in Virginia courts. Meth laws being passed. Bombings in Sharm el Sheik . . . As bad as it all sounds, it was great to look out over the mountains and just take in the world over air waves.

Errands finished, we were back on the trail by 5:00. Eliza forgot her poles at John's house and he was kind enough to set up a drop-off point at the next road crossing, McKenzie Pass, which we should hit tomorrow.

We hiked in just a few miles and made a detour for the evening to the Big Lake Youth Camp, a Seventh Day Adventist summer camp, renowned to be very hiker-friendly, serving meals, doing laundry, holding packages, the works.

We had a brief, but pleasant visit. Rummaged through the hiker box, exchanging a few things, using their bathrooms and then continuing on down to the shore of the lake where we pitched our tent and ate dinner. The councilors were out on the boats waterskiing and wake boarding, blaring Christian Rock music (and I mean blaring!). Before long, I wished that we had just moved along on the PCT. Too many people around makes for a crowded camp feeling. Reminds me of college, going to sleep with a huge frat party revving up across the street. Thankfully, these Adventists had a curfew . . .

July 27: Magical Sisters

2005-07-27T09:44:00.000-07:00

It's 9:00 in the morning and we are happily relaxing on the front porch of the Sisters Coffee Company. After a four-mile walk down to Santiam Pass from our dusty, buggy little campsite we've found ourselves into a world of wonderful, friendly, helpful people. First, a case of Mountain Dew left by the trail by hiker turned trail-angel, Strawberry, who left the trail for civi-life at Cascade Locks. Next, a can of cookies, Cokes and water near the parking lot at the trail head left by another, unknown angel. The day was looking up already. Then, after a quick stop in the pit toilet before hitting the highway for a hitch, we started talking to an older couple who right away knew all about the PCT -- they had just read an article yesterday in The Oregonian about "flip-floppers" on the PCT -- and offered us a ride without batting an eye. They were actually on their way to move a relative's car from one pass to the next who is currently section hiking the trail.

So, coming into Sisters, we were doing great. 8:30 in the morning, coffee shop in sight. I'm psyched. Eliza takes a walk to check out the PO and the sporting goods store. I'm here chilling on the porch. Next thing I know, she's back, big grin on her face, to tell me that she met a guy at the PO who immediately recognized her as a hiker, had spotted us at the coffee shop ten minutes before, and he offered her and me use of his home for cleaning, showering, sleeping, whatever we want. She says she needs shoes. He says he'll drive us to Bend later on -- his buddies own the gear supply there. Once again, unbelievable people going out of their way to lend a hand to the filthy, passing foot-walkers.

July 26: Blasted bugs

2005-07-27T09:26:00.000-07:00

Eliza's poor feet have reached their limit today. Her sneakers, having thus far carried her over 900 miles along this rough and rocky trail, henceforth shall carry her no further. Tomorrow, as a minor detour and change of plans, we are going to hitch, first thing, into Sisters, OR, 15 miles east at Santiam Pass, and try to find her dogs a new home.

Hiking felt long today; the scenery, beautiful and varied. The summer sun, the heat, the wind, the cool alpine lakes -- it can seem so blessed out here. It can also, however, at a bend in the trail tread, turn into a living hell. The mosquitoes have gotten to be more than just a nuisance. They are a bane, a merciless predator, an unstopable foe. The villainous beasts have a method of madness. Their tenacity is unmatched; their style, unpredictable; their blood thirst, insatiable. I hate the damn things, passionately. And I fear for the future, that they will only get worse over the course of the next few weeks. Why is it that at one turn a flock of neck biters reside? What makes the relentless ear buzzers stay near the ear? What makes the back of a man's arm so damn desirable to the shoulder floaters? And why don't any of these madenning insect sub-groups ever seem to intermingle? It's always one or the other -- legs or arms, face or neck.

But again, I fear the future. One day, on the eve of their seasonal passing, perhaps, they will surely come together, posse by vile posse, to form the ultimate deadly man-eating swarm. I fear the day. May the snows finally melt away and the mosquitoes make their last lunch on human flesh. What do they eat other than people anyway? Do they suck on deer ears? Could they ever penetrate a bear's matted hair?

