Category: PCT

6-7 miles over Mono Pass to Mosquito Flats, not on the PCT

Total PCT miles hiked: 1358

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.

We arrive at the Mosquito Flats parking lot as suddenly as though we’ve been deposited by an alien ship. People flock and swam with dogs straining against their leashes while children cry in protest against the application of sunscreen. It’s the day before the fourth of July middle-of-the-week long weekend and tourists are out in full force. It’s a sight both alarming in it’s frenetic energy, and relieving – at least it’s going to be an easy hitch.

We pick a spot at the end of the parking lot and plunk down our packs. Keith sits on the curb and I put on my nice white lady face. The face that says I’m not a threat or a murderer and I’m a safe person to give a ride to. In my opinion the key to hitchhiking is two-fold. One – It is your job as the hitchhiker to look clean, polite, and approachable. Remember that you are asking someone for their time and effort, you are not owed a ride no matter how important of a hiker you think you are. Two – be a woman, ideally a white, thin, semi-attrctive one. It’s much much easier to hitch as a lady – hence why Keith is sitting on the curb behind me. I also know that my white and thin privileges help me immensely when on the trail. I’m less likely to be seen as homeless and as a woman I’m rarely seen as a threat to someone’s safety. At least half of our rides have explicitly told us that they would not have stopped we’re I not a woman or if we weren’t a couple.

Even with the advantage of my nice white lady face it takes us an hour and a half to get a ride. It’s one of our longest waits; normally we can get a ride within half an hour of getting to a road, and it’s not uncommon for the first car that passes us to stop. I largely attribute the longer wait time to the fact that most of these people are on vacation. As a rule, tourists are less likely to pick you up than locals or people driving for work. Prius drivers will almost never pick you up, and it’s not even worth putting your thumb out for old white people in luxury cars—they’re not going to stop for you. Conversely, young people in economy cars, dudes in pick up trucks, and retired folks in Honda’s and mini vans are your best bet.

Today, due to the approaching holiday and our proximity to the vacation community of Mammoth Lakes the majority of the cars that pass us carry affluent tourists. And that means one thing: the rejection shrug! A shrug and a smile that says “I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to give you a ride.” A gesture that comes from someone who never in a million years would give a ride to a hitchhiker, but they accidentally made eye contact and now they feel obligated to show you very clearly that they’re not going to stop. One woman in the passengers seat of a big Mercedes goes so far as to roll her window up as she approaches us, only to roll it back down once they’re past. Classy, lady—I’m not going to jump in your car through your window.

If you are ever in a position to give someone a ride and you just don’t want to, for whatever reason, just don’t do the rejection shrug. It’s ok if you don’t stop, I know that I’m a stranger and we’ve all been lead to believe that giving rides to hitchhikers is the quickest way to lose one or both of your kidneys, so don’t feel that you owe me a nonverbal explanation through your scrunched shoulders. The rejection shrug only makes you the driver feel better, and me the hiker feel confused about the emptiness of your back seat.

Eventually however, a nice older couple in a 2000 Honda CR-V gives us a ride all the way down into Bishop. They’re locals and mountain folk, the perfect demographic for a tired hiker looking to get into town.

Chief Lake (mile 886) to Mono Pass Junction (mile 880) plus 10 miles towards Mono Pass/Mosquito Flats

Total PCT miles hiked: 1358

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.

We wake when the sun crests the ridge above camp and suddenly the temperature in our tent rockets up, courtesy of the fire ball in the sky and it is too hot to sleep any more. Time to hike. I am feeling functionally better today, although now Keith feels like he’s starting to get sick. Drat. I blame the hostle in Mammoth, damn dirty hikers and their germs. We’ve gone just over 20 miles in three days, according to plan we should have gone more than 50 miles by now. If we stay here we’ll run out of food in two or three days. Already our delay is going to cost us milage on this section, forcing us to bail over Mono Pass and back into the front country. Time to start plan B, since plan A has fallen apart so spectacularly.

