PCT Day 70 – SoBo Flip – Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Belden Town (mile 1287) to Bucks Lake General Store (mile 1268, plus three miles on the Bucks Lake alternate)

Total PCT miles hiked: 970

Due to our early start Keith (Starman) and I arrived at the Sierras when there was still a lot of snow, and decided it wasn’t safe to attempt a crossing given my skill level. We elected to flip up to northern California and hike southbound (SoBo) back to where we left off near Lone Pine – giving the snow a chance to melt out. During this flip the PCT milage will be counting down, but I’ll include a tally of our total milage hiked so that you can keep aprised of our progress in a linear fashion.

My watch alarm rings at 5:30am, meaning that despite our leisurely start we’re still on the trail by 7:30. I know, I know, it’s not impressive but we’re trying our best. Well, I’m trying and Keith seems to need at least 40 minutes of scrolling through his phone before he’s ready to face the day. Plus, this morning we had Keith’s breakfast cupcakes to eat, which were kindly sent to us by my family in our latest resupply box (Thanks Mom, Dad, and Lisa, we really appreciate it!) Keith spends 15 minutes using the extra frosting packets to decorate the cupcakes before we dig in. By the time we’re done with cake for breakfast we’re well and truly sugar buzzed and need to start hiking.

Today is another northern California day. Meaning we climb a brutally steep hill in the morning, switchbacking endlessly through dense forest, then spend the afternoon alternating between wide open ridge walking and additional dense forests. From one such bald I spy snow capped peaks in the distance. The start of the Sierra? Again? Are we almost back in the mountains? Of course we’re still a hundred or more miles out, but in PCT distances we’re almost there. The majority of the day passes in easy silence as we listen to old episodes of This American Life on Keith’s phone. It’s rare to see other hikers this far north so early in the season, so we can listen to podcasts aloud without worrying about annoying other hikers. We see four people all day, all going northbound, all speeding by.

Honestly, I’ve been struggling a little to write daily blog posts during this section. I’ve been listening to more audio books and podcasts during the day, too. It’s something that’s been a source of frustration for me, and I’ve been worrying that my posts have lost some of their luster. Each night the words come a little less easily, each day I have to think a little harder about what was the most remarkable moment. Despite generally writing as though nobody will read my stuff (lest I get too in my head and never publish anything), I’m tandemly concerned that nobody will read my stuff! Writers, ya know?

Only today, during our hours of walking did I realize it’s not so much the writing as it is the terrain. I’ve seen northern California listed as folks least favorite section, and honestly I now understand why. All day we walk through dense, dry pine forest which stretches away from us in all directions into infinity. Or so it feels. It’s the kind of forest that one could lose themselves in, not emotionally, mind you, but literally – the uniformity of the trees is disorienting. When we crest a ridge our view reveals the same marching stands of trees pushing to the horizon. But, as with all things in life – perhaps especially the less than wonderful things – northern California is teaching me about myself. Namely that my heart belongs to the mountains, not the forests or rivers or desert, but the mountains. Edward Abbey said that there are three kinds of people, mountain people, desert people, and river rats. I am most decidedly a mountain person. I’m also pretty sure I’ve used that quote before; 10 points to Ravenclaw if you know what post that was in.

As I walk I tune out the podcast on Keith’s phone and think about the trees, this somewhat less than astonishing part of the planet, how I can’t find that familiar thread of thrill that normally pulls me towards wild places. I think about our time in Peru two years ago when we climbed the 15,500 foot Salcante pass, standing above it the peak by the same name at over 20,000 feet. How I could stare at that peak which defied any human attempt to categorize it; behemoth, gargantuan, enormous, all words too small for a mountain so imposing, with it’s endless snow turned waterfalls cascading down it’s massive backside. These forests are pleasant but not the same.

By 5pm we’ve done our 19 miles for the day and thus have earned the opportunity to head into the small tourist community of Bucks Lake for a drink and dinner. Keith feels that the offerings of PBR and Coors Light from Belden Town do not sufficiently constitute a birthday beer, where as the 18 beers on tap at the Bucks Lake Lodge likely do.

The bar is a wood paneled, u-shaped affair, with large windows offering a commanding view of the lake and a pony tail sporting bar tender in a flannel shirt. The low ceilings counteract the light pouring in from outside, giving the establishment a warm, cozy feel to it. A locals bar next to a tourists restaurant, and one of three total establishments in the area. The bartender seems to know everybody there and they all know him. It’s the sort of intimacy by proximity that you rarely see in a large city like LA. It’s clear that we’re not locals, and after a few initial questions folks quickly lose interest in us and return to their conversations. We sip our drinks while their talk waft past. News about health and work and grandkids is exchanged tit for tat, each person contributes what they can to the collective knowledge of the group. Highschool graduation years are compared, not of their children, but their own. Forty years of knowing each other, probably more. A man and woman enter and before they’ve finished saying their hellos the bartender has two drinks waiting for them – a Budweiser for him, a tall gin and tonic for her. I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of familiarity, to know that on any given Monday night at the lodge you could turn up and see 10 of your friends.

To be an outsider on this bar stool feels like wandering across television channels; stepping from our regularly scheduled programming and onto another stage. Short term voyeurism. As we pay our tab and leave barely anyone pays us heed. We step back onto the sun soaked road, back to our channel.