***

We wave goodbye to the beautiful peaks of northern Oregon today, and welcome the dry, arid soils of the central highlands. Mt. Washington and the Three Sisters have shown themselves this afternoon and we've come around the craggy cliffs of Three-Fingered Jack.

We are camped at an unpleasant angle here tonight. We're excited for the unexpected town stop tomorrow.

We saw two fawns again today. Startled by our passing, they bounded one by one from their trailside hideaway under a fallen tree trunk. I wonder how long a doe will suckle her fawns before leaving them to their own designs.

***

I've started shooting little movie clips with my digital camera. Tomorrow I'll send a memory chip back to my mother and hopefully she'll be able to view them.

July 25: Olallie Lake, Jefferson Park

2005-07-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

Another beautiful Oregon summer day...we hiked a fast ten miles into Olallie Lake today, happy to have left our uninvited camp company behind (he said he was trying to make Timberline Lodge by the evening, a mere 45 miles north of our campsite; good luck, buddy).

Olallie Lake Resort turned out to be a really fine, secluded spot out in the middle of nowhere. The lake, spotted with row boats and lined with thick, tall Douglas Fir forest sits near the base of Mt. Jefferson, named by Lewis and Clark after the president in 1805 (?). We had forwarded a re-supply package to the little shop and rental office and much to our dismay, when we arrived, it hadn't yet arrived. This is the same package that we sent from LA to ourselves in Snoqualmie Pass, WA to an address which no longer even exists. Apparently, mail only gets delivered out to the Resort at Olallie Lake once a week, and irregularly at that. One more Postal Service blunder and we're out.

We hung our heads and started looking around the store at all of the exorbitantly priced junk foods from which we could choose this week's provision. $1 Ramen noodles, $3.50 bags of chips, candy bars. We hadn't really started to panic, though, when the blonde dreadlocked cashier lady came to the rescue just in time and pointed us toward the two enormous green plastic hiker boxes on the floor in the next room. "You guys shouldn't have anything to worry about if food's all you need," she assured us. She was so right. If ever there were a place to miss your re-supply box, this was it. We fully restocked for the next 4-5 days with what was in those boxes, from nuts and fruit to dehydrated meals and pasta to bagels and peanut butter and even tortillas. We're feeling lucky again . . .

We cooked ourselves up a lunch of dehydrated clam chowder mix with real clams from a vacuum sealed baggie out by the boat landing and had a nice chat with a young couple out for the weekend from Portland, watched the sun rise up over the lake, cleaned up, etc. These brief, frequent stops which seem to be more the rule than its exception here in Oregon are turning out to be really great for all of us doing this long distance hiking bit. They're everything a town stop can be (minus a hotel room, perhaps, but what would we know about that?) without the hassle, without the hitch, without the headaches. At Olallie Lake, there wasn't even a phone to use so I couldn't busy myself with e-mailing and whatnot. And then, two hours later, after a nice refreshing round of fudge-sickles, we were right back on the trail.

The afternoon took us up onto Mt. Jefferson's northern flank -- all volcanic boulder fields and the last of the nearly melted snow drifts. At our summit on a ridge overlooking the lush, colorful meadows of Jefferson Park below, we met an older guy, Derrick who had come out for the night. Smoking a cigarette, he wiped his forhead and sighed, "It's gotten a heck of a lot steeper up snce the last time I hiked this stretch 20 years ago." Mosquitoes were all around us and we only chatted for a few minutes, but he seemed like an interesting, kind person. As we parted ways after passing him on the trail a ways down the next slope, he gave us a portion of his summer sausage and a roll of crackers. We were touched by his generosity and his demeanor. We both wished that we could have spoken with him more. Again, I was reminded of my father, somehow. It's such a strange thing, how random strangers can make such an impression, especially considering the annoyance I had felt last night with the through-hiker.

