Category: PCT

Little Hyatt Reservoir Outlet (mile 1741) to South Brown Mountain Shelter (mile 1763)

One of the nice things about heading northbound again is that we are seeing other hikers for more than just a minute at a time. After being just the two of us for weeks, falling into consistent patters it has been an interesting David Attenborough-ish experience to see how other folks function on trail.

Gopher is a Londoner who is on the trail earlier than anybody we’ve seen, and is simultaneously the hiker who has the most leisure time. I think the only reason we’ve seen him more than a few times is because he spends a couple hours each afternoon just relaxing. Shoes and socks off, perched stop his sleeping pad reading a book while drinking his protein shake. He is a man who appears to delight in the preparation of things. In the evenings he sits in the front of his tent with his shirt off doing all the little chores of the evening with great care and little hurry. Then he sits inside his tent and eats dinner. He has a relaxed precision that is so uncommon on the trail. Tall with blonde hair and a surprisingly dark beard he’s easy to spot with his sleeveless shirt and lolloping gait.

Beehive is a Midwesterner skinny white guy with blonde dreds who tells me he has “semi nomadic” for the last three years. He carries one of the smallest backpacks on the trail and smokes copious amounts of weed during the day. Over dinner he tells me that he’s started to keep his bong in his fanny pack so that he can light up while he’s walking. He plans the days between towns by how much food he has, not the other way around, and is taking it slow this section because he had extra due to skipping around the fire closure. However “once I get to Crater Lake I’m probably going to have to go fast again because I don’t think there’s enough food in the box I sent there.” Or maybe he’ll get off in Bend, find a job, and move there. He hasn’t decided yet.

I-5 at Callahans (mile 1718) to Little Hyatt Reservoir Outlet (mile 1741)

I love this picture because it looks like we’re sitting in a camping-themed hologram. It’s a good visual metaphor for what thru hiking feels like sometimes. Actually, a better analogy would be that my memories of thru hiking feel like the highlight reel for a thru hiking hologram experience. You know, the sort of thing that sells you a movie, or any automobile that bills itself as an adventure car. There are certain experiences from the trail that have formed clear recollections. These are the memories that have been edited one after another into this exciting trailer for the experience I’m having. While other memories have been ferried away on the current of the river which is constantly pulling towards the dark part of the brain we can’t reach. Without aid it is impossible to recall a trip this long with day to day detail; this is one of the best reasons to keep a record on the trail, and consequently why so many PCT blogs exist.

Today was our first day in Oregon, and I wonder how much of it I’ll remember by the end of the trail. How about by the end of next year. Will today, like so many of the days in our life, fade into a colorful blur of faces and moments that is the visual shorthand our brain represents a trip, or a week, or your childhood.

I don’t know. Of course I don’t, but it was a good day. Perhaps not astonishing, but good.

Keith cooked us a nice breakfast at the hostle, which gave me time to drink a cup of coffee while I emailed my grandmother and read a bit of my book. The food was kinda bland since you can never count on there being spices in a hostel kitchen. But mine had spinach in it and that made me happy. A nice man named David gave us a ride to the trailhead. He owna a coffee roaster in Ashland which is named after his son, Griffin, who is hiking the Oregon section of the PCT this year as his senior project. The first part of the day was characterized by a series of short but steep rollers as we climbed away from the highway. The sharp little climbs had my calves screaming, which should serve as a good reminder for me to stretch after writing this.

Once we got into the trees a little the smoke wasn’t too bad, though the sun shone a neon red, giving the entire day the feeling of early evening. Like walking through a ten hour sunset—this somewhat made up for the fact that everything beyond 50 meters was blurred with the haze of smoke, rendering all efforts in landscape photography useless.

This area is so so dry, a local man told us there might be lightning tonight. Looking around our camp is a full enough explanation of what he means. The grass is brittle and yellow, the breeze a moisture sucking whisper. The trail today was cracked like a dry desert river, only inches deep into a compact mud. They believe lightning started the Hendrix Fire, so why not here? Southern Oregon is a tinder box. Yet, despite the heat, five days of food and the longer water carries, we arrived at camp early. Time just to sit and enjoy the view while eating ramen. It was good, nice. And now I’ve done a little something for future Kara, so she may come back and recall a nice day in southern Oregon if she ever feels the need to.

