PCT Day 120 – Stagnant Pond of my Dreams!

Campsite at mile 1785 to campsite at mile 1809

The problem is, we are 14 miles into our day, facing a 22 mile dry stretch into Crater Lake, and we can only carry three liters of water each. Let me explain why this is problematic. At the temps we’re hiking in I would like to drink four liters over 22 miles. Already I bet you’re seeing the problem here. Additionally, we cannot do a 36 mile day, it would simply crush us, so we will need to camp in between here and Crater Lake. Camping is at least another two liters of water. In short, we need six liters of water each and we can carry three.

But! Oh there is always a but, dear reader. And this one comes in the form of a potentially fictional stagnant pond right where we’d like to camp tonight. Less ideally, there is also a spring a mile off trail that definitely existed before a fire ripped through this area in 2017, but nobody has been able to find it this season. So that’s fun.

We spend a leisurely lunch chatting with some Oregon section hikers and drinking water in the shade. By the time we depart the last certain water it’s 4pm and the day is starting to cool. If we’re going to be screwed on water we might as well not sweat any more than necessary. Though it’s still hot. So much so that on the final small climb of the day I’m dripping sweat from the tip of my nose. I use my finger as a squeegee across my forehead, flinging the little beads of water into the dry, ashy dirt. The lush forest has evaporated around us to be replaced by a desolate moon scape. Skeletal trees scratch their black arms towards the grey sky. The sun is a neon red ball barely making its presence known. We could be on Mars.

I try and conserve water. Even carrying three liters I know it won’t be enough, but at least I can try and lessen the dehydration tomorrow. It is so hard though. As soon as I tip my bottle to my mouth I’m guzzling, my body can’t help it. The desire for water has overridden my conscious mind. We are so close to camp now and I think to what is left in my food bag that I could eat for dinner; if we’re low on water there is no way I’m cooking a meal with it. I see the sign for the possibility defunct spring and right below it, written on a rock in charcoal it says ‘pond 500.’ And we are saved!

Pond 500! Shorthand for there is a pond 500 feet in the direction of the scrawled arrow. Oh hallelujah hallelujah pond 500! Thank you mystery note writer, thank you a million times over. We scramble up a small hill and there, tucked within an expansive field of blackened trees is the stagnant pond I’ve been dreaming off. The pond has receded from it’s edges and many of the lilies are laying on the muddy bottom, but there is still a little water. Keith ventures out on a log to fill our bottles. It’s a balancing act, but the footprints left by a previous hiker make it apparent that the muddy bottom is not to be trusted less you have your shoes pulled off.

The water is the color of pee that you might see a doctor about but I don’t care. That’s what filters are for! And in the moment I can drink as much as my body needs. They say they trail provides and perhaps that is true, so long as you’re willing to drink stagnant pond water.