This hike has been such a solitary experience for Eliza and myself. Maybe solitary is the wrong word. We never hike with other people. We avoid camping near other people. In ways, the tent, the area around it, the trees, sky, wind, views -- they feel to me like a home now. Lying in the tent tonight, we both commented on how marvelous a feeling it is, this comfort, this ease with doing what we are doing. Sleeping outside, going through our routines at camp, cooking, cleaning -- it's as comfortable as anything else could be, it seems. We aren't wanting for much anymore.

July 24: Midway

2005-07-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

We walked the entire day under cover of trees in shadows. We walked and felt good. At noon, we passed a road which we had determined marks the halfway point of our trip, 1332 miles. We ate lunch just off the road and spent a while figuring how to fit in all the hiking we can before leaving the trail again in September. We are shooting for an August 31st arrival at Sierra City, CA. At this point, we will both head into San Francisco, from where Eliza will fly back to Ithaca for the week to attend two of her best friends' weddings. I will visit in the Bay area for the first few days and then fly back east myself for a short visit with my family and Eliza's family. We fly back to SF on September 11th.

But here we are for now.

This whole experience is just so long. To think, half way, these three long months, Spring to Summer. I no longer even think about the comforts of living in a home, of eating well and cooking in my own kitchen. I rarely even long anymore for the dark comforting still of a movie theatre -- we actually went to a movie in Portland and left early because it was just too
bad (there was a point where I couldn't have fathomed such a notion, coming in from off the trail and settling into the cool, cozy confines of a theatre and walking out).

The trail is easy for us now. It is what we do; we walk. The days are long, but we find ways to break things up and change the routine. Eliza and I continue to find things to dicuss. We have a closet full of silly jokes and games which always seem to keep us amused with ourselves.

Huckleberries are growing everywhere alongside the trail this afternoon. The native people called them Olallie. I enjoy the sound of this word. It sounds sweet. We first stuffed ourselves purple-lipped and then collected a cup or so to eat tomorrow morning along with our oatmeal. They are taking their revenge on our digestive tracts right now, unfortunately. The tent stinks something awful and we're both just trying to grin and bear it.

Eliza was a camp champ tonight. She cooked and set up the tent and let me be lazy here with my book. The mosquitos found us here as well and she's been out there all bundled up, working away, Zen calm in the middle of the evil insect storm. She even stretched out and did yoga while managing all the other tasks. What a girl!

***

I had nearly fallen asleep with my head on Eliza's shoulder when a voice broke through my dreamscape. "Hey there!" A clumsy, loud whisper. I stirred. Eliza held her breath. Again, louder, "Hey there!" I am fully awake now and Eliza calls back. Before we know it, he's got his tarp-tent staked and up just outside our own screen door, his mouth gabbing uncontrollably, talking Sierras and stats, miles and months.

And so ensues one more utterly inane, altogether mind numbing through-hiker conversation. Where'd you flip? How many miles you doing? Me, I'm pulling down upper 30s, 40s. You guys trying to go to sleep or something? Yeah, anyway, like I was saying, I flipped to Sierra City . . . and on and on. I fumed silently for the half-hour affair, while Eliza made polite comments of approval and encouragement. I felt like Woody Allen rolling my eyes, imagining myself rolling over to the audience, my back to scene at hand, and saying wryly, "Can you believe this guy?"

July 23: Mt. Hood to Timothy Lake

2005-07-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

Last night I awoke to the light of the near-full moon. I was roasting inside my sleeping bag so I wrestled my way out of my longjohns and afterwards climbed out of the tent to take a leak under the stars. Hood's peak shone white in the moon's heady, ethereal wash.

***

I recall yesterday morning, during the rain, seeing a doe and two tiny fawns ahead on the trail, shrouded in an evanescent mist. The fawns were unable, it appeared, to climb the bank uphill off the trail, so the three of them trotted ahead on the trail, stopping around each bend to see if we still approached. Finally, the doe clammered uphill and the two fawns disappeared down the bank to our right. As we passed, dripping, under our umbrellas, the silhouette of the deer stood over us, watching.

