Thursday, October 20, 2005
October 20, filling in the gaps
And time flies by … The days of hiking have abruptly turned into days of sitting and resting, eating, wandering, wondering, etc. As we found ourselves off the trail, we found that most of the things that had made up our days for so long had, quite simply, changed. In conversation, at all hours, in our minds, the main concern each day was no longer when we might finish or how far to go today, but where we might lay our heads for a few days at a time, which highway we should take, and (gulp) in which direction? And, slowly, so subtly and slowly, the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to more and all of a sudden here we are settling down again back into the hustle bustle of a sedentary life away from the wild of the woods. We came down off the trail, thumbed it back on down the road, headed south, then west, then north, slept on back porches and in guest bedrooms, in hotels and sprawled out secretly on damp, city beaches. Days to weeks and ultimately we made it back to a place called home.
October has really been a blessed month for Eliza and me. The transition from hiking to resting to vacationing to traveling and back to working (on getting work, in my case) again has been nothing but fun. A seamless flow. No Break.
Currently, Eliza and I are working on resettling in the Bay Area (in California). She’s already started a new job at East Bay Habitat for Humanity as their Volunteer Department Manager. She rented a studio in downtown Oakland. I hear it’s just perfect, but I’ve yet to lay eyes on it myself. She worked hard and saw maybe a hundred places before snatching this one up. It is in a nice neighborhood, close to Lake Merritt, within walking distance to work, conveniently close to public transportation and shops, has hardwoods, gas stove, etc…
I am currently back in New York, spending a little time with my brother, sister-in-law, nephews, planning on taking a couple of weeks to see the folks, catch up with my sister and her husband in Ithaca, aunt and uncle upstate. After the hike, I had thought about possibly continuing to travel some on my own. A trip to Portland seemed appropriate, perhaps a jaunt down to LA where I had been making tentative plans with an old college friend to work on some recording. But, then, arriving in El Cerrito last week (we spent the week with Eliza’s former housemate/landlord, Jan Schilling in the east bay), the drive to keep moving had completely evaporated. I was where I wanted to be and the only obvious thing to do was to start in on job hunting and apartment searching, make appointments and stay busy, ride the buses, see the streets, walk to avenues, meet prospective employers and neighbors. Every day for over a week, Eliza and I both set out from El Cerrito on buses, bikes, BART, together and apart, to search and meet and do all that we felt we could do in a day. It was good and busy and we both feel accomplished about things. The trail is in us in all of this. We are motivated to make the most of every day. Taking care of logistics, arranging schedules and time, getting things done—it all comes as second nature now. I think that I learned what it means to be goal oriented out there this summer. I can feel it as a sort of guiding sense now, an underlying focus and confidence that no matter what the hurtle, it is passable, it is temporary, it is nothing but time.
I wish now that I had kept on writing when we stopped hiking three weeks ago, instead of letting that part of my routine change as well. I wish, too, that I could have been taking pictures of all the places we stopped and saw, all the streets we wandered and the strangers we met along the way (my camera was dead and my memory cards full).
We stayed in Lone Pine with Pygmy and Mini-me for two nights. They were the hikers who decided along the way to stop and set up shop there in eastern CA. They have a little, dingy, dark, cozy apartment around the corner from the main drag where they were kind enough to let us lay our packs down and sleep the days and the end of the hard trail away after we left the hotel room at the Best Western that had been given to us on the evening of our finish. I recall that we felt somewhat bored and strangely fatigued during our stay in Lone Pine. Our hosts were most gracious and ended up inviting some other hikers who passed through town while we were there to come back and stay as well. We met Smack and Love Barge and a couple of other guys who were out to meet up with some other through hikers down in Kennedy Meadows. We had known the two girls’ names from the registers we had been signing in on for the past three or four months but had never once met either of them. It came as a pleasant and interesting surprise that they had both heard of us as well. Smack had hiked with Scrubs and Tomato up in Washington and recalled that Scrubs spoke of us frequently and with great affection. He apparently promoted this journal with enthusiasm as well. And both Love Barge and Smack knew right away who Koala was. It had apparently become a well known tale up and down the length of the pct. My dear Eliza was the girl who lost her shorts to the mighty Napeequa. We all shared stories and cooked a dinner together and later that night Pygmy and Mini-me led us through a series of invigorating Wing Chung postures. Pygmy put us all to sleep as the night wore on with tales of his past lives, of the days when he was a skid row tough guy in San Francisco and carried two pistols and wore a foot-tall, stiff Mohawk on his head, and his youth in a family of multi-millionare, made for TV product salespeople, and of his grandfather’s life as a Philipino man who changed his name to Sanchez (?) and moved to Tennessee, pretending to be a Mexican entertainer, to avoid persecution as an Asian during the second World War. It was all very interesting, but I was pooped. The next morning after coffee and pancakes, Eliza and I hoisted our packs once again and hit the road for Kernville, thumbs up, faces grinning.
We stayed in Kernville with Harry and Melanie, a kind couple on the verge of retirement, who we had met while northbounding in June and who invited us to stop back in after we completed our journey. So that’s what we did. They were very busy wrapping things up with their work (they work together from home as a sales duo in the seed supply business in the flower growing market) while we were there so Eliza and I pretty much did our own thing. We wandered around town, and hiked on a dusty southern CA horse trail near a creek and worked out on the equipment in their gym (!). We ate meals together, which Melanie cooked, and spent early evenings chatting about the news and local lore and our plans.
After two days super low key, we headed out to the coast and ended up staying with Harry and Melanie another two days at their summer cottage in Cayucas, just north of Morro Bay and south of Big Sur. We had an awesome time out there, did a bunch of beautiful walks on the coast, skipping down sand dunes, exploring the beautiful tide pools, sifting through the fog. I even got a chance to take a quick dip in the bitter cold Pacific waters.
We bid Harry and Melanie farewell at the Big Sur Jade Festival on Saturday after stopping to gape and gawk at the platoons of Sea Lions camped out on the shoreline by the highway. By the end of the day we found ourselves walking the streets of downtown Monterrey. We had a difficult time finding a place to camp and finally were fortunate enough to meet a couple of young guys who offered us a space on their back patio to pitch our tent. So, after a round of beers at one of the many local British pubs we headed up to their place and pitched our tent and slept wonderfully under the warm, opaque city glow in the sky.
