Category: PCT

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.

Campsite at mile 1172 to Claire Tappan Lodge (mile 1153, plus 1.5mi hitch on hwy 40)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1085

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.

Only the footprints through the snow reveal the presence of other hikers this morning. Sometimes there is a distinct boot pack leading the way, other times it’s as though everybody is suddenly choosing their own path; footprints meandering off every which way. Other times the trail up and vanishes under the snow and we make our own path forward, following the trail as often as not. We contour up and over steep rollers, through and around tree wells, cross snow bridges where the burbling sound of water echoes up from below. Sometimes postholing up to my thigh, sometimes picking my way gingerly across ice, other times walking like a drunk, feet sliding out from below me. It’s a real fiesta of damp feet and small tumbles.

It’s not until early afternoon, as we crest Castle Pass that we see another hiker. 100 meters down the trail a couple walks a dog, then a single hiker with yet another dog! Except this one I’m close enough to pet, her name is Emma – the dog, not the person. A sweaty family of four trudge past us, a peppy father in the lead spouting encouragement to his disgruntled brood. Within a mile we’re passed by a lithe trail runner. The onset of June and the end of the school year has brought out the weekend and day hikers. Our proximity to interstate 80 and highway 40 make for easy trail access and we see dozens of clean day hikers enjoying the perfect spring weather. One thing I notice about all of these folks is their smell. It’s delightful.

I’m not sure that day hikers, and to a lesser degree weekend backpackers, realize how good they smell to thru hikers. Wafting scents of pine and cinnamon, lingering trails of clean laundry. I cannot help but take a deep breath as these wonderfully clean humans pass. And I hope that for their sakes, they don’t do the same when I pass. Because, and this is another thing I’m not sure day hikers realize, you never get used to the stink of being a thru hiker. Even though we had a shower two nights ago we still smell awful. Or rather, our backpacks do. Our one item that we use every day, rarely if ever wash in town, and unlike shoes, most folks will only use one pack for the whole trail. The resulting odor is something between piss and a beef stew that’s really heavy on the onions. It’s not a great look. You know how bad we smell, we know how bad we smell, and we know how bad other thru hikers smell.

And geez, do some of them smell. South of interstate 80 we start to see other thru hikers. The fast kids who powered through the Sierra early are making their way past Tahoe, we’ve been seeing them in ones and twos since Belden. This afternoon we see ten or more. The first wave of what will eventually become the primary bubble of hikers streaming north while we continue south. A big stinky bubble. May god have mercy on our noses.

Sierra City (mile 1195) to campsite at mile 1172

Total PCT miles hiked: 1066

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 forest leaving Sierra City feels like something straight out of a fairy tale. Dark trees grow out of dark rocky soil. The same green moss that has covered the trees through the majority of NorCal is somehow more sinister here, as though this place hasn’t seen human inhabitants in a long time. As though some foolish children are wandering into a witch’s cabin just beyond our line of sight. Harsh, whipping winds make the trees around us groan and sway, their branches heavy with spring buds. Arms reaching to grab unsuspecting passersby. While high above the same wind pushes the clouds across the sun, the light flashing like some drunk toddler got ahold of a light switch.

Stupid fairy tale murder forest I think to myself as the trail begins to climb up out of the valley and towards the snow covered peaks. Unbidden to any nameable emotion, I begin to silently cry and quickly quell the tears. It’s hard to hike, or do any kind of cardio, if you’re crying, and beyond that I’m not even sure what I’m upset about and I don’t really want to try and explain this grab bag of emotion to Keith, so hiking it is.

I just feel tired. Yesterday I spent the whole day writing and scheduling posts, running errands and doing laundry. By the time I got a chance to talk with my family it was late afternoon and just like that my rest day was over. I don’t feel rested, I feel overwhelmed, I feel like I want my mom and maybe a nap. Almost 30 and a few weeks of hard hiking have devolved me into a toddler playing with my emotional light switch. It was so hard to pry myself from that hotel room this morning when all I really wanted to do is sit on the old leather couch in my parents house watching Harry Potter movies with my family. But I’m pretty sure nobody finished the PCT sitting on a couch, so instead I have to make due with appreciatively eating the nice baked goods they sent me and then hiking out. When you’re feeling great and when you’re feeling terrible, the only answer is to keep hiking.

By early afternoon we’ve left the fairy tale murder forest behind and climbed up to the rolling ridges of the northern Sierras. Mules Ears are springing from the snow-soaked earth and all around us ridges roll into the distance. Instead of the endless pine forests of northern California there are lakes and white capped peaks. We roll over rise after rise, the wind doing its best to blow us off our feet. While above the clouds race by fast fast, the sunlight still a flashing disco ball. The endorphins from the climb have boosted my mood and I can begin to appreciate the dramatic landscape around me. Tomorrow is another day, and hopefully with enough sleep it can be a day without as much random crying.