***

The stop in Portland and these past couple days back on the trail have brought about a sort of realization. Unexpectedly, I feel that a door has been closed, something for nearly a year left unfinished, finally, subtly moved to the side. I'm not entirely sure I can put words to the feeling. Returned to the trail, I notice a calm resolution. I am relieved to return. It is a coming home that I hadn't expected here, now. Partly, I think that I was anxious for this trip back to Portland. Part of me had been longing for a life left behind throughout these past 9 months. I wondered whether I ever really should have left on that Amtrak train at all last September, whether I hadn't packed up and moved away from a real home in some vain pursuit of a mere pipe dream.

***

We hiked around Hood this morning and arrived at Timberline lodge where we enjoyed a cup of coffee and a stroll around the beautiful, historic building. Teams of teenaged snowboarders slogged around in their heavy, baggy clothes at the lodge, sucking down extra large sodas and eating cheeseburgers at 10 am. We scored a few items out of the hiker box and relaxed a bit before stopping back in at the upscale lodge restaurant to say hello to Heidi, a through-hiker whom we had hiked with in Southern California and who had gotten of the trail to make some dough. It was nice to chat briefly. She is living just down the trail from the lodge, still sleeping in her tent. Beats paying rent, I guess.

The afternoon was pleasant. We had a long conversation about the imminent collapse of contemporary international power structures. It's great when Eliza gets fired up on the trail -- the time just flies.

We found a campsite this evening along the eastern shore of Timothy Lake -- another location which we had visited last year during one of Eliza's vists to Portland, one we have been looking forward to. It is Saturday night and there are a couple of groups of other people spread out over the area here. Most seem to be high school aged. One crew of six or seven were making a lot of noise, cursing and throwng rocks and garbage around where they were hanging out. I walked over to survey the area for good tent sites (and to check out their provisions -- beer, rum, coke, chips) and say hello. A girl with big 70s style shades walked past me towards the cooler. "Hey," I said, "How you doing?" "Oh, I'm pretty wasted, man," she mumbled in terse response. Eliza, meanwhile. was feeling pretty rocked from the day's hike and wanted nothing at all to do with a pack of intoxicated teenie boppers. As we debated whether to shove on, however, the teensters made a move of their own and started packing up and heading out. They made a generally raucus and inappropriately loud and profane retreat towards the trail, but I didn't mind. As the last three walked by shouting, "You fuckers better get back here and help carry some of this beer!" I made my move. "Dude, my girl and I here can help lighten your load a little. Want to kick us down some brews?" I asked, affecting what I deduced to be the correct set of colloquialisms. And sure enough, the cooler man thought that this would be a sweet way of making his slacker buddies pay for leaving him to heft their leftovers -- give their shit away.

Once they were gone, we nabbed their spot overlooking the water. Unfortunately, we inheritted their smoking mound of broken glass and garbage as well. Ah, the kids from Gresham, what a conscientious bunch.

***

I've been up reading and writing and sipping on my cold cans of Icehouse. It's late and this novel is mighty disturbing. Lights out, he says.

July 23: Timberline Lodge

2005-07-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

Beautiful day . . . just stopping in at the Timberline for a cup of coffee.

***

And we're walking down the line . . .

July 22: Lightning on the mountain

2005-07-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

We awoke, after what sounded throughout the night like a thunderstorm just about to crack over our tent -- heavy winds, intermittent rains, distant thunder and lightning, everything booming - -miraculously, to a dry, cozy morning. I felt exhausted, like I could have slept another 12 hours. The first day back always does it. I got up and around at about 6:30. Outside the tent, the skies were still dark, ominous, heavy. It would surely rain at some point today. I was just glad our tent and packs hadn't yet been soaked.

It couldn't have been two minutes after having this thought that the calm snapped. It started pouring, quickly, and horribly heavy; this was not going to stop. We hustled frantically to get things packed away. Everything became muddy in a flash. And out we set, umbrellas pulled down low, the thunder booming all around.