We climb up and over Silver Pass in the warm morning air, past more white dudes with beards and Hylerlite backpacks that we’re once white but now have faded into the greybrown color which, should really be the official color of thru hiking. We pass southbound JMT hikers with their slow careful steps and their oversized bright gear. They are so clean and new to the trail, and appear somewhat exasperated by being passed by PCT hikers twenty times a day as the final wave of the northbound heard moves through the Sierra.

By noon we’ve turned off the PCT/JMT and on to Mono Pass trail which, will take us back to the front country. Less than a tenth of a mile down the trail and the busy byway of the PCT/JMT fades away, replaced by the rushing television static of Mono Creek and the Cheeseburger calls of the chickadee. I make gaping mouth fish faces as I toddle down the trail – looking like I’m taking big bites out of the air. I can only manage to pop one ear at a time and mostly not even that. I’m walking through the world with the volume down low until *pop* suddenly I’m not and the world of sound floods back in. Again. And again. And again. Down down down goes the volume until *pop!* there it is, that endless, loud world of ours.

By 3:30pm both Keith and myself are fading and we decide to start looking for a campsite. Actually, we’re inspired to start looking for a site when we pass a really choice one, and we really don’t need to hike any further so lets just camp right here. This makes me so happy. A small rare bit of spontaneity which the trail so often feels devoid of.

The PCT is a well marked, exceedingly well documented trail. Almost every campsite and water source and pass and town is marked on the handy maps that we’ve loaded into our pocket super computers. It’s so easy to follow the crowd and the recommendations, turn off your brain and just hike hike hike in the same direction. It’s one of the most mundane parts of the trail. You’re almost always on the same trail, going the same direction, the same goal in mind. It can begin to feel like you’re sailing along on a Disney ride, watching the world pass by from your little boat—hands inside the ride at all times, please stay seated until we’ve reached Canada.

But two days ago things went wrong and the plan for this section fell to dust and we were rewarded by something new and all together wonderful. In pursuing the singular goal of hiking the height of this country I have begun to fully appreciate the joy of things falling apart. The unknown confusion of trying and flailing and having to right oneself again and again in the chaos that is a life. The freedom of choice is so easy to take for granted.

But today we stopped early because we only have five miles out to the trailhead tomorrow. Because what’s the rush. Because why not, this spot looks really nice and we’re the only humans for miles around. We bathe naked in the creek below camp. The smooth river stones feel funny on my tender pink feet—so accustomed to shoes after 1300 miles. The water rushes past my bare legs, warm for the Sierra but still cold enough that I’m retreating on to the bank after only a few minutes. We spend the next few hours before dinner hiding in our tent from the mosquitos. With just a thin layer of mesh between us and the great wide sky we can watch the drama of the atmosphere as thunderheads build and dissipate voluminous in climbing whites above us. In a campsite Keith didn’t research the night before, next to a water source we didn’t know was here before we walked right up to it, next to a trail that was admittedly a little worse than we thought it would be, all washed out with roots and rocks as it is, but new and unknown and all the better for it. Oh fictional gods I am glad for something that felt like it wasn’t planned for me, some real spontaneous decision making. We are all the better because of the things we do not know, but might one day be lucky enough to learn and see.

No hiking, zero at Chief Lake (mile 886)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1352

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.

By what feels like the twentieth time I wake the sun is already high in the sky, warming the interior of the tent to an uncomfortable degree. It’s after 9, but that might as well be noon to a hiker. Keith, noticing that I’m awake asks if I feel up to hiking out today. I tell him that I don’t know, but the truth is that I do, I just hate making choices for the both of us – feeling like I’m the weak link in our two man hiking chain. Eventually I come to my senses and cede that I can’t hike out today. I’ll be better served by a day spent resting instead of another one mile per hour suffer fest with a clogged nose and aching chest. Though it will undoubtedly ruin our plans for this section.

And so it comes to past that I spend my first ever trail zero in a little tent next to the cool blue waters of Chief Lake below Silver Pass.

