Claire Tappan Lodge (mile 1153, plus 1.5mi hitch on hwy 40) to campsite at mile 1138
Total PCT miles hiked: 1100
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.
The snow gives way just a little, proceeding a violent flash of images which come, unbidden, streaking across the inside of my mind. A sliding foot, a tumbling body. Knees and elbows on snow, accelerating towards an unknown abyss. Then, fingers, nails scrabbling into the crusted ice frantic and impotent. Faster. Faster. Uncontrollable now. Before a rending stop, limbs tangled within trekking poles, pack split open it’s contents spilled out across the mountain side like the innards of a dead deer. Rocks jabbing soft flesh.
With enormous effort I rip my focus back to the present. Keith is saying something which is lost to the wind as he climbs easily away from me. It’s my turn then. I take one giant step up and ease myself onto the snowfield. You wanted this, I remind myself, you could have gone up and around the peak but you wanted to try the crossing, you wanted to push yourself. I shrink my world to the next step, then the next, and in this way I make my way slowly across the snow. Ramming my trail runner into the slushy snow to flatten a step, easing myself up a foot at a time, then repeat. I never look down, never look around at the view until the snow levels off and I can scramble onto some solid rock. Blissfully stable rock.
On the descent after the crossing I’m nearly shaking from the adrenaline. Maybe hiking is an action sport after all. I feel incredible! I can do anything! But, oh no, I can already feel the excitement wearing off and with it the tense muscles creeping in—tight biceps and back from gripping my trekking poles too tight, Bambi legs and sore toes from kicking steps. Across the valley another massive exposed snow crossing looms and I know I’m in trouble.
The next crossing isn’t as steep, but it’s sustained. Spanning a half mile along a steep face broken by just enough sparse trees for the occasional hip-deep posthole. There is no boot pack to follow, no trail to guide us; only Keith and I kicking steps and gingerly picking our way across the snow. I try, and fail, not to think about what might happen should I fall and need to self arrest with my trekking pole. The ultra light piece of metal and plastic in my hand suddenly feels comically flimsy. But there, through the trees is dry trail. My over tense body senses the approaching respite and tears bite at the corner of my eyes. Not yet, not yet I grit my teeth and will myself not to cry until I’m off the snow. I barely not really make it and then suddenly I’m gulping down air, immune to the beautiful spring day around me. I just want out. Not fifty plus miles of snow travel to Tahoe.
I am tired way deep down in my body. Tired in a incomprehensible way, I don’t know where it’s coming from, I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know.
We sit for a long time eating lunch. I text my mom over the spotty cell service, I just want someone to tell me it’s ok, and mercifully she does. Thank god for moms. But then the service disappears and we need to get moving. At 2pm we’ve only gone seven miles.
The afternoon passes like mashing buttons on a remote control, fast forward, slow motion, stop, play, rewind. Sometimes we’re shooting along on dry trail, the next moment we round a corner and the trail is gone, replaced by snow in all directions. Stop. Reroute. Find the trail. Move. Repeat. Sliding forward on slippery slopes, each step moving us as much forward as sideways. Towards the top of Squaw Valley ski area the best route across the snow is straight up. I lead, preferring not to have to watch Keith inch up first. If I keep moving I don’t have to think about what happens if I fall. If I’m in front, then I can kick my steps into this blank canvas of snow as deep as I need. The snow is mushy snowcone consistency until it’s not, cooled by the late afternoon shade into something almost too firm to kick my trail runners into, and we are forced to traverse sideways towards a band of rocks.
We crest the ridge scrambling with hands on rocks, feet punching deep into soft snowcone snow. It’s almost six and we’ve gone just twelve miles. Before us the trail winds in and out and between snow banks until they are lost to the trees which are in turn lost to the peaks on the horizon.
We’re going to need a bigger boat, or barring that, a better way forward.