Soon, but only for a few brief moments, we became afraid for our safety. Shortly after leaving camp, we crossed the exposed flanks of Indian Mountain, where we were startled by searing, crackling blsts of lightning, not too far off. The mist was thick and inpenetrable and it was difficult to make out the slopes around us. We both fearfully lowered our umbrellas momentarily, letting the rain come down onto our heads and shoulders. Our little lightning rods, however, didn't stay down for long. Soon we were back under tree cover so we hastily ducked back under our miniature, portable shelters. As long as we're not the highest thing around, we're safe, right? We hoped so . . .

The rain pummeled us for a solid couple of hours before letting up. We passed a number of weekend backpackers throughout the day who assured us that clear skies were on their way. We also passed one fellow through-hiker, Roni, an Israeli whom we had met at White Pass a couple of weeks ago. He was strung up between two trees directly across the trail in his hammock/tarp shelter. We ducked by and accidentally woke him. Startled, he called out from behind his nylon wall that he thought we were crazy to be out walking in such weather. He has a reputation, himself, for being a night hiker and I wonder if he would have been up and around yet regardless of the thunderstorm.

We took a gorgeous detour to see Ramona Falls. I am delighted to be here in Oregon's green.

Also, we crossed the Sandy on a narrow log; seemed pretty dangerous after crossing and looking back. The water was rushing very quickly and violently, too muddy to see how deep, though.

The day finally cleared up this evening as we ascended up onto Mt. Hood's western flank from down in the Sandy River gorge. I hiked much of the afternoon with our wet, filthy tent draped over my pack, in an attempt to air it out before having to crawl back inside tonight. Now, we're cooking beside it and the fading sun has dried everything fully. Hood's peak looms behind us, its base awash with the sun's golden gloam and vast stretching meadows of wild flowers. It is a beautiful spot we've got here to ourselves tonight. Much of the joy I take in doing this hike day in and day out derives from these restful, hard earned moments such as this -- the grandeur of the world around us, being here with Eliza, past and future disolved . . .

July 21: Three months in

2005-07-23T10:21:00.000-07:00

Back to the trail, feeling pretty good about things, rested, happy to have been back in Portland for such a long visit. We hiked up Eagle Creek Trail -- an alternate ascent up out of the gorge, one which we've hiked a bit of on a number of occasions, notably with both of our mothers at different points -- and joined the PCT some 16 miles south of Cascade Locks. Tom, who drove us out to the trailhead, walked up a couple of miles with us before saying goodbye and heading back down. Before long, we stopped for lunch and watched groups of day-hikers and swimmers pass by.

Berries were in great abundance as we walked today. Huckleberries starting to ripen now and tart, red Thimbleberries, also some bright orange unripe raspberries of some kind. We have been looking forward to Oregon's edibles, but are surprised to find so many already today. We've been snacking on Oxalis leaves as well.

As soon as we set camp, rain started sprinkling down on us. The flies have been annoying as hell and now this rain. Sunny and hot all week in the city and now the clouds close in on us. Just like Hellkat said. That's the way the world goes round. Sleep will be heavy tonight. The air is warm, humid. I'm toast.

***

Three months to the day have passed since we set out from Mexico on this trail. What has changed? How are we doing?

July 21: Leaving again

2005-07-21T07:48:00.000-07:00

We are leaving today. Yesterday morning, we finished up all our errands -- boxing up food, packaging resupply containers, sorting through our bounce box, showered, shaved, ready to go. Then, we sat down and realized that we could finally just relax. So we did, and stayed another day. We spent a lazy afternoon laying around in Irving Park, eating ice cream, then later we cooked veggies for dinner for Tom and Joe back at the house. Now, it's Thursday. The brief break has turned into four solid days. When Tom comes down we'll pile into his little brown pick-up and, by way of some delectable coffee shop, make our way east and return our bodies and minds to the trail at Eagle Creek.