All day I slip in and out of wakefulness. The sun arching from horizon to horizon around our little dome of warmth and light. Protected as we are by jutting rock faces which, in a certain light, one could be forgiven for thinking are made of the oldest wood. All weather worn cracks tumbling down like so many broken teeth encasing the little valley. With each hour the light shifts on the world around us, highlighting one ridge and then the next. Playing with every color of grey rock, green earth, and sparkling blue waters. The snow on the light grey granite is once blinding white then dirty grey as clouds race overhead. It is as though we are held in time and space while the world races below us on towards a new day.

Iva Bell Hot Springs on the Fish Creek alternate to Chief Lake (mile 886)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1352

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.

From Iva Bell’s upper springs you can see the entire valley drop away into the distance. Back towards the two lower and more often visited pools, all the way out along the plunging canyon to the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River. On this hazy morning the vista appears all the greater because of the smoke filling in the horizon, applying a false layer of distance. While we soak three does meander past, they pay us no mind in making their way towards the creek for a morning drink. We are just another pair of woodland creatures – albeit strange, hairless ones. Below us we can hear the shouts and calls of the two dozen San Franciscans, who have hiked into the springs for a long weekend only to discover that they are fall less in the know than they would like to believe. Iva Bell hasn’t been a secret spot for years. Yet every group I’ve met hiking in here acts as though the discovery of Iva Bell Hot Springs is their own doing. It really is such a human trait to believe that we are superciliously unique. Their voices come rushing up to meet us, unnecessarily loud and boisterous in the calm morning air. Despite the warm waters and the idyllic scene I’m ready to get back on the trail, away from loud people. It feels as though my hearing has been tuned to the levels of the natural world so that when I venture into well populated areas the world feels too loud, there is too much incessantly vying for my attention; as pretentious as that may sound.

We scurry up the hill into which the hot springs are built, which forms the great sloping back of this valley. We are following deer trails back to our human trail. By the time we reach the trail I am winded and my legs are burning. I try and psych myself up, I try and get pumped for 19 miles, 5,000 feet of gain in the high alpine. I can do this, these are the mountains I’ve been looking forward to. I’ll put a book on and wander through the sky, walk across creeks spilling with melt water, all while under the watching sentinels of the grand Sierra mountains. No more mopping today, today I can do this.

It would later prove that I can only kinda do this today.

My pack grows heavier and heavier all morning as I pull my way up out of the green valley towards thin air and White rock. By the time I admit I’m sick, we’re about as far from the next pass as the one we came in on. Going forward is going to be as fast as going out. My chest burns with congestion and the Buff I use to blow my nose is soaked through. Not even the dry alpine air can keep up with the amount of snot I’m producing. It would almost be impressive if the whole scene weren’t so disgusting and miserable.

In the end it takes us, me, nine hours to go as many miles. Much of the natural beauty is lost on me and I can only marvel in resentment at how much up there can be for one pass. We’ve been climbing forever! Eventually Keith manages to save me from myself and downgrades our already reduced goal of getting to the first site after the pass, to how about this site right here. Thank the stars one of us has some common sense.

Mammoth Lakes (mile 907) to Iva Bell Hot Springs on the Fish Creek alternate

Total PCT miles hiked: 1342

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 can hear the distinct thack thack thack of the helicopter overhead as it angles towards the fire burning just one ridge away. The sky is white with smoke, hiding all but the sound of the airborne machines scurrying to and fro, their enormous buckets laiden with water from nearby lakes. Below the granite shoulder we’re traversing roars a white river, the volume turned down to a mere hiss of static by the hundreds foot drop. This normally dramatic landscape has been muted by the air thick with smoke. Correspondingly there are no other hikers on the Fish Creek trail heading south from Red’s Meadow. They must be smarter than us I think sourly as we tread along the trail, the normally compact dirt having been trampled into moon dust by the frequent travel of horse packers. At least it’s relatively flat—the thick, drifting smoke would make climbing unpleasant if not impossible. This thought does not elevate my mood, I’m not sure anything outside a prompt arrival in camp could. Despite leaving the comforts of town a few hours previous I hate everything. My pack is too heavy, it’s too hot, I’m tired, I’m bored and agitated and for some reason I’m not allowing myself to listen to my audio book because I got it in my head that I need to be more present in my discomfort so that I can think deep thoughts and figure out what I’m going to do with my life. I feel trapped by our schedule, knowing that I absolutely cannot quit this trail now because I would never come back. Making a second attempt at the PCT feels infinitely harder than just finishing the damn thing the first time. And I don’t even really want to quit the trail, just today.