PC: Keith, who took this picture right as the wind tried to knock me over.

A-Tree Spring (mile 1220) to Sierra City (mile 1195)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1043

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.

Last night a giant cliff loomed over the final climb of the day and beyond it lay a valley of lakes and steep crags. The trees had thinned allowing us to see these natural wonders as highlighted by the long, low rays of the retreating sun. I went to sleep cradled in the dark woods, hoping that after weeks and weeks of walled off views tomorrow will be different.

Today felt like we were finally beginning to break free from the endless trees of northern California. Sharp granite spires punched into the sky, white patches of snow glossy on their sides. Down below gem blue lakes winked sunlight back towards the sky. And finally, finally, we could see again.

Fowler Lake Junction (mile 1243) to A-Tree Spring (mile 1220)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1018

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.

A thousand miles feels like waking up every day with tired feet, tired body, soreness, and fatigue. Because, surprisingly, there is some truth in that fitness poster cliche and hiking never gets easier, you only get stronger. You can hike more miles, cover more elevation gain, and do it all faster, and so you do. And in this way each day is no easier than the last. Additionally, the change in strength as observed from the drivers seat of your own body is nearly imperceptible, there is no sudden arrival of fitness, no switch that’s flipped between desk jockey and mountain goat. The much talked about “hiker legs” more often feel like the carrot at the end of a telescoping stick, just a little forever out of reach. Hiking one thousand miles feels like sweat dripping down your nose, leaning on your trekking poles even though you just want to sit down more than anything right now, more than town food or a cold drink or a shower, my goodness you just want to sit. But you know that if you sit down in the middle of this climb it will just be harder to get up and so you hike on. Hiking one thousand miles is trying to stand and making the sort of deep gutteral grunting nose that would frighten children and the elderly. Moaning like two rinos making love as you extract yourself from the tent and hobble steps around your camp as your tendons relengthen into walking position.

Sometimes hiking one thousand miles feels like hearing someone utter a genuine amazed “wow” and having your attention drawn to a glorious sunset or river or mountain valley. It’s seeing the sort of natural wonder that you know, you just know, that if everybody could see the world in this light they’d all want to save it as much as you do; to swear their fielty to this irreplaceable blue dot instead of whatever is the political religious ideology du jour. Other times it’s picking your way down a slippery mud stream in the rain wishing you were anywhere but here.

Hiking one thousand miles feels like unenthusiasticly eating the only food you have left in your bag and being grateful that it’s there anyway. It is a dozen itchy mosquito bites under your sock and aching feet at the end of the day when you’re still two miles from camp. It’s cold mornings and hot, sticky afternoons. Bad farts and worse smelling shoes, salt crusted clothes, sunburn, pack chafe and raw spots on your hands from where your trekking poles rub.

A thousand miles feels like drinking the coldest, clearest water of your life, silently watching a sunset, the way the warm afternoon light hits the trees in that special way that makes everything look ordained with beauty. It feels like trying to breathe while laughing at bad jokes at altitude, like sharing snacks in the shade, like running away to never never land where you wake up every morning in this indulgent landscape through which you are obligated to do nothing more than walk.

Hiking one thousand miles feels like letting your spine sink into your crinckly sleeping pad your favorite person laying next to you as your tired body falls thankfully into sleep; the forest coming alive just beyond your thin tent walls.

Bucks Lake General Store (mile 1268, plus three miles on the Bucks Lake alternate) to Fowler Lake Junction (mile 1243)

Total PCT miles hiked: 995

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.

 

I’ve been reading the Throne of Glass series by Sarah J Maas, and let me tell you, I’m obsessed. Not busy because this style of YA fiction is just what my tired brain wants to zone out on at the end of the day, but because Maas is doing what she can to make women brave. And I freaking love it!

But first, a preamble.

The trail just south of Bear Creek is a little washed out. It’s also a little covered in dry leaves that slide under your foot and make it feel like you’re almost, but not probably, going to fall. As I cross one of these sections today—eyes focused on the trail, moving with short deliberate steps—I wonder if this qualifies as bravery. It doesn’t really feel brave, more like functionality pragmatic, it feels like doing what needs to be done to address the situation at hand. Most of the difficult moments on the trail have felt that way. Yet, before I left for the trail people loved to tell me how brave I was. It was the single most common reaction I received. And I can understand the perspective, quitting a job, leaving a city life, heading out to hike a trail for five months, it all seems big and daunting. But my primary emotion was excitement, enthusiasm, but not bravery.

