Wild Country Found

Campsite at mile 2190 to Rock Creek (mile 2166)

In the last miles of the day we have a 2,000 foot climb. Straight up and over a ridge, through forest so thick you cannot see approaching hikers until they’re right on top of you. The trees hang limp with humidity, positively dripping with it, no breeze to stir the air. A passing hiker jokes “if I wanted humidity like this, I would have hiked the AT.” My smile turns grimace as sweat rolls into my eyes, the trees aren’t the only things dripping and drooping in this heat. I need music, I need something capable of rousing my tired bones up the trail. It takes an eternity to operate my phone with my damp hands, the only thing I can dry my fingers on is my damp shirt, and the only thing Spotify has managed to download is half a playlist; Happy Folk.

So be it.

Folk music has a way of embodying the west. The first reedy twang of guitar and the world contracts and expands all at once, a Hitchcockian camera trick of the mind. The songs could have been written just for you. The way the west feels both endless and intimate, warm light through gently swaying trees. A world of possibly and yet the concrete now.

Well if you could reinvent my name,

Well if you could redirect my day,