Double zero in Ashland, no hiking.

Since we’re not hiking today, I thought I’d talk a little bit about what we do when we’re not on trail. If this sparks any questions feel free to leave them in the comments and I’ll answer them in the next town.

In the thru hiking community any day which you don’t hike is called a zero, as in zero milage hiked. I used to think this was just some in-group lingo for rest days, but after being in the trail for almost four months it has become obvious why the team zero is more appropriate. Just because you’re not hiking, doesn’t mean you’re resting. A day in town consists of so many errands, all of which are substantially less efficient because you don’t have a car nor access to effective public transit, that by the time you’re done it will almost be bedtime. I’ll walk you through our day as it was pretty representative of an average zero.

We woke up in the hostle at 6:30am, because by this time on the trail we’re so used to waking up early it just happens even when I don’t want it to. I spend the first four hours of the day proofreading, uploading, and scheduling blog posts, along with writing any posts which I couldn’t finish the day of—usually this is because we hiked late and I was too tired to do anything but take rough notes and pass out. I also use this time to edit all of my photos from this last section and posting some to Instagram. Maintaining a blog on trail takes up a substantial amount of time, which is why I am so grateful for those of you who have sent me money via my tip jar. On average I put in the work equivalent to a part time job. Your tips are so very appreciated, thank you.

While I write Keith does our laundry like the delight that he is. Seriously, does anybody like doing laundry? I posit the the answer is ‘no’ hence my appreciation of his efforts.

After phone errands, which also consist of emailing my family and the PCTA for whom I am a volunteer writer for the P3 Program working to protect, preserve, and promote the trail, Keith and I head out to grab breakfast and start grocery shopping. Because Ashland is a moderate sized town with a hippie bent I am able to get many of the things my gluten free heart desires at the Ashland Food Co-op. I also spend an arm and a leg on it, but I’m going to have gluten free donuts for breakfast this stretch so it’s fine. This is abundance! I am living my best life, as Oprah would say.

After the store we drop off our initial haul back at the hostel (which is just under a mile each way) and head back out to do run some more errands. Yay!

Keith wants new shorts, which we cannot find at any of the three outdoors stores in town. We then pick up bikes and ride to the south end of town to grab something else, then he wants to ride to go to a brewery on the far side of the freeway—this probably doesn’t really count as errands but I would like the record to show how much I biked my butt around when I would much rather have been sitting immobile on it. After the brewery we go to another grocery store for Keith’s food, some odds and ends that I need, and dinner for that evening. By the time we walk from the store back to the hostle it’s after 7pm and I still haven’t had time to call my family.

It is consistently astonishing how long everything takes and how little rest I feel like I get on these supposed rest days. It is because of this that we usually try and have a day and a half off in town. The ideal being to come in mid-day and do all your errands on the first day so you might have some chance of resting the next day. However, this doesn’t always happen even if you finish hiking early. This is because most of the trail towns aren’t actually on trail, but rather require hitching a ride—a process that can take between five minutes and two hours.

On the somewhat rare occasion we take a double zero the second day in town is where we really get to relax. It’s amazing. If I have finished most of the errands I need to run on the first day, I get to sit around and read on the second day. That’s what I’m doing right now, or rather I was until I figured I should knock out some blog posts so I’m not behind when we hike out tomorrow morning.

Double zero in Ashland, no hiking.

This is in response to a reader question from a ways back, which I hadn’t forgotten about I just couldn’t figure out where to write about it but today was all about errands and laundry and all those other less sexy moments that make up thru hiking. So I wanted to take the time to elaborate on what our camp set up looks like.