I even hate that other people will read this, that they’ll worry and want to make me feel better. The idea of managing other people’s emotions in addition to mine makes me want to scream and at some point I dump my pack unceremoniously in the dirt, stalk off to a rock overlooking the valley and fire and start to cry. I feel overwhelmed with exhaustion. I hate that I’m not allowing myself to listen to stuff that would take my mind off this hike while at the same time hating myself for needing it. Can’t I just be endlessly happy walking through beautiful scenery every day? What am I really complaining about? Why do I feel like I should police my emotions? Just because other people have it worse doesn’t mean how I feel right here on this sharp rock in the too hot sun is invalid. Right? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

Before the trail I read that there will come a point in your thru hike where you’re going to hate it. The newness and romance will have worn away, replaced by all the daily tasks one must execute in order to keep making forward progress. In the desert everything was an adventure, unique and special. Even the long water carries and heat held a certain novelty. After we skipped to Northern California the dramatic change in scenery paired with the sudden removal of other hikers made our hike feel special and intimate. Now however, as we backtrack along the JMT – a route that we did less than a year ago – the trail feels like work. The deeply unsexy work that makes up so much of a thru hike and is fairly challenging to write about. In this dark mood the fact that I’m no special snowflake, that every hiker goes through this, is no consolidation. I want to be done, but not really. I want to rage and carry on, but I’m too tired. I want to be finished with all this crap but I don’t want to backtrack to town and have to do these dumb miles again. There is no easy solution in hiking, or in life, or in anything, is there.

Is there?

This day, this week, this place, these are the things that end up on the cutting room floor of our lives. The moments that maybe make us stronger, or maybe I’ll just look back and be glad it’s over.

We hike into the bottom of a canyon where the white ribbon of water turns back into a rushing creek as we get closer. Across the bridge is a lone camp chair, no owner in sight. I collapse into it and filter the cool but not cold water into my bottle and drink, filter and drink until some of my basic needs are met and it doesn’t feel so bad anymore. Then I get up and we hike on, because we’re not at camp yet, and as wonderful as this stray chair is, it’s not the solution to anything, is it.

Zero in Mammoth Lakes, no hiking.

Total PCT miles hiked: 1331

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 met Alyssa and her husband at a hostel in Mammoth Lakes California. Keith and I sat with them around a pale wood dinner table eating and talking as outside the windows the sun set and the light cascading in faded and was replaced by the warm glow of overhead lighting. Over the course of her meal I watched as she drank a liter of Coke zero, poured out three ounces at a time over ice. Her and her husband were young, 26 but looking younger than that. Married at 26 feels impossibly young, but that is for them to decide, not me. 26 with long brown hair, a gentle face, and dark sparkling eyes behind horn rimmed glasses. As we talked, the men left one at a time to drift off to bed. It’s such a rare thing on the trail to spend time with another woman.

She’d come from Australia to do the trail, and unlike everyone else I’d met from that great nation continent, she wasn’t a nurse. Before the trail she left Brisbane and a job “filling in boxes in immigration” – a job and a city she had no desire to return to after the trail. But, she confessed, she felt mostly done with the trail now. The lustre and romance had worn off. Without as many words she made it clear that it wasn’t her idea to do this hike, but that she decided to try. The break and the adventure felt necessary. Like so many twenty something’s she felt stuck and bored, looking around at her life and wondering if this was really it.

Her hope for the trail was to have time to reevaluate her life, to think deep thoughts while walking. To figure something out. But that “at the end of the day I’m just so tired, and there is always so much to do, sometimes I feel like I barely have the energy to take pictures much less write a blog and ponder life!” They might be done after Yosemite, or maybe just do Oregon and Washington, it’s still up in the air.

