Day 36 – In The Summer we can Build a Snowman

Campsite at mile 493 to Hiker Town (mile 518)

Before the trail, when I would while away hours at my desk job dreaming about traveling long miles by foot, I always pictured the changing landscape like a gradient. A gentle slide between Point A and Point B, the land slipping from the desert into the Sierra into NorCal and on and on until Canada. But like so many things on the trail I’ve been proven delightfully, surprisingly wrong. Instead of my imagined slide from one ecosystem to the next the land through which we’re traveling transforms by leaps and bounds, backwards steps and new discoveries.

Today felt nothing like the desert and more like Washington. The cold grey morning gave way to a cool day, all old trees and moss, clouds racing fast fast through the dense bush, piling in until visibility is less than 100 meters. Then it starts to rain. At first just a light sprinkle, not enough to warrant pulling out our rain gear. But up and over a small pass and suddenly we’re scrambling to pull on jackets and pack covers, tucking phones and electronics into inside pockets. And then we do the only thing we can do; walk. Climbing higher into the wind and rain. Like a fever that has to get worse before it can get better we climb into the storm. The rain turns to sleet accumulating on the dry ground. Sleet bounces off the dry brittle desert plants, making a sound like television white noise. With the visibility reduced to a bubble only 10 meters wide and the sound of television static filling the air one could be forgiven for thinking we’re walking through a badly tuned television station.

With no phone for distraction I’m forced to be present in the cold. Without the aid of the sun I’m surprised by each meandering turn of the trail. Without the warmth of the desert we forgo food and ice cold drink. It’s too cold and wet to sit, it’s too cold and wet to want to stop.

13 miles of rain soaked hiking on a trail that never seems to get anywhere for ducks sake! The PCT is a cat and I am a mouse, beholden to the mood of the trail, forced to play the switchback game until it feels ready to release me. I try and go somewhere else in my mind. I imagine a hot tub in a warm winter cabin, replay the scene in aching detail. A plush robe. An immense swallowing couch. Warm Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. I’m almost but not quite warmed.

And then quick as you please the desert is back. From one side of the road to another the rain is gone. Up and over a small hill and we’re in the sun, warm wind drying my shorts. The desert warms my body, making the whole cold afternoon feel like it never happened. All around us are hills that ripple with golden grass. Above the clouds do amazing things with the light, the kinds of things you see in biblical paintings. Rays of light and clouds so immense you cloud almost imagine something is up there, orchestrating the splendor. Down from the hills, far below the fabulous clouds we walk into a little town that feels like anywhere America, and I guess it is.