Campsite selection:

When choosing a site the two big considerations are how close is it to the milage we want to hike today, and is it near water. The first consideration is relatively obvious and usually not that hard to manage as there are a lot of premade sites right along the PCT—by premade I mean we’re not trampling any grass or vegetation to make our camp, but instead using sites that have been developed by other hikers. And the second should also be somewhat obvious. Water is heavy and it’s nice to have access to as much as you want. Once we arrive in camp the first thing we’ll do is look up to make sure there are no dead trees that could fall on our tent and crush us.

The other big, though infrequent, concern is bears. If there are comments on Guthooks (the app we use most on trail for navigating and information) about bears in the area we will either camp elsewhere, or hang our food in a tree using the lightweight line that Keith carries. Doing a proper bear hang is a real pain and takes about 30 minutes to get it right, hence if we can avoid spots where bears are frequently reported we’ll camp elsewhere.

The rest of the aims when selecting a place to camp are to practice Leave No Trace – 200 feet from water and the trail, don’t camp on anything green or growing, and only in designated or preexisting sites.

Chores:

This is the best thing about hiking with your partner is divining labor. Once we arrive in camp Keith heads off to collect and filter water while I set up the tent. If we’ll have to hang our food I’ll also blow up his sleeping pad and lay out his quilt.

After camp is set up it’s time for dinner! Then comes washing up and bed. Honestly nothing all that exciting happens in camp. By the time we get off the trail we’re so tired that at best we’re near other hikers and can socialize, though most often we’re just ready to do a little phone errands (me writing, Keith watching TV) and sleep.

Campsite at mile 1637 to Seiad Valley (mile 1656)

The road walk into Seiad Valley is demoralizing—there is no other word for it. Except maybe frustrating, that’s apt too. For six miles the PCT follows the shoulder of a two lane road as it makes a long u-turn around the Klamath River. If there were a magical bridge where the trail bisects the river, you’d save yourself four miles of road waking. You can actually see into Seiad Valley where you’re going to end up, and were the river less formidable and the locals were to post fewer ‘No Trespassing’ and ‘We Don’t Call 911’ signs with silhouettes of hand guns, you might say screw it and ford the river. But they do, and the longer you look the sketchier the river appears, so you simply wall the four miles grumbling as the heat from the road rises up through your shoes and begins to cook your feet. Four miles walking under a baking sun along the non-existent shoulder. Four miles of double-X State of Jefferson signs and cars roaring past at speeds that make your entire body tense, just in case you need to dive off the road into the bushes. Ahead looms the 7,000 foot climb that will take you out of this desolate, baking valley with it’s secessionist locals, and northward to the Oregon border—the end of California, the first and biggest state on the PCT.

By the time we arrive in Seiad Valley I already hate this place. My feet ache and burn from waking on the minuscule shoulder of the road, my adrenaline is coursing from being passed by cars who can’t or simply don’t want to give us any space as they scream past, and my lungs are itching from the thick smoke in the air—courtesy of the two forest fires burning just to the north. Inside the blessedly cool general store I buy a Gatorade, a soda, a V8, and a peach before flopping down in the shade under a tree at the neighboring RV park. Timber and Coins are here, so are Detour, Honey, all three members of the Backstreet Boys, and a half dozen other hikers we don’t know. The only conversation is how awful that road walk was, and once we’ve complained ourselves into silence: the fires.

According to the general store owner the trail is closed north of us. According to the PCTA website the trail is still open but will probably be closed soon, but if you’re in Saied just hang out and wait. But how long? Nobody knows. We just talk ourselves in loops, hashing out the same limited information via the same slow wifi. What to do, what to do. Nobody wants to be the first to make the call. Nobody wants to have hiked almost to Oregon only to have the rug pulled out from under them. We are so close, we all want to cross that border no matter how arbitrary and irrelevant it is, we want this. Don’t take it away now. Please.

My mom texts me to say that she’s contacted the Klamath forest and that a closure is imminent. It’s just a matter of time now. And even if it wasn’t, the fire is burning a mile north of the trail, which is such a small buffer as to be laughable, or rather, lethal. I relay this information to the group and one hiker hops to his feet, he’s going to make a run for it. Maybe he can make it to Oregon before a official closure goes into effect. However, 35 miles at hiking pace, his odds aren’t great. Or maybe they are since nobody knows what the fire is doing, when or if it might hit the trail. The rest of us stay put until the owner of the RV park comes by to say it’s time to pay up or pack out. But still, nobody wants to make the call so we all head back to the picnic table by the closed cafe and talk in even more loops as more hikers arrive.