Alyssa was nervous about what people back home would say, that they would think she failed. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t tell anybody at all about this hike, so I wouldn’t have to explain it if we didn’t finish.” It’s not fair, as is the way in life, that all hiking on the PCT is compared to a complete thru hike. In any other context hiking 1,000 miles, hiking for a month or three, hiking 200 miles, hiking for a week is an incredible accomplishment. But in comparison to a full thru hike all of those accomplishments feel like falling short. She hoped that this hike will still change her, but maybe it would take time to fully realize how.

It’s funny, or perhaps just annoying and sad, how we can give advise that we are least likely to accept ourselves. I told her to be proud of everything she has accomplished and to not be so eager to compare herself to others. In many ways, achievements are only what we make of them, the story we tell about something is often as important as the doing, and we can turn bad moments into good stories. That any experience you learn from is valuable in it’s own way.

Waugh Lake on the Rush Creek Alternate (which we’re taking to avoid the smoke from the Lion fire burning west of Mammoth Lakes, and is nearly identical length to the PCT) to Mammoth Lakes (mile 907)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1331

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 sleep fitfully all night. The combination of the smoke from the Lion Fire rolling through the valley and the bright moon like somebody shining a headlamp in your face means that when I wake at 6am I feel as though I’ve just fallen asleep for the 30th time. Oh well, what can ya do?

Last night we camped along the clear shores of Waugh Lake. The almost dry lakebed reflecting the peaks of Banner and Ritter on it’s smooth glassy surface. This morning the winds have changed and the smoke seeps thickly into the Rush Creek valley. Our plan was to take this unofficial alternate into Mammoth lakes, in part to see some new trail that Keith has been wanting to check out for years, and in part to avoid the dense smoke along the PCT that makes hiking uphill feel like suffocating. Well, at least we’ll see some new trail and some interesting history bits below the Gem Lake damn.

It’s an odd way to cross the halfway mark on our hike. Not at the official marker at 1,325. Not on the official trail or on an official alternate. Not surrounded by other hikers, no trail family, no fanfare. I realize that the only reason I’m upset about this turn of events is that I’m afraid other hikers, other strangers on the internet will judge me for my choices and confront me about it. But at this point I’m beyond caring which, until recently, I couldn’t honestly say.

When you’re a creative woman who puts your work and your travels out on the internet for others to read, you accept that you’re drawing attention to yourself and that not all of it will be positive. I’ve had folks proffer negative comments when I skipped a section in southern California when I ran short on food. I’ve had men call me an idiot and a neanderthal when I spoke honestly about sexism on the trail. I’ve been dismissed and overlooked in the outdoors for years and years as they turned to male friends and partners for expertise that I had. I don’t care if you don’t believe these things to be true, I don’t care if you think I’m overreacting. I have written here with honesty and integrity, and if that’s not enough then you can fuck right off. I am not searching for opinions or validation. This is my hike, after all, and I am not beholden to anyone.

This morning was quiet without the crunch and clack of other thru hikers. The smoke surrounded us like a veil, isolating fragments of the landscape in a way that made them all the more beautiful. The gentle bend of the shore along clear green waters, perfect without comparison to the mountains or rivers or trees. The world felt soft and special and purely ours, nobody else would have a mid point like this.

At some point in the morning we crossed the 1,325th mile of our hike, but did not stop to celebrate. We hiked on towards the road at the bottom of the valley. And when we crossed that road we waded into the cool waters of a lake, stripping off our sweaty clothes and washing away the dirt and effort of all that had been accomplished. On the horizon the smoke white sky met with dark blue waters and we stood for a long time looking at nothing and everything.

Tuolomne Meadows (mile 943) to campsite along Waugh Lake on the Rush Creek Alternate (which we’re taking to avoid the smoke from the Lion fire burning west of Mammoth Lakes, and is nearly identical length to the PCT)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1315

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.