In Monterrey the next day we wandered the streets all morning, walked with the tourists on Cannery row and checked out the other notable Steinbeck sites, watched SCUBA divers slip into the bay by a city park at a beach. At midday we checked ourselves into the movies and stayed for a double feature. Later we were back on the highway hitching north towards Santa Cruz. Our second ride was with a computer tech guy from San Jose who had been down in the Monterrey area sky diving. We had a nice time chatting with him and he agreed to go a little out of his way to get us down into Santa Cruz where we could enjoy the town before darkness hit and find a good place to camp. His name was Ken. He was 30 years old and he had recently been divorced from his wife. He had a 4 year old daughter living in a small town up in the mountains. As we drove around town looking for a place to hop out, he surprised us by offering our of nowhere to treat us to dinner at some seafood Italian place we were in front of. He insisted. We couldn’t refuse. So we sat and ate a nice meal at this upscale Italian place and once again couldn’t believe our good fortune. A lot of good folks out there.
That night we slept on the beach. It was gorgeous and the sea so powerful.
The next day after sitting through what I thought to be an absolutely ridiculous Bollywood flick at the Pacific Rim film festival and grabbing some cheap Mexican grub, we hit the road for the last time. We cut it close and just barely made it San Jose by dark from where we caught a bus to Fremont, where we got on BART and headed up towards El Cerrito. At 10:30 pm we sat chatting with Jan at Denny’s over burgers and pancakes. It was a sweet welcome home.
I am back in New York now. Trying to fill in the gaps. Eliza started her new job yesterday. I’ve got one at an outdoor store waiting for me after the first week of November when I head back out West.
October has really been a blessed month for Eliza and me. The transition from hiking to resting to vacationing to traveling and back to working (on getting work, in my case) again has been nothing but fun. A seamless flow. No Break.
Currently, Eliza and I are working on resettling in the Bay Area (in California). She’s already started a new job at East Bay Habitat for Humanity as their Volunteer Department Manager. She rented a studio in downtown Oakland. I hear it’s just perfect, but I’ve yet to lay eyes on it myself. She worked hard and saw maybe a hundred places before snatching this one up. It is in a nice neighborhood, close to Lake Merritt, within walking distance to work, conveniently close to public transportation and shops, has hardwoods, gas stove, etc…
I am currently back in New York, spending a little time with my brother, sister-in-law, nephews, planning on taking a couple of weeks to see the folks, catch up with my sister and her husband in Ithaca, aunt and uncle upstate. After the hike, I had thought about possibly continuing to travel some on my own. A trip to Portland seemed appropriate, perhaps a jaunt down to LA where I had been making tentative plans with an old college friend to work on some recording. But, then, arriving in El Cerrito last week (we spent the week with Eliza’s former housemate/landlord, Jan Schilling in the east bay), the drive to keep moving had completely evaporated. I was where I wanted to be and the only obvious thing to do was to start in on job hunting and apartment searching, make appointments and stay busy, ride the buses, see the streets, walk to avenues, meet prospective employers and neighbors. Every day for over a week, Eliza and I both set out from El Cerrito on buses, bikes, BART, together and apart, to search and meet and do all that we felt we could do in a day. It was good and busy and we both feel accomplished about things. The trail is in us in all of this. We are motivated to make the most of every day. Taking care of logistics, arranging schedules and time, getting things done—it all comes as second nature now. I think that I learned what it means to be goal oriented out there this summer. I can feel it as a sort of guiding sense now, an underlying focus and confidence that no matter what the hurtle, it is passable, it is temporary, it is nothing but time.
I wish now that I had kept on writing when we stopped hiking three weeks ago, instead of letting that part of my routine change as well. I wish, too, that I could have been taking pictures of all the places we stopped and saw, all the streets we wandered and the strangers we met along the way (my camera was dead and my memory cards full).
We stayed in Lone Pine with Pygmy and Mini-me for two nights. They were the hikers who decided along the way to stop and set up shop there in eastern CA. They have a little, dingy, dark, cozy apartment around the corner from the main drag where they were kind enough to let us lay our packs down and sleep the days and the end of the hard trail away after we left the hotel room at the Best Western that had been given to us on the evening of our finish. I recall that we felt somewhat bored and strangely fatigued during our stay in Lone Pine. Our hosts were most gracious and ended up inviting some other hikers who passed through town while we were there to come back and stay as well. We met Smack and Love Barge and a couple of other guys who were out to meet up with some other through hikers down in Kennedy Meadows. We had known the two girls’ names from the registers we had been signing in on for the past three or four months but had never once met either of them. It came as a pleasant and interesting surprise that they had both heard of us as well. Smack had hiked with Scrubs and Tomato up in Washington and recalled that Scrubs spoke of us frequently and with great affection. He apparently promoted this journal with enthusiasm as well. And both Love Barge and Smack knew right away who Koala was. It had apparently become a well known tale up and down the length of the pct. My dear Eliza was the girl who lost her shorts to the mighty Napeequa. We all shared stories and cooked a dinner together and later that night Pygmy and Mini-me led us through a series of invigorating Wing Chung postures. Pygmy put us all to sleep as the night wore on with tales of his past lives, of the days when he was a skid row tough guy in San Francisco and carried two pistols and wore a foot-tall, stiff Mohawk on his head, and his youth in a family of multi-millionare, made for TV product salespeople, and of his grandfather’s life as a Philipino man who changed his name to Sanchez (?) and moved to Tennessee, pretending to be a Mexican entertainer, to avoid persecution as an Asian during the second World War. It was all very interesting, but I was pooped. The next morning after coffee and pancakes, Eliza and I hoisted our packs once again and hit the road for Kernville, thumbs up, faces grinning.
We stayed in Kernville with Harry and Melanie, a kind couple on the verge of retirement, who we had met while northbounding in June and who invited us to stop back in after we completed our journey. So that’s what we did. They were very busy wrapping things up with their work (they work together from home as a sales duo in the seed supply business in the flower growing market) while we were there so Eliza and I pretty much did our own thing. We wandered around town, and hiked on a dusty southern CA horse trail near a creek and worked out on the equipment in their gym (!). We ate meals together, which Melanie cooked, and spent early evenings chatting about the news and local lore and our plans.
After two days super low key, we headed out to the coast and ended up staying with Harry and Melanie another two days at their summer cottage in Cayucas, just north of Morro Bay and south of Big Sur. We had an awesome time out there, did a bunch of beautiful walks on the coast, skipping down sand dunes, exploring the beautiful tide pools, sifting through the fog. I even got a chance to take a quick dip in the bitter cold Pacific waters.