35 miles to Oregon. A fire only a mile from the trail with 5% containment. Twenty hikers in Seiad Valley with more on the way. Rumors of closures, instructions to stay put. Smoke so thick the sun is red and we can barely see the ridge right above us. Keith and I are finally the bold, or perhaps just sensible, ones and we tell the others we’re hitching to Ashland. The danger, the smoke, it’s not worth it. Growing up in Colorado I leaned that you don’t mess with fires, that they can move faster than you know and will destroy everything in their path until there is nothing left but a ruined black husk. Pogo and Mirage join us and after an hour spent overheating on the side of the road we’ve got a hitch to Yreka near I-5. The other hikers cheer as all four of us cram into the back seat of the Jeep—I’m the only one who bothers with a seatbelt.

Our saviours are two young women, river guides just heading back from a multi day trip on the Klamath. They blast the Cranberries as we fly towards the highway, we are a laughing jumble of nylon-clad limbs and backpacks, the wind from the open windows swatting at my face. Within an hour we’re tumbling from their car in a gas station in Yreka. In another 30 minutes Keith and I are heading north on I-5 towards Ashland. We’re across the Oregon border in the back of a Nissan with no photo op, no tears or excitement or much of anything.

We arrive in Ashland to the news that the trail between Saied and the border is closed, those still hiking are being evacuated, and everybody else is being told to head north. So we made the right choice, but what of it. On the PCT there are so few meaningful landmarks – the halfway point, Oregon border, Washington border, northern terminus/Canadian border. That’s it’s. Due to our flip the halfway marker was meaningless, and now due to a fire we won’t cross onto Oregon on foot. It’s hard not to feel saddened, to feel like I’m missing out. Embarrassing as it sounds, I’d even thought of the photo I would take at the border—I’ve been thinking about it for days. I just wanted some tangible evidence that all of this walking was getting me somewhere. That I was doing anything at all.

Maybe the trail is simply teaching me to let go of attachments to ideas and plans. That you can still succeed even if it doesn’t look anything like you imagined it would. And no lesson comes without discomfort, there are no adventures where everything goes to plan. Acceptance. Moving on. That is all I can do.

Campsite at mile 1614 to campsite at mile 1637

I am standing armpit deep in shrubbery. The dense overgrowth presses onto the trail from all sides, obscuring the narrow ribbon of dirt from view. The only way I can sense where I need to go is by pushing forward into the most forgiving portion of the green wall, assuming that it is the trail. I am surrounded on all sides by thick green bushes, wildflowers, and big leafy green stocks which look somewhat like corn plants without the ears. If someone were to view the scene from above, I imagine I would appear like a large purple and blue flower in the center of a green carpet. But of course there is no such spectator. Keith is a few miles behind me taking care of business. And Backstreet Boys—what I’ve dubbed the three-pack of shaggy haired young men we’ve leapfrogged all day—are somewhere even further back than that.

In a moment that drags me to a stop and makes my shoulders relax, I realize I am completely alone. That I am likely the only person for a mile. It is like taking a lungful of air after discovering you have been holding your breath for a while. The lifting of the gaze of another human feels like shedding a heavy coat in the familiar front hall of your home. I have missed being alone in nature, more profoundly than I had recognized before. Which is not to say that I do not love hiking with Keith, far from it. I feel so incredibly grateful that he is on this hike with me, having him out here has made this trip easier and more achievable than it would have otherwise been. But simply because one thing is true, doesn’t preclude another, conflicting thing from also being true. I can be happy to be hiking the trail with Keith, and also miss spending time alone. It’s not either/or but rather both/and.