Calories are a panacea. My legs are tired, but no longer leaden, my mood is elevated as we leave Tuolomne Meadows around mid morning. Hiking through a wide flat valley with the Lyell fork of the Tuolomne River cutting a lazy path through the center, it’s aquamarine waters and white sand bottom capture the morning light, capture my attention again and again. Though the sun is already high in the sky there is a gentle, buttery glow to the light, like a summer evening when everything is soft and warm. The sky above us is hazy as smoke from the Lion Fire wafts over from just west of Mammoth Lakes and the PCT, coloring the world orange yellow and nostalgic. The smoke pools at the cul-de-sac end of the valley, the trail taking us deeper into the haze and the world glows like sunset before noon. But never mind that, the trail simply hooks a right turn and begins to climb through the trees, up up away from the valley floor until it is nothing more than a meadow in the distance. Out of everything green and growing and up to the grey granite peaks that thrust into the sky like so many broken teeth, like a fist full of knives. The range of light. A landscape made to be rendered in black and white so as to allow the eye to linger over every shard and snow field. Ansel Adams had it right.

Water flings itself down drops and rocks, splattering to join it’s siblings in the form of creeks that turn to rivers that thunder through Yosemite valley and finally out onto the planes of the Central Valley and into the drinking faucets of San Francisco. An anticlimactic fate for water that melted from snow high in the alpine, flowed through America’s most famous national park only to end up in Mark Zuckerberg’s toilet bowl.

This is the high Sierra. Despite the fact that our maps call everything between Kennedy Meadows and South Lake Tahoe the Sierra, only a third of those miles are essential high Sierra. High alpine lakes that glimmer bright blue over clean white snow. Mountains that are almost too big to exists, all cliffs and dramatic plunges. Land so high and steep almost nothing grows here. There is nothing like it in the rest of California, the rest of the trail. Almost nothing like these mountains exist in the rest of this country.

As if to welcome me to the jagged dreamscape I spot a marmot at the top of Donahue Pass. I see another five in the next few miles – a quality welcoming committee. Let me just put this on record, I love marmots, they’re my favorite high alpine mammal. Looking like a wobbly beaver with a small bushy tail they waddle in an undulating fashion as they make their way across the tundra. It’s adorable. I cannot think of a better way to be welcomed into the most beautiful section of the PCT.

Note: this isn’t my picture, but I wanted to show everybody how cute marmots are, so I stole this pic from the internet.

Miller Lake (mile 960) to Tuolomne Meadows (mile 943)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1295

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.

We are camped just thirty miles from our personal halfway point. 90 days for almost half way is a little slower then we’d like to be, but not irreparably so. Besides, Keith has exactly five months and twenty days before he needs to be in Seattle for work – we can afford a long thru hike. From an emotional perspective, I’m glad there is no halfway marker for us. The small grey post that marks the real half way point of the PCT is a tad underwhelming to commemorate walking 1,325 miles. Getting a few days to think over the first half of this trip is a lovely thing to have.

1. Thru hikers have a very distinct, very noticeable smell. The smell seems to fully set in around month two, and can be smelled by your fellow thru hikers as you approach, – which makes me assume that regular folk can most certainly smell us, too. The odor is an interesting blend; balogna at it’s heart, with wavering overtones of candy, body odor, and onions, all blended with the unmistakable scent of cat piss.

2. Never itch a mosquito bite. Never ever. Don’t do it. If you never touch the bite, not even just a little bit, the bite will go away in a day, maybe two. However, if you so much as scratch that itch once, you are doomed to be itchy for a week.

3. The body wants what it wants. I once ate a pound of both baby carrots and potato salad for dinner, it was incredible. Never in my life has there been such an exhulation around food. I crave food in these gutteral feral ways, often in ways that I cannot satisfy in the immediate due to the fact that I made my food choices for today the better part of a week ago. Sometimes months ago. Or, sometimes I find myself in a rural grocery store or general mart, and a combination of their supplies and the amount I’m willing to spend means that I simply can not have what I want. When you get what you want to eat, what you’ve truly been craving for weeks, it can feel purely pleasurable. Never, never has food tasted like this.