We bid Harry and Melanie farewell at the Big Sur Jade Festival on Saturday after stopping to gape and gawk at the platoons of Sea Lions camped out on the shoreline by the highway. By the end of the day we found ourselves walking the streets of downtown Monterrey. We had a difficult time finding a place to camp and finally were fortunate enough to meet a couple of young guys who offered us a space on their back patio to pitch our tent. So, after a round of beers at one of the many local British pubs we headed up to their place and pitched our tent and slept wonderfully under the warm, opaque city glow in the sky.
In Monterrey the next day we wandered the streets all morning, walked with the tourists on Cannery row and checked out the other notable Steinbeck sites, watched SCUBA divers slip into the bay by a city park at a beach. At midday we checked ourselves into the movies and stayed for a double feature. Later we were back on the highway hitching north towards Santa Cruz. Our second ride was with a computer tech guy from San Jose who had been down in the Monterrey area sky diving. We had a nice time chatting with him and he agreed to go a little out of his way to get us down into Santa Cruz where we could enjoy the town before darkness hit and find a good place to camp. His name was Ken. He was 30 years old and he had recently been divorced from his wife. He had a 4 year old daughter living in a small town up in the mountains. As we drove around town looking for a place to hop out, he surprised us by offering our of nowhere to treat us to dinner at some seafood Italian place we were in front of. He insisted. We couldn’t refuse. So we sat and ate a nice meal at this upscale Italian place and once again couldn’t believe our good fortune. A lot of good folks out there.
That night we slept on the beach. It was gorgeous and the sea so powerful.
The next day after sitting through what I thought to be an absolutely ridiculous Bollywood flick at the Pacific Rim film festival and grabbing some cheap Mexican grub, we hit the road for the last time. We cut it close and just barely made it San Jose by dark from where we caught a bus to Fremont, where we got on BART and headed up towards El Cerrito. At 10:30 pm we sat chatting with Jan at Denny’s over burgers and pancakes. It was a sweet welcome home.
I am back in New York now. Trying to fill in the gaps. Eliza started her new job yesterday. I’ve got one at an outdoor store waiting for me after the first week of November when I head back out West.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
October 1: Lone Pine, again. We're finished
It is 5:28am and neither Eliza or myself has gotten any sleep all night. Last night was the same -- tossing and turning, getting too hot or too cold, clammy, achy, etc. I can only think that we are both full of anxiety, our systems riddled with nerves as we close in on the end of this journey.
I am getting up now in these darkest, coldest last hours of night to get a jump on the day and rekindle our fire.
***
We had a roaring fire and a tin pot of chai tea along with our sparse breakfast before setting out one last time on this trail.
We passed a trekking party of about ten German guys within a half-hour and as we passed them, exchanged "g'morning"s and "where you headed"s, the usual set of pleasantries. They had just hiked Whitney, maybe yesterday, and, upon hearing that we didn't, one of the more boisterous of the bunch called out that we didn't have the balls to do it. I said we've been hiking for five months and ran out of food and he laughed back, "Oh, I've heard better excuses!"
What an ironic interaction to have on the day when we wrap up this gargantuan trip we've been on -- to have someone tell us we didn't have the balls to hike up a peak. All part of what is sure to be a bittersweet re-immersion into civilized society.
We're sitting up on some rocks aside the sandy trail, halfway through our day's hike, nibbling on the last of our rice cakes and prunes. I am deep in fantasy now about hot showers and huge, steaming pizzas, half gallons of ice cream, lying in bed watching TV . . .
But not for another 8 miles.
***
5:00 pm. We have returned to Lone Pine. The PCT is done. We are showered and clean and sprawled out on the double bed in front of the television at the Best Western. There are so many channels to choose from, yet, somehow, nothing seems to be on.
The final eight miles of trail flew by. After a while on dusty, rocky, steep and horse trampled tread, we found ourselves again on a comfortably graded smooth pathway for the final five miles following Cottonwood Pass. At the junction with the Cottonwood trail I tried to convince Eliza to cut down to Horseshoe Meadows early, but she wouldn't hear of it.
A half mile before we finished, on the north face of Trail Peak, we came upon a guy shaking out his shoes on the side of the trail. He said he had started a southbound through-hike in Canada earlier in the summer but had had to take a couple of months off, and was just down in CA doing a section hike. We mentioned that we were only a half mile from finishing and he very kindly and generously applauded our accomplishment, shaking his head, so proud of two people he didn't even know.
Within an hour we stood at the spot at Trail Pass where we had departed before flipping, which we had last seen over three and a half months ago, at a point less than 800 miles into our long journey.
We awkwardly kissed and tried to make a moment of it. It is a strange thing, standing there at the unceremonious end point at Trail Pass just SE of Lone Pine. It looked just as it had months ago; just a little less snow.
***
A funny thing happened later on. We were sitting at the trailhead for the Cottonwood and Trail Pass trails, cooking up a pot of mashed potatoes and tuna when down off the trail came a stream of German hikers -- similar to those we had seen earlier in the day. I immediately whisper to Eliza, "Go on, get us ride." So she approaches them and I hear congratulations all around. I look over and they are each hugging her in turns. "She finished the trail!" they applauded over and over again as more and more of these guys plodded off the trail.
Long story short, they give us a ride down from the mountains to Lone Pine. On the way, we come to an amazing realization -- this guy Heiko is the father of a girl we went to college with. She sang in the chorus and is best friends with Eliza's close high school friend Gillian. He loved to meet a couple of Cornellians and even called his daughter in Connecticut to tell her of the coincidence.
The Germans had just done a five-day trip up to Mt. Whitney and back and were incredibly boisterous and jubilant. Two vans-full met back in Lone Pine at the Best Western where they were meeting the trip coordinator to drink celebratory Heinekens and smoke cigarettes before heading out right away for Ridgecrest, whence they would each head back to wherever home happened to be.
And then, just as we were saying our goodbyes, the coordinator fellow says, "Hey, if you'd like, you can have our room for the night. It's paid until tomorrow."
So they all pile into their vans and wave goodbye and here we are, trail magic to the end . . .
Sept 30: Forrester, past Whitney
We slept fitfully last night, nervous I think about our plans to climb Forrester Pass at first light and then push ourselves all day to try and make 24 miles to a point where we will (for one last time) drop down below 10,000 ft and be able (one last time) to enjoy a campfire at the end of the day.
It was icy cold as we speedily packed up camp. Our route ascended steadily up and out of the last of the gnarly lodgepole and foxtail pines. Soon we were back in the now familiar glaciated, gouged moonscape of the Sierran high passes. Ahead, above and behind numerous lofty, looming plateaus, stood a sheer wall of gigantic peaks. Somewhere up there was our pass. The light of the new day gave a brilliant orange glow to the highest, easternmost facing peaks suddenly and slowly, irregulary, descended down to fill our great sprawling canyon with gold.