I was thinking, if this was a TED talk, now would be the part where I would tell you how to become brave and do cool things, but that’s not where I’m going with this. Because I’m pretty sure I’m not responsible for my alleged bravery, my parents are. Growing up my dad taught me how to cook a chicken and how to work on a car. My mom taught me it was cool to be smart and that the patriarchy was a real thing I’d have to fight against. They told me it was ok to explore and have adventures and they modeled that behavior in their actions as well. They still do. However, when I look back on a lot of the media I loved as a child, the adventurous protagonist was a male, while the female characters were often secondary damsels in distress, or else the love interest without any real desires of her own.

In a TED talk called to raise brave girls, encourage adventure Caroline Paul talks about how parents tend to caution their girls to be careful, far more than they do with their male children. How media and advertising backs up these messages. And how this results in adult women who in general are more wary and cautious in the world. Of course, once you’re aware of this is something that can be overcome. Yet it’s frustrating that it’s happening in the first place.

Which is where we wrap all the way back around the the work Maas is doing. Because one of the joys of reading YA fiction as an adult is being able to understand what the author is trying to do. To be able to see behind the narrative curtain to the moral that lies beneath. Maas’ main character, Celaena, is a total bad ass, and yet is plagued by self doubt. But, because of the type of book this is, in the end she concurs the bad people despite her doubt. The reader then feels like, if Celaena can do all these incredible things despite the doubt, then maybe they can too. Maybe the girl in the book can save herself, can do challenging things, can be brave. And maybe young women will see that they can do remarkable things too.

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.

Zero at Belden Town, no hiking

Total PCT miles hiked: 951

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.

Today is Keith’s 30th birthday! Well, on the day I’m writing this, not on the day you’re reading this which will be something like 10 days after the fact.

I think 30 feels significant in a way that non-decade birthdays do not. When I asked Keith what he thought about turning 30, what he felt it meant, he said that 30 feels like becoming a real adult, that it somehow forces people to take you seriously in the way that being a twenty-something does not. I guess I can see his point, but to quote April Ludgate from Parks and Rec “being a responsible adult sucks butt.” In an effort to undermine Keith’s pending adulthood, here are five things that make us randomly laugh and prove that despite our age we are not, in fact, adults.

1. Farts! Farts are always funny. And since our diet on the trail has lead to a dramatic uptick in these gasious expulsions, it’s best to be able to laugh at them.

2. The number of words and phrases you can add goat to. Whatever floats your goat. A goat of arms. Goatmeal (oatmeal). Goat for it. I worry about us.

3. Mitt Romney (generally) but also because of the quote “hot dog is best,” which he said in response to the question of his favorite meat. Because that’s what I really need to know from politicians. So now any time we’re having a hard time making a choice you can always contribute a “hot dog is best” to resolve the situation.

4. “You know what they say, a taco a day… Goose Lake.” This stems from a series of poorly placed advertisements along the I-5, the full narrative of which is too long to recount here and would likely bore you anyway. Let’s move on.

5. Making up alternate lyrics for popular songs. See: the post from day 60 – it’s like David Blane on your son’s birthday. This sing along was not an isolated incident.

Happy Birthday to my favorite goober! I hope that Belden Town Resort isn’t too bizarre of a place to spend your birthday. Now let’s go get some beers and fries!

Cold Spring (mile 1305) to Highway 70 (mile 1287)

Total PCT miles hiked: 951

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.

I wake before Keith and hobble from the tent on tender feet to take my morning pee. Squatting between trees I relieve myself into the loamy earth. The act feels feral. Uncivilised. Wild. One of those mundane moments that takes on sudden significance for no apparent reason. A moment that allows me to view the picture in it’s entirety, and laugh. Backpacking, for all its affected grandeur is one very weird activity. Undertaken primarily by the white and affluent we clad ourselves in high tech synthetic garments so we can retreat into the natural. We seek to get out and explore through a series of developed trails. We eschew the hygienic modern toilet so that we can dig holes in the earth and poop in them. Does it feel a little contrived to anyone else?

Which isn’t to say I don’t love hiking. There does seem to be a deep, nearly animalistic desire to wander in wild spaces nestled in my core. A pulling ache of sorts that propels me to take advantage of what some anthropologists call humans greatest inheritance—the ability to travel astonishing distances by foot. And perhaps it is because I feel so very comfortable with hiking, feel no threat of being an imposter, that I can so easily laugh at the occasionally absurd nature of this sport. Though, can we really call hiking a sport, it’s more of a past time.

I believe it’s comedian Jim Gaffigan who has a bit about camping in which his wife tells him that her family has a tradition of camping, to which he counters that everybody had a tradition of camping until they invented the house. Touché Jim, touché.

A lovely snow plant, which has nothing to do with my pee.