4. However this powerful draw to food is paired with days of wanting. There are days where nothing in your food bag is enough and you can have even less than that because this food has to last two more days. I’m learning to deal with and accept being hungry in a way that I doubt many folks ever do, certainly I have never had to set aside hunger like this. It’s an engaging feeling, at once both powerful and a reminder of how much care and comfort I desire.

5. I have grown accustomed to any and all gross things my hiking partner does. All the stuff that makes five year olds laugh – farting, burping, picking your nose, clipping your nails, eating with abandon while staring into space, snoring, peeing, pooping, menstruation, and smelling like a trash panda – it’s all okay now, nothing is off limits from discussion, nothing is gross. We will do any and everything in front of each other and feel no embarrassment.

6. Diversity is really lacking on the trail. I’ve spoken about this before, but traveling southbound through the main bubble of NoBo hikers has put this into perspective. The largest percentage of hikers are young white men, followed closely by middle aged and older white men; combined they make up easily 60% of the field. Following in a distant second would be young white women. The least represented group is people of color, though there are certainly more than only white faces on the trail. Of course by sight alone I can’t guess at sexuality or be sure of gender identity. However, I can confidently say that the hiking community could definitely branch out a little.

7. There are a few people on the trail who will give you a lot of hope for the future. The other night we camped near two young women who from their appearance looked to be in their young twenties or late teens, their gear marked them as quintessential thru hikers. One was black, the other white, both totally confident as they set up camp. And I thought, if that is the future of young women, these confident and strong people who are capable of thru hiking just barely out of high school, then that is a future I am excited for.

8. 18 miles with 2,000 feet of gain has become an easier day, one you can be done with by early afternoon.

9. Other thru hikers are loud! No wonder we never see any wildlife! I can hear another hiker approaching from 1/8th mile out, I’m sure the animals hear us when we come into their valley. Except for deer who are in fact the stupidest woodland creature with no fear response to anything. It’s obvious why they are prey.

10. There are a lot of days that feel impossibly hard, but you’ll do them anyway.

Kerrick Creek (mile 980) to Miller Lake (mile 960)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1278

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.

For one of the first times in my life it feels as though the seasons have actually changed with the solstice. Mother nature nodding in concession to the human delineation between summer and spring. It is suddenly, unforgivably hot. The air is thick with heat and a bright yellow pollen that drifts from the pine trees at the slightest touch or breeze. Today will be another day of walking up and over the great granite waves Yosemite is known for.

The days since leaving South Lake Tahoe have felt like some of the most challenging of the trail, as longer hiking days spawning from bigger milage and more elevation again at higher altitudes have begun to take their toll. Stacking up one against the other until sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel rested again. Of course, this means that I’ve walked myself into one of the valleys that lie between the person you were and the person you’re becoming. The problem is, when you’re crossing one of these valleys the effort feels so much greater than you’re capable of. Getting stronger and growing requires a decent amount of discomfort it would seem. And yet, I’m glad for it. The first two months of this hike passed with relative ease. It would seem that I’m late to the pushing my boundaries party, though I’m an exuberant guest now that I’m here. I need to remember that through this discomfort I’m getting stronger; certainly physically, but perhaps in other ways too? Change is like this great illusion to me, in which I can only see it in hindsight, never in the moment.

Despite the burdensome fatigue and the armpit chafe, there is something profoundly marvelous about this trip. Today I walked and snacked my way across a great ocean of granite made of waves so enormous that each wave can only be seen from the top of the previous one. The troughs being filled with damp thick forests with their swarming clouds of mosquitos. Through the miracle that is the modern smart phone, I was able to listen to a captivating book while I walked- The Name of the Wind which was recommended to me by Joyce when we saw her and Mike in Tahoe. Even tonight, as we ate dinner in the tent and listened to the symphonic whine of mosquitos trying to get in, I thought that there is nothing else I would rather be doing than walking across this amazing land while listening to a good book.