The pass took us three hours to overtake. Snow covered the trail completely for the second half of the climb and we lost the track a number of time. Fortunately one or two others had been over since the snow had fallen earlier in the week so we were able to follow their prints and avoid having to post-hole our own steps as we neared the pass and the snow became much deeper.
To sit at a pass, or at any point, I suppose, so high above the rest of the tiny, speckled world is an envigorating and peace-instilling feeling. We worked damn hard all morning and as we sat at the top at 13,200 ft, I felt just plain good. I felt accomplishment. Not just for the morning's effort, but for the whole summer, all 2600 miles of this trail which we've walked on since April. Looking over at Eliza, I am daily amazed with her strength and fortitude. She has impressed me out here.
Sept 29: Glen Pass
We are camped up high tonight, tucked away early in our bags, preparing for a good night of sleep before a long day tomorrow. Center Peak is reflecting the last orange rays of the sunken sun, its crown looming above the lodgepole and foxtail pines surrounding our secluded, cold campsite. We are above 10,000 ft and thus, have no campfire this evening. We've been getting used to having them as a matter of course out here -- a whole new backpacking style for us -- but at this altitude in Kings Canyon they are prohibited due to the fact that fires use up the wood at a much higher rate than it can be regenerated. We cooked early and did all our camp chores in daylight, so that now we could be cozy inside the tent as the sun disappeared.
The hiking was great today -- exhausting yet envigorating all at once. We broke camp leisurely at Woods Creek, taking time to boil up some hot apple cider and coffee and warm ourselves over the rekindled flames of the fire we had had last night. Our main goal for the day was to get over Glen Pass and push on to get into good position for tackling Forester early tomorrow. Forester is the highest point on the entire PCT at 13,180 and we'd like to break the climb up as well as we can between two days.
Glen Pass was a hard, but beautiful climb. After crossing the isthmus between the Rae Lakes we started climbng in earnest, soon following a nice set of big-booted footsteps through the well packed, melting snow. Looking up from the glaciated bowl at the foot of the final ascent the pass looked utterly inconquerable. There was no way we were climbing up that sheer, snowy face. One foot in front of the other, though, and soon we were topping out at the craggy pass, just behind our friendly big-booted footprint maker. We sat, the three of us under the sunny, clear sky admiring silently the vast open views on either side. To the south, the mountains were snow covered up high, but immediately before us the trail was much smoother than the stretch we had just ascended and completely dried of ice and snow. Soon enough we were bouncing down the trail, happy to have one more pass behind us, breathing easy in the fast thickening air.
Sept 28: Pinchot Pass, slow down
It was a frigid morning. Hiking up and out of the river canyon where we had camped was foot-numbing and icy, the trail snowbound without a break. We followed a lone set of footprints which had glazed over with ice overnight to help stay on the trail. Coming into the sunlight out on the highland basin above, we still weren't able to shake the chill. Even as our bodies heated up and we sweated like a couple of furnaces, the feet stayed frozen.
Pinchot Pass was visible before long but we trudged on towards that gap for well over three hours before finally making the summit. It was a difficult morning. This is how it will be then. The snow was drifted and cruster over. The switchbacks were steep and uneven -- very rocky and frustrating to get over.
Eliza sobbed over frozen toesies at the pass and I cupped them with my hands and blew whatever warm breath I could muster out onto her feet. We saddled up quickly and descended down the other side. More tundra awaited.
Sept 27: Winter hiking, Mather Pass
Sitting here in front of the fire, under the big rock, the crashing water roars away down over the slope of soggy, slushy earth. The new day has arrived and, with it, no more snow. All of the firs and pines have sloughed off whatever clumps of heavy snow they had encumbering their still summer-sure boughs.
We come to, boil up another pot of water for a morning pick me up and set our sights on the trail for the day. All morning, we expect to descend under the fresh baby blue sky until we come to Deer Meadow around noon and begin the long, long, long ascent up 4000 ft to Mather Pass.
***
The morning was fine and we were cheerful. The sunny, warm air is such a relief after yesterday's wintery weather. Within two hours we pass eight other backpackers, all of whom were much less lucky than we had been in dealing with yesterday's storm. With the exception of one couple on the JMT planning on making Whitney and sticking to it, every other group we met seemed to be changing their plans due to the weather. I suppose it makes sense that you are only out here for a few days, you'd like them not to be miserable ones. I might rather go home too if it had ever once even felt remotely like an option.
Us, we just keep on walking.
Eliza had a spring in her step all morning. I was well behind her taking photos of the dazzling white peak and the glorious yellow Aspens and orange, autumn ferm patches.
The climb up to Mather Pass along Palisades Creek began smoothly enough, a regularly slow ascent up along a creek's canyon floor. Soon, it really turned into a climb, however, and I felt muscles starting to ache that haven't been getting much use out here. We huffed and puffed up long series of steep, rocky switchbacks until eventually stopping for a lunch break on trail looking back on the great peaks along the Le Conte canyon from whence we had just ascended. The sun hung beautifully and warmly overhead and the lower skies were filled with passing cottonball cumulus puffs.
And then came the final, big push. This turned out to be no joke. At around 10,500 ft the snow began to reappear at our feet. The trail was a rushing, muddy creeklet. Within a half hour our sneakers were soaked through and we were breaking fresh prints into the already icing and crusty snow in the desolate, rocky Palisades basin at the foot of Mather Pass. The sun was glaring violently so I gave my glasses to Eliza to wear -- she's already been snowblind and I figured it was my turn. And we walked, trudging up the steep snowy switches. By the time we had reached the top of the pass, the snow was caked up to my mid-shins and higher. Both of us were freezing and had to stop and rub our feet dry on a dry parcel of tread. The ascent had been an arduous, never ending affair. The trail was generally easy to follow as it was wide and unmistakeable even under a solid foot of glaring, cold icing. Difficulty - -and danger, perhaps -- arrose only when the trail underfoot and unseen became jagged and irregular. Occasionally I slipped or knocked my foot against a boulder awkwardly, but recovery was simple (hiking poles are the answer). At no point were we in danger of falling or anything as drastic or life threatening as that.
While very difficult and tiring, the trek up and over Mather Pass seemed romantic to me. I felt blessed to be out in this virginal, snowy tundra, sweating and swearing under the gaping, glaring heavens, Eliza right behind me, the rest of the planet below. The trail, it seems is really putting us to a test out here now just as we attempt to make a break for the finish. The Sierras are giving us a run for our money.
