Bear Creek to Vermillion Valley Resort (VVR)
We’re up early, it’s a town day! The weather is cloudy overcast wet as we pack away all our little items into our backpacks and eat breakfast before heading out. We’re both feeling edgy and ready for a break today. It’s one of those days where all the little things turn into agitating annoying things for no real reason. PMS? Other lady hormones that I don’t understand? Being on the trail has totally wrecked my normal cycle, and I know I’ve been losing weight a little faster than is really sustainable so perhaps that has something to do with it. Or maybe looking for a cause behind every little mood swing is a first class ticket to crazy town and I just need to start moving.
Hiking cures all things, and we don’t have much of a choice anyway. Soon the endorphins have kicked in and we’re cruising down along Bear Creek. The low thunder-heavy clouds act like a quilt, covering and muffling everything around us and soon we’re on the side trail that will take us to VVR, to food, and rest, and snacks, and showers and food.
It’s immediately apparent once you’re off the JMT, the trail is steeper with rocks the size of every conceivable citrus fruit scattered across the trail. Ankle breakers. All in all it’s not a bad hike and soon we can see the damn below us! Halleluja! Concrete and humans. We rush down the steep descent on sore knees and then we’re facing a two mile road walk and it’s unpleasant but when you’re this close to the think you’ve been thinking about for days it hardly matters. And what is thru hiking anyway besides a lot of small sufferings strung together with moments of pure bliss?
Then there is VVR – Vermillion Valley Resort! Although that’s a very liberal use of the word “resort.” A more accurate description would be a campground with a general store, a collection of rooms/cabins and a shower/toilet block. All of which clearly live in a world where Yelp reviews are irrelevant.
When we arrive there are people sitting around the cafe eating and chatting, they stare baldly at us and I’m not sure what to do. We head inside and there are a million little choices to be made, things to understand, rules to follow. They wash over me and then I hear the magic words “free beer.” We each get a beverage, me cider, Keith some beer that’s fancy and I don’t know the name of. The flavors are so intense I almost laugh aloud. Then we’re eating ok burgers and disappointing milkshakes and Keith convinces me to splurge for a hotel room for the night – a 70’s style interior design pseudo disaster, but there is a kitchen and a shower all for us! A whole room, door, two beds, space that’s not covered in dust and we close that door and silence falls and we take off all our dirty hiker clothes immediately.
Packs explode. Showers. I was my hair twice back to back, and scrub off the days of caked sunscreen and dirt and then collapse into a bed and zone out hard. Holy fucking indoors! What even is indoors? Something between comfort and captivity.
Finally we extract ourselves and go about meeting the cast of characters that have set up camp around VVR, either in transient or more permanent ways.
The sun sets and the hikers begin to mill about. We park ourselves on a bench outside the general store and go about the process of consuming alcohol while a cast of characters ebb and flow around us. We see Fitz, Fitz is here! He’s leaving tonight to go back to his home in Hawaii. Goodbye Fitz, maybe we’ll see you on the trail next year!
We meet a woman hiking the PCT who started June 10th! (What? So late!) She’s only arrived at VVR a day or so ago. Keith and I call her PCT Mom. She doesn’t know if she’ll finish the trail this year. Frankly I don’t see how she can with less than two months until the snow flies in Washington and she’s not even out of California yet. She’s the kind of person who must have lived a remarkably different life from mine. I have so many questions about her real life, but as is the way of the trail we don’t talk about such sundry things.
A dirty hippy Aussie girl who just wants to party. Think we can get some weed eh? She’s staying in the room Fitz left and gave to PCT Mom when he went. Nice gesture.
We meet a man – trail name Pain – whose hiked 3500 miles of the PCT (a 2600 mile trail) and has never made it past Sonora Pass, roughly mile 1000.
Sandy – one of the two women who runs the store. She has the manner of a woman who maybe doesn’t quite know how she got here. Partially jealous, partially resentful mothering type for the hikers that come through all summer.
Next is Charlie Brown – real name or trail name? Unknown. He’s an anesthesiologist from Florida who is out here hiking the JMT solo, spreading his late wife’s ashes on all the high passes. I tell him that’s a beautiful gesture. He tells me about his daughters, both near college age. Life in Florida, and how he became a hiker only after he turned 40. We share a love of snowboarding and generally being hyper active talkative people. He’s one of the first people to ask about Keith and I’s marriage status. I tell him that I’m not sure how I feel about marriage, aside from the tax break. I just don’t know if I want to deal with it. But that could be a whole different blog post. As the sun starts to set Charlie Brown heads inside to eat dinner. While Keith and I try to decide if it’s ok to just have beer and chips for dinner. We decide it’s fine.
Finally, finally it’s dark and I find myself sitting around a fire with a half dozen hiker bros talking in glum lackadaisical tones about the climb over Selden Pass. God it’s uninteresting.
A horse packer from the outfitters down the trail comes over. His name is John and he has the most incredible mustache. Light grey, thick, running down to his jaw line. He looks every part the modern cowboy and posits to the group “A man rides into town on Friday, stays for three days and leaves on a Friday. How did he do it.” Somewhere from deep in my memory, or a drunken bit of logic bubbles the answer: “the horse is named Friday.” John smiles and just like that I’ve earned a place for the night with the packers. I am free from the boredom of comparing hiking boots and pack weight!
The packers are a riotously fascinating group. I can tell they’re both trying to impress me, and be on their best behavior. I have so many questions about their lives, their animals. Who are these people? They entertain all my questions and we play a dice game called Bears Around an Ice Hole.
The Name of the game is in the game.
Or in the days of Ghengis Kahn
Peddals around a rose.
How many polar bears are there?
How many ice holes?
Laughter, being one of the boys, Keith joins me, and the night unspools before us. Beer, vaguely racist jokes, they’re just some of the billions of people on this earth, what to think of that?
Then the generators go out, the lights turn gone. It’s 10pm and the party is over. The packers head out. Good bye!
We make a last attempt to hang out with the hikers but the conversation is so dull in comparison that I want to scream. Instead I excuse myself, Keith follows, and we head to our real bed to sleep.