Constant contact with other people is draining on me, like wearing a damp paper bag. It’s not the worst, it’s certainly not going to kill you, and some folks are more damp than others. But no matter how tolerable, how much you might enjoy that paper bag and barely notice that you’re even wearing it, it still feels nice to take it off. It still feels nice to be well and truly alone for a little while as you trod through a soggy bramble of flora. To not have to perform or consider anyone else, but to be just yourself, existing away from the eyes and thoughts and expectations of people. In a childlike way, it feels like disappearing. Following the logic that if nobody can see me, than am I even real?

Sawyer’s Bar Road to Etna (mile 1600) to campsite at mile 1614

We left Etna under the noon day sun, cramped with four other hikers and the two year old daughter of the motel owner, who was driving back us back to the trail in her SUV. Abbey, the babbling two year old seated next to me, was especially interested in the squishy foam sit pad on the outside of my pack and the Velcro on my trekking poles. Her incoherent musings filled the car while the rest of us stayed resolutely silent—apparently none of us skilled conversationalist. Upon arriving at the trail our ride compatriots all, surprisingly, headed south. Leaving us to meander north into a pine forest that vacillated between various states of recent burn. Sometimes the forest was full of living trees and a crowded understory, then we’d round a corner and come into a barren black hillside with the remains of trees like spiders legs. Other times the trees remained healthy while the understory burned out, as these forests are meant to grow and thrive through fire and it is only our human intervening that seeks to control this natural process.

While I walked I thought of the ways humans impact the land in such visible ways as well as in ways that we can’t really see. I thought about how some people are calling for a new epic to begin, the Anthropocene – to mark a time on the earth that will be noticably altered by humans. I thought about how we are so unwilling to do anything about the alarming amount of CO2 we dump into the atmosphere. The amount of CO2 in the air right now is about 40% of what history tells us is the amount needed for there to be no ice fields left on earth. And that number is creeping up year after year. I thought very seriously about the ways in which I could change as an individual to reduce my carbon footprint. Which, as a westerner is so very high.

But I also thought about how this part of Northern California has a unique kind of beauty, how even the stands of burned trees hold a kind of stately charm. It’s becoming obvious that we’re drifting towards the rain forests of the Pacific Northwest. There are funny little salamanders in the lake we’ve camped next to, something you don’t see in drier or higher environments. Keith spends 20 minutes taking pictures of the real life Pokemon while I eat dinner in the fading light. There are no mosquitos here, only chubby bumblebees bumping around the flowers near camp. It’s a peak PCT moment, a night like this.

Later, I’ll lie in the tent next to Keith, both of us watching the bats swooping over the tent. The sky a slowly fading blue as the sun sinks down below the ridges and mountains and finally down into the ocean so far to the west. Life can be extraordinarily kind.

Statue Creek (mile 1591) to Sawyer’s Bar Road to Etna (mile 1600)

It’s only nine miles to the road into the town of Etna, and we are flying down the trail. Even though I was so sore last night that I didn’t sleep very well, I’m pushing myself up our one small climb of the day eager to get into town. Already it’s uncomfortably hot, the sun beating down from the clear merciless sky; the afternoon thunder clouds haven’t begun to build yet, haven’t begun to provide their mixed blessing of shade and humidity. The choice to override my body’s comfort to get into town, food, showers, is one I’m ready and willing to make; thru hiking is endless days of constant low-grade discomfort, what’s a few more hours? Plus, I have birthday goodies waiting for me in town, and while I’m birthday party ambivalent I’m never going to turn down free cake. Especially when my body has begun to feel like an endless well of hunger.

We pop onto the road after three hours of hiking and 30 minutes later the first car of the day swoops by and drives us into town. Via one winding road we are deposited on Main Street Etna—a few buildings and a grocery store support the 700 residents. There are two breweries, three restaurants (none of which are open on Monday), and one coffee shop which has been owned by the same family for two generations. To the west rolling yellow fields capture the midday sun, while to the east round hills of stoic pine trees bask in the mist of afternoon rain which will never reach the valley floor. It’s beautiful in a way that recalls a childhood spent rolling into these kinds of towns in our families pop-up camper, days or weeks into the summer photography trips we accompanied my father on, eating in the diners that every small town has. As we walk through the town I wonder who are the people who love to live here, what their daily lives are like, their dramas and concerns. In rural America I have only ever been a visitor.