But even then, coming to the top of the pass, there wasn't much time to sit and reflect on the grandness of the situation. The opposite canyon was a sea of snow, treeless, and absolutely barren. The looming white mountains to the south were enormous and daunting. And there we were, shivering, watching the sun go down. So we pulled on our wet socks, stod shakily back up and started the snowy descent.
Fortunately, we warmed up quickly and the afternoon hike across the tundra was quite pleasant. It reminded me of the snow hiking I had done in and around Ithaca on the Finger Lakes Trail last winter as training for the PCT.
We came upon two poor guys who had been caught on the pass during the storm and had spent a difficult and harrowing night in the freezing snow. They were so relieved to se us and hear that the pass was in fact passable. They had planned on going south to Whitney but decided, forget it, and were going to try to exit in the next couple of days at Bishop Pass.
We pushed on into dusk and camped on a tiny, round snowless patch along the South Fork Kings River, at the low point of 10,050 ft. before the short ascent tomorrow up to Pinchot Pass.
Sept 26: Muir Pass, snow storm
Eager and surprised, we climbed out of the tent this morning to face the reassuring blue sky. Could it be, we hoped, that the forecast we had been hearing (second hand) had been wrong? It's Monday, and no sign of rain yet. The heavy clouds which formed last night gave us some midnight droplets, but only for about 20 seconds. Maybe that was it . . .
I rekindled the fire we had going the previous night and put on water to boil for tea and coffee. We sat out in the warm glow of the burning wood and wondered why we hadn't been doing this for the past 5 months. Ultimately, I think we both agree that 5 months is long enough to do a lot of things, including having campfires and not having campfires. No regrets.
As we hiked up into Evolution Canyon, the clouds came together again, refortifying and strengthening after dispersing overnight.
The first drops came as we recrossed Evolution Creek, hopping on massive cubes of stone across the wide stream. We stopped and put on rain gear and long pants and forged onward into the wind. The rain didn't last, fortunately and for a while there was a nice break in the weather around us. We passed a number of tents along the desolate shores of the alpine lakes in the canyon and even saw some people in the distance waving to us from a cloudy ridgeline.
The climb to Muir Pass was gentle and easy. From a mile away we could see the stone hut placed there to honor John Muir and were surprised at how simple the ascent had been. As we made the last switches up the slope, icy flurries whisked around us and snow began to accumulate lightly on the ground. It was only a brief squall, however, and as we mounted the pass, we were greeted with a clearing sky.
The stone hut at Muir Pass is a beautiful little structure. The roof climbs to a honeycomb peak and stone benches line the perimeter of the 15' diameter, circular enclosure. An old fireplace is blocked up and a sign indicates that there are to be no fires. A placard reads that the shelter was built to honor the passionate work of John Muir and his love of the 'range of light.' It is to be used as shelter during storms but not as an overnight layover.
We dug the scene on top of the pass briefly before descending down the other side. Shorlty, the weather returned and we were engulfed by a blustery snow storm.
It was amazing all that snow. We giggled like kids, shooting pictures, having a time of it, losing the trail, finding it again, both of us awestruck at the beauty of the descending skies around us.
Soon, though, the party seemed to be coming to a close and that snow was not letting up. We passed a uniformly clad trio of guys headed up to the pass at one point. They laughed and pointed to the sky. "Day 2, and look at this weather," one of them called. We smiled and passed them by, but were both starting to feel a bit weary and worried about the prospects for the rest of the day. We were soaked through by now and the chill was setting in.
We pulled off trail and hid beneath a huge boulder which sheltered a nice sized dry patch and a little fire ring almost completely from the storm. It looked like this place had been used before on a day such as this. We looked around, debated briefly and then decided to hole up for the day right then and there. We both set to looking for dry kindling and I made a few runs out into the weather to retrieve some bigger, downed logs for later use, and before long we were huddled happily over a toasty little flame, completely safe from the continually gusting blizzard outside our enchanted nook under the rock.
We wondered at this point, "What if this doesn't end? What if we are off the trail?!"
The afternoon was beautiful and strange and we enjoyed very much looking out at the wintery world outside our ring of fire. At around 5 pm, the heaviest of the snowfall seemed to be subsiding and there must have been a good 8 inches covering everything.
Now, we wait and see what tomorrow looks like.
Sept 25: Muir Trail Ranch, storm's a-brewin'
It's early and the creek is beckoning us to awaken and face the day. The moon sliver still gleams through the pine boughs overhead, but the backdrop has lightened to a soft, baby blue. It is time, then, to initiate our arm flapping, misty breathed camp-breaking ceremony. Up and out, shoes on and shaky legs tested out, hands cupped together and blown hard into, tent down, bags packed, everything fast and efficient. We should be back on the trail within 25 minutes if we take an extra moment to eat some cold oatmeal before hoisting up.
***
We're sitting out on a bench at the Muir Trail Ranch now, the sun finally warming the morning air around us. Pat, one of the hands here, directed us to the shed where she keeps her hiker buckets and we've been pawing through, sorting things out, figuring our meals for the next week.
This morning, the last guests of the season departed from the ranch and the employees are busy now cleaning out cabins, tending to horses, having a generally relaxed time of it.
***
Back on the trail and the world seems like a different, changed place suddenly. The Aspens and ferns and all the low underbrush has all been splashed with autumn's colorful brush. Yet, at the same time, the air is mild and insects are buzzing around maddeningly again.
We entered Kings Canyon National Park as we crossed the South Fork San Joaquin River on a nice, sturdy bridge. Clouds have started gathering overhead, rushing across the canyon from the south and west.
***
We crossed Evolution Creek and are maing our way up towards Evolution Canyon. Eliza is relieved as the crossing was easy and safe. We have been hearing about how dangerous this creek can be since the first northbounders came through. It's good to be past it now.
***
Evening now and the clouds have solidified into one stormy, ominous mass. No rain yet, but we are preparing for it. The ground tarp is strung up over the tent and we are double bagging our dry goods. We have a nice crackling fire going and it is a wonderful evening, comfortable and thoughtful.
Sept 24: Aspen Groves
It was a frozen morning and ice lined our tent walls. We had camped higher than planned and this morning the meadows were a glistening, frosty white.
Hiking felt natural as we sped along, both of us moving easily over even the most difficult and cobbled terrain.
Near midday, as we descended from our first big climb up and over Bear Ridge -- nice and easy, all under Pine cover with padded, pine needle tread -- we started coming upon great, rustling groves of yellowing, autumn Aspen trees, the lean, sinewy, muscular trunks reflecting silver and white in the sunlight. The deciduous trees are a nice change of scenery after spending so many months under virtually consistent evergreen cover.