July 18-20: Hot Rose City

2005-07-19T23:30:00.000-07:00

Being back in Portland these past couple of days has been a treat. We've visited to our hearts' content all the old streets, a bar or two, friends and old co-workers. The sun has been blazing and the streets have been simmering in the city. The old neighborhood around Mississippi continues to boom, gentrification's funky flag plastered on all the telephone poles between signs for Saving the World and Sexy Cabaret shows downtown at the Sinferno, blowing in the wind, hanging indolently on recycled cobb walls of the newly remodeled building convergence community center, coffee-stained, homespun emblems of bicycle wheels and shiny dollar signs wrought into a steel worker's artisan montage along the sidewalk.

Tomorrow, we'll load our belongings back up onto our backs and head up the Eagle Creek trail up towards Timberline Lodge and the PCT on Mt. Hood.

One more cup of coffee for the road. It's getting late and I am the only one up here at the house. My legs are sore from biking around town this afternoon. I spun down through the busy afternoon traffic to see Dan and Lacy, now running the show over at the Habitat ReStore. They were filthy and happy and we shared a smile and were positive and mutually respectful each others' situations, plans, space, etc. It's just comfort coming through -- or a sense of ease that comes when people are genuinely happy to see one another. I then spun wheels over the Burnside Bridge and made a quick stop at REI before tearing back down towards the Willamette River and making my way over the Broadway Bridge, turning north up the old familiar route on Williams in North Portland. In a flash we'll be gone and this place will feel so distant and golden again. It took minutes to find the old headspace here, the old feeling and the insularity, the ease and the quiet dissatisfaction. What a trip.

If the job I am hoping to land in Seattle doesn't pan out, I would bet on very strong odds that Eliza and myself might just find our ways back to Portland by early next year. It's a tough prospect to turn down.

I chopped my own hair tonight, struggling and butchering in front of a bathroom mirror. Eliza delivered on clean up, thankfully, fixing my hipster biker dyke do, and pulling off a sharp, clean presidential look, all said and done.

Franz joined Jaimi and Erika and Eliza and me at Amnesia Brewing Co. for beers yesterday at happy hour. I couldn't remember for the life of me what the place was called before getting over there again. He is doing well. Writing. Working for the city doing environmental type jobs, setting things up for volunteers, I presume, fixing things, driving a truck. I wonder what he really does . . . We had a nice evening, culminating with a quiet tapering off at the White Eagle. Little Sue and Lynne Conover sang sweet songs, old ones and some new. It was nice. The bar is so old with its brick walls and old style gas lamp fixtures burning up above the southern side row of tables and stage. Dawn was waiting for us when we arrived. Eliza and I were late already and walked in just ahead of Tom who has been working like a madman. He seems very driven these days, unconventionally trying to build himself a life nitch out of hobbies and an interest in aesthethics and beauty and nature and manual, hard labor. He is out now, after 1 am, painting a ceiling mural for an employer who couldn't wait.

The mural is to be of a cloudy, blue sky. It is a nice image, really. Tom, up on a step ladder, setting his own sign among the ethereal blues.

Climbing.

>> Mts.Hood and Jefferson <<

2005-07-19T20:07:00.000-07:00

>> pic pic pic <<

2005-07-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

She's singing in the rain . . .He's shunning all the rain.We'll miss Washington's beautiful lakelands.
Crossing the Bridge of the Gods into Oregon. Home again.

>> pics <<

2005-07-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

Expertly built, truly waterproof shelter, constructed in rain strorm.

Rainier National Park.
Mt. Adams, red and rosy. South of Goat Rocks Wilderness.
Revelling in the trailside magic. Look at all of those wrappers.
Chug.
Eliza tells Mt Adams what's up.

>> Mountains are us <<

2005-07-19T19:55:00.000-07:00

Mt Adams . . . the PCT
Colorful Koalakins
Greeeen
Greeeeeener
Posin' again at the knife's edge Goat Rocks

>> Looking at Rainier <<

2005-07-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

Wolf howling at big mountain, silently in his head.

>> More from WA <<

2005-07-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

Indian creek. Eliza with work face.
They're attacking! They're attacking!!!
Foot loose and fancy free.

The Dinsmores and us.
You sanitized this after you last used it, right?