Campsite at mile 1566 to Statue Creek (mile 1591)

The afternoon finds us repeatedly climbing along high ridgelines just as the sky curdles over and thunder rumbles overhead. Exposed ridges with thunder, possibly my least favorite combo. If clear skies and sunny mountain tops are peanut butter and jelly, then exposed ridges and thunder is a pickle juice and vanilla ice cream shake. Ever since an especially wet llama-packing trip with my family on the Colorado Trail found us huddling under trees while the skies turned white with lightning, I have been uncommonly nervous during thunderstorms. But I’ve also never been struck by lightning, so maybe I’m doing something right.

As we hike towards evening a frustrating pattern emerges. We scramble up and over a ridge just as the skies turn grey and ominous, I’m pushing the pace faster and faster in my nervousness to get back into the trees, back to where I’ll be relatively safe. As we crest the ridge it starts to sprinkle, or rain, or hail on us. Once we even stop to put on our rain gear, huddling under the eves of a scrawny pine tree working our damp arms into damp rain jackets while slushy hail turns the ground white around us. However, within ten minutes the sun is pushing through the clouds, the temperature and humidity shooting up along with it and we’re shedding layers as we begin to sweat. Then it starts to rain again and I completely give up. It’s not that cold, I’ll just be wet. Fine, it’s fine.

The sun is edging towards the horizon as we make our way up the last climb of the day. Far below and away until forever stretch tree filled valleys and tree covered ridges, row upon row. The rain clouds have finally ceded their efforts to the sun, with it’s humidity and haze, which dumps its warm syrupy yellow light across the world and all the way down into the deep valleys with their little ink black lakes. I always wonder what is down in those valleys, or over the next ridge—what special things are hidden behind those trees. I always have wondered what is just beyond what I can see, even if I know I’ll probably never go there, I want to know. I always want to know. The PCT takes one to a lot of different places, but only in its unique ever-moving way. The trail doesn’t always lend itself to exploration, or rather it is a very specific sort of exploration. Not the meandering sort of curiosity wandering, but rather the way in which you can see new vistas from the passengers seat during a road trip. An ever moving bubble of new sights, but you won’t get to see what’s beyond that ridge. We can look, but not touch. In this way NorCal feels vast and endless, the hazy sky smearing the edges of everything until maybe that distant ridge really is the end of the world.

Campsite at mile 1543 to campsite at mile 1566

The thing about the Pacific Crest Trail is that it only travels north on average; on any given mile or day you may be heading in the complete wrong direction—as we are now. Today Mount Shasta poked occasionally over the eastern horizon, which was great because it meant that I could clearly monitor all the progress we were undoing as the trail wound south. In between crossing under the I-5 and reaching the road that will take us into Etna, the trail hangs a large scraggly S turn. We are no further north today than we were yesterday, despite the 23 trail miles that were hiked. This is exemplary of so much of what happens during the course of waking the height of a country, which is to say seemingly irrelevant bull waffle.

Today much of the scenery was reminiscent of Southern California—hot hazy mountains set in rows of receding ridges that eventually drop into a flat basin town. Then it was chaparral dropping towards Los Angeles , now it is pine forest fencing in Redding, but the endless marching forests feel the same. The shuttered views under the blazing sun, hard rocky ground under foot. The sensation, the memory of those days hiking along the ridges of Los Angeles felt so familiar and close, that when I pull my mind back to the present it feels akin to time travel. It suddenly felt impossible that I could have walked the land between these two points. That I had hitched in to and out of dozens of small towns, eaten unknown general store hamburgers. Certainly no. How is it that of all the people we started with, of all the hopeful hikers who stand at the southern terminus in early spring, I am still walking? The scope of the thing is almost overwhelming in it’s confirmation that we are, that I am doing this hard hard act. The reality settles upon me like warm summer rain, seeping under my skin until it is part of who I am.