We lunched and dried our gear out alongside the South Fork San Joaquin River. I had been feeling drowsy and fatigued towards the end of the morning, almost like I may be coming down with a cold or something.
We climbed Selden Pass in late afternoon, again at 10,900, enjoying a spectacular view back north over Marie Lake as we gained our last bit of elevation.
The peaks are a flat, concrete grey and lakes speckle the canyon floors. One big poof of cumulus hangs far over the talest of the big mountains. Ahead of us, whispy mare's tails are brushed over the sky, left of the now setting sun.
The evening cools down quickly, almost immediately as the sun disapears behind a nearby ridgeline. We make for Senger Creek and set camp.
We have our schedule mapped out for the next week. The high passes are next after a short stop at the Muir Trail Ranch. As it stands, we expect to be finished on the 1st and back in Lone Pine by the 2nd.
Sept 23: Logistics solved
After a relaxing day at Red's Meadow, yesterday evening we set out and hiked a few miles up out of the San Joaquin river canyon and had a fine camp along a creekside with a warm, crackling campfire and sunlight to spare.
We were feeling good and satisfied with the life we've got. We were even cleaned up some after rinsing at Red's in their hot springs bath house.
Eliza and I have a lot to discuss about the future now that it looks like the job in Oakland is a sure thing. When to move there (for me), here to live, what kind of work to pursue, etc...
***
Today, we were up early and the morning wind snuck in and sunk its chilly teeth right into our thin, sleepy hides before we had a chance to get our systems going. Walking was nice and easy, however, and we just plodded the morning away once our fingers came to life. We passed a couple of nice, windy lakes -- Purple Lake and Virginia Lake -- without much ado and talked very little. Down to our right, the distant Fish Creek babbled at the bottom of its great, green canyon.
Unfortunately, Eliza is once again feeling the now familiar sickness in her stomach. Whatever it is, it's here to stay for the remainder of this trek. I hate that she has to be out here struggling with something like this, when the hiking itself should be challenge enough. Not to mention, this is our final push and to be distracted from the excitement and beauty just plain stinks. She is a champ, though, and perseverence is the bottom line. She won't hear of leaving the trail at this point, or even taking days off for recovery. The good weather seems to be hanging on by a thread and neither of us want to chance a freak monster snow storm while we're up in the high passes -- Muir, Mather, Pinchot, Forester -- above 12,000 ft, or anywhere for that matter.
Lately, we are thankful for every day of sunny, clear skies we can get. It has been our main concern all summer long as we made our mad dash for the Sierras that winter would hit early and hard and render our completion impossible. The locals and all the resort and national forest workers are in agreement that things are unseasonably warm and pleasant up here now, but you never know how it might change -- unxpected and on a dime.
The afternoon was spent climbing to Silver Pass, our high goal for the day. It was an easy enough ascent, not too rocky, not too steep. On the way up -- I believe we were in the middle of going through in detail each and every concert we had ever attended -- we were both utterly amazed to see a familiar face coming down the trail towards us. It was Pygmy, another hiker whom we had last seen all the way down in this neck of the woods three long months ago in June, walking down the street in Lone Pine. My mother and Kathie even had the chance to meet him. We had hiked near him throughout Southern CA and it turns out that once he got this far, he never left the Owens Valley. His girlfriend came to California from Hawaii, they rented a little guest house in Lone Pine, and even rented out a storefront to sell their own crafts and photographs. We laughed and stopped and caught up and got to meet his girlfriend, Mini-Me. They are on a hike up to Tuolumne but plan on being back in Lone Pine by the 1st. We were kindly invited to stop in and be their guests when we finish the trail and clean up/crash at their place for a day before heading back on down the road to wherever we go next.
Our run-in with Pygmy and Mini-Me coincidentally solved a big logistical dilemma for Eliza and me as well. This section of trail -- the John Muir Trail -- is unique in that it is the longest section on the PCT across which not a single road does pass. We come near to roads and there are certainly ample access routes onto and of from the trail, but no pavement actually crosses our path. The gist of all this is isolation. Just as there are no roads to be seen, coming across a town just doesn't happen and getting into and out of the mountains by foot is very very difficult. Our dilemma, and most other hikers as well, is how to resupply on the JMT?
What it boils down to at this point is: do we hike out 9 miles over Keersarge Pass and then try to score a really tough hitch down to Independence to resupply for the last 70 miles and an extra day to climb Whitney? Or: do we hike 6 miles off trail to the Vermillion Valley Resort where we've heard the management is sketchy and swindle prone and the atmosphere very lame (a truckstop with resort prices and lots of diesel and generator noise) to resupply for a very long final push of closer to 150 miles?
We've been going back and forth on this for a week now. We'd prefer, of course, to not have to get off trail at all. The stops in Tuolumne and at Red's were so convenient and turned out to have ample enough food selections to resupply at both places comfortably. We had been unsure of this prior to making those stops and were pleasantly surprised and relieved by both stops. Many people will send packages to these resorts but they charge pretty substantial holding fees and we didn't want to be held to anything -- dates, locations, or otherwise -- on this stretch.
Pygmy has informd us that another option does in fact exist -- the Muir Trail Ranch. It's not a store or a public resort. It sounds more like a fancy bed and breakfast. But apparently they have an enormous hiker box out of which we may be able to pull some supplimentary items to help us get down to Whitney without ever leaving trail. Pygmy says that the proprietor likes to keep it word of mouth and certainly doesn't want a non-stop flood of through-hikers inundating the place all summer, but is very friendly and follows hikers on trailjournals.com and will probably even know who we are when we arrive just from our blog.
So, that's what we'll do. No VVR, no Keersarge Pass. Muir Trail Ranch is a solid day's hike farther south than VVR so that cuts the final leg down by 20+ miles as well.
We were tickled to run into Pygmy and Mini-Me. After all this way, this trail still feels like a small, familiar place.
The end of the day took us up and over Silver Pass at 10,900 ft. The passes are incredible. We came down and camped shortly after crosing over and built a huge fire as the cold, high winds set in.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Final Entries
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:
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
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
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
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
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Sept 19: Hard travelin'
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
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
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
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
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
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..."
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.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
"Blog for Relief" Day
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
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
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.
Monday, August 29, 2005
>> . . . and most recently <<
Shade hitchin this afternoon at Donner Pass, comfortably seated in his lazy boy by the side of the road.
Sierra Buttes standing tall over the church in Sierra City.
The indoor climbing wall here at Pooh Corner. Shade pages through a National Geographic before bed.
Kind Jim Duffy goes at his Mexican Masterpiece.
Cute girl in hotpants crosses cold water early one morning.
>> Shots from Old Station and Lassen <<
Sailing the Heitman's lawn
Lassen's bubbling mud sea
Wolf at the Terminal Geyser
Date at the Drakesbad
August 29: Pooh Corner
We caught Shade five minutes after we broke camp this morning. We had apparently not yet arrived at the Creek when we stopped last night. We laughed about it and ended up leap-frogging with him throughout the morning. I-80 hummed its unmistakable Interstate tune from down the trail and before long we snuck under the massive four-laner via the narrow hiker/horse tunnels leading to the craggy peaks on the other side. The wind howled and threw sand in our faces as we came to Donner Pass and settled in to wait for the trail angel taxi at around noon. I had dialed the wrong number first off, so when I called again and got the answering machine, we worried that we had missed them altogether, that they had driven off to Reno for the day to play slots and that we might end up sitting in the half deserted, windy-as-all-hell parking lot of the ski academy all day long. I fell asleep for a moment or two on the hot blacktop, grit and sand stinging my cheek and bikers passed by every ten minutes, nodding over to Eliza who sat off in the roadside sand bundled up in her windshirt against the hailing stones.
Before long, however, Hellkat pulled up in the Pooh Corner mobile and we were saved.
The rest of the day has been typically slothful and relaxing. Bill Persons, aka Pooh, is a retired computer guy, and an AT vet from '96. Doing this is his way of pitching in and giving back in response to the angels of his own through hiking experience.
The house is gorgeous, situated on Donner Lake. There is a climbing wall in the living room, two computers for hikers to immerse themselves in the Internet as much as their hearts' desire, stocked fridges, cold beverages, kayaks, sail boats, the works . . .
We are stuffed and desserted. It is a quiet evening, each of the four hikers here off in his own corner reading or scrolling away in cyberspace.
Tomorrow it's back to the trail, of course. We are looking forward to hiking and to taking our break. Not to mention everything else . . .
August 28: The Shade chase
We ended up staying in Sierra City for most of the morning today. Jim Duffy kindly treated us (once again) to a very nice, leisurely breakfast down at the Buckhorn where we had eaten dinner last night and we were joined by Roy, a friend of his, who just happened to be there when we showed up. The four of us had a nice time. They both had many encouraging words for us and expressed over and over again how great it is that we are out hiking this trail right now, doing what we want to be doing with our young lives, living and doing and being active before it started to hurt too much to do so in life. Jim summed up the sentiment that we've heard from many of the retired folks we've met along the way that "one day you'll be up to here in responsibilities -- kids, family, work, a home -- and you'll look back on this trip and probably wish from time to time that you could trade it all then and there and just find a simple, easy happiness sleeping out on somebody's lawn, or sitting alone out in the woods, or swimming silently under a purple evening sky without having given a prior thought to the moment at hand."
Roy nodded in agreement. He advised us to stay out of debt. Never owe anyone your time or money.
We left town by 10:30 or so and, bellies quite full, started up out of the valley. Up and up and up some more was how it went all day long. We are climbing now into the high country. The Sierras. It will continue to be like this through to the finish. No more dropping down into hot valley floors to pass through towns. No more fruit flies. No more of the scrubby, fragrant black oak that we've been passing through at around 5000 ft.
The Sierra Nevada are around us and before us. Grand, serrated mountains have appeared in the distance today, as we walked the windy, rolling crestline at around 8000 ft. Alpine lakes speckle the nearby valleys and basins. The winds pick up and the descending sun leaves us with a goose-bump raising chill.
Chasing Shade. We hardly stopped moving today. The sun arched high and beamed down brightly, lit the world with a golden white, turned and hid within the wind and soon sunk back over our shoulders, highlighting the orange and yellowing, dry husks of the ubiquitous homogenous plant life up on top of the balded, craggy mountaintops.
Forgetting to plan out the day's water stops, we passed up a mid-day refill at a campground and ended up flying through the afternoon and on up into the mountains light and parched, hoping that the next seasonal creek would carry a trickle, but each time, just turning and shrugging to one another, and without more than a pause pushing on forward down the trail. Finally we hit a babbling tributary to White Rock Creek at sometime after 9:00, already shrouded in the deep darkness of the moonless August night. I drank water directly from the stream, as I have done more than a few times these past few days. Our filter is broken and I am playing roulette, I know. It'll serve me right, I suppose, when I end up spending next week's vacation hunched over, sweating on a toilet rather than gorging myself on huge home cooked meals and going out to eat at the old Ithacan favorites.
We never caught Shade today. He had said that he would be here at White Rock Creek, but may have moved on if he had gotten here with a great deal of light remaining.
We hope to see him in the morning and make good time to Donner Pass and arrive early on at this last Trail Angel's door. And that will be it for the angels and the magician of his trail; the last we can expect to see of their unremitting hospitality and generocity -- Pooh Corner, the final stop that we know of on this great length of trail, the PCT.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
August 27: Sierra City
We came into town, sliding way down into the valley from high atop the steep shoulders of the Sierra Buttes late this morning. We passed day hikers and mountain bikers out for the weekend, enjoying the beautiful mountainscape. Lakes glint brightly at all levels of the many surrounding, heavily glaciated basins.
We are excited to be coming into a rest day, to laze off some of this fatigue that has been weighing us down like a yoke this past week. Our steps have been fleet and light all morning. A shortcut down an old mining road took us steeply down into the small one-horse hamlet of Sierra City and the quaint main street welcomed us with its comely, small-town ease.
Shade caught up with us a few hours after we arrived. His box did arrive on Wednesday in Belden after all and he couldn't stand that we were pulling away out ahead of him. He's a racehorse and can't stomach the thought of being passed out here. It is nice to have him back with us for he next short stretch before we leave the trail next Thursday.
Also, we met Little Bump and Stick Girl, a couple from Florida, this afternoon. They are southbounders who we've been seeing in the registers since Canada. We all sat in the churchyard next to Jim Duffy's RV, where we were informed (originally by the Heitman's in Old Station -- Jim is Dennis' old work buddy from the Oakland Fire Boat Patrol) we could pitch tents. We stopped in to say hello to Jim for Dennis and Georgi earlier when we first arrived and he very pleasantly and graciously welcomed us to town, carfeully pointing out where NOT to camp near all of the hidden sprinklers. This afternoon as we all sat in a circle sharing trail stories (ahh, remember the mighty Napeequa . . . ). Jim came back around after a day hike up near Deer Lake and invited us all to join him to dinner, his treat. So, all six of us sat at the Buckhorn garden cafe and ate mushroom raviolis and had a nice time. I feel great and already good and rested up for a hasty return to the trail tomorrow. Hopefully the microwave burritos we had bought for dinner will thaw out well enough overnight and make for a good lunch tomorrow as we ascend back up into the mountains. This is our last stop below 5000 ft for the rest of this trip. It's high country from here on out. "Bring it on!" says Koala.
August 26: The future
After yet another morning lull, today turned out to be a very pleasant and invigorating day. Eliza and I once again discussed the psychological games we have been playing as of late, the thoughts we have been busy tearing ourselves up with -- the cycles of enthusiasm and the dull mid-mornings of morose boredom, the anxiety of having too much of this endless, knee-jarring walking to do and the exciting fear of having to figure out what in the world we will both end up doing after this hike. Eliza is now looking into a possible job prospect back in Oakland with Habitat for Humanity and I am still thinking of doing another year of leadership and restoration work out in Seattle. I could conceivably find very similar work in the East Bay, but that needs to be researched. Then also, I think I'd like to be back in school within the next year, at least taking classes to prep for a grad program, but the question is where to do it, when, etc. We delve into these topics very often now that the end is becoming a clearer reality for both of us. But then again, as I said yesterday, we've got a lot of hiking to do.
We're out on a jagged little outcropping, in camp, waiting for water to boil. A bee just got in the tent and sounds to be terrorizing Eliza -- she doesn't do insects or other critters in the tent, but who does?
The afternoon brought some wonderful views out north over the Lakes Basin of the Plumas National Forest and to the south of the rocky Sierra Buttes. Tomorrow we will roll into Sierra City where we may even stay the night.
August 25: Good times, bad times
Today was a tough one. We fell into a rut, both of us dragging, feeling weighed down by the prospect of the next week ahead of us -- 150 miles await before leaving the trail for a while. With a break on the horizon, the days seem longer, the notion is fixed that we're nearly finished -- but the problem is, we're not. 150 miles to go is 150 miles to go.
At lunch we came around, I think. We had been long descending down into the middle fork Feather River canyon and stopped to eat lunch on a nice bridge which crosses Bear Creek. There was a good shade there and the creek ran heavily and loud below us. After eating a big lunch -- tuna and bread, almonds, chocolate (thanks G&C!) -- we decided to take some time to simply sprawl out right there in the middle of the pathway. It seems we sometime forget to just relax. Some mid-day shivassana always helps a strained body and a worried mind. Before I knew it, I was half asleep, rolling over to nestle into Eliza's side. We lay together on the bridge for a good twenty-five minutes before rousting ourselves and setting out again and very shortly we both were feeling quite rejuvenated. The rest of our descent and the following long climb back up the other side of the canyon was filled with fresh conversation and our quick, mindless stepping took us back up to the highgrounds.
The scenery has been becoming generally more interesting than it had been since the Hat Creek Rim, although, still we have both been feeling bored with the general surroundings. We're definitely looking forward to the high Sierra as the climax to this whole thing.
August 24: Belden and beyond
It is strange. We are out here hiking so long each day and so rigorously plodding onward, day in and day out, that I can barely imagine doing anything else. I certainly think of other things, but actually doing? It's a stretch. We've become obsessed with making our miles, with putting every obstacle behind us, with finishing this walk, this trail. We couldn't stop now even if we wanted to. Something is pulling us along. There is but one focus.
It was probably the second day coming south from the Canadian border that we sat down together under a rolling wave of mist, no doubt, and tried to set out our goals for this long stretch before Eliza's friends' weddings during the first week of September. We really didn't know where to begin. A whole list of unknowns presented themselves. Will we need days off? Can we healthily and realistically sustain a pace of 25 miles a day? Could we handle even more? Is there any way we can possibly finish this thing?
In tackling such a long-term plan and such long-range questions, I've found that we'll go through a whole cycle of responses and establish a slew of corresponding goals. First, in a fit of optimism and enthusiasm, we agree that, no, we do not need many days off; that, sure, we can handle two months of virtually non-stop hiking. (We must have been strolling along a level escarpment somewhere at the time, gazing out over breathtaking vistas of snow-capped peaks endlessly fading into the hazy, blue distance.) The mind comes to drastically different conclusions, however, when the body is faced with the foot-pounding pains and the all out weariness of trudging across an endless tundra, mile after mile, up and down, over these tiresome and infinite mountains. And so we oscillate. Sometimes sure, sometimes surprised with ourselves, sometimes just too tired to go on. The zero has become an infrequent occurence, but still we fantasize occasionally.
We talk about this stuff every day. It is one of our standby conversations, our watercooler talk. "If we push for three days at 30 mpd, we could do a 23 on Thursday and have the afternoon off to get a hot meal in town. If we only take one zero from here until there, we'll be able to make Sierra City by Friday and hit the PO before it closes." And on . . .
Two hours later, exhausted, laid out on an exposed roadside somewhere, we'll reverse our plans entirely. "Stop in town. Ice cream. Sleep."
Yet, somehow, here we find ourselves -- still pushing, still pressing onward, going faster, putting in longer days (even as these days keep getting shorter and harder to face each morning). In the past two months we've hiked twice the distance we hiked in the first two months on the trail. We have little more than 500 miles before us. We have yet to flag in our commitment to doing this thing, even for a moment.
Today we passed through Belden, CA -- a tiny town on the north fork Feather River. We picked up a food drop there -- once again generously provided for us by Gary and Cheri -- and a memory chip for my camera that had only arrived moments before we did, and then we were off again.
Leaving town, we faced a very formidable climb, perhaps one of the steepest we've seen thusfar on the PCT. The afternoon was mild, though, and we were accompanied by a good breeze.
On and on we walked into the darkness, finally camping on the side of the chalky white, dusty trail.
The sunset was beautiful and broad. We had a great view of the surrounding hills and lakes as we descended along the south slopes of Spanish Peak.
The greatest moments out here are the quiet, unexpected, subtle ones -- the instants when the world seems to be just right; the colors, the sounds, the feel of the earth moving beneath your feet, busy in its orbit, sailing through space. The perfect sunsets, the cool gleaming lakes sucking you in, tree tops angle in to frame the empty blue heavens. The telegraph-tapping, clitter-clatter flapping of joyous-seeming grasshoppers in the sun and the occasional peep of a fleeing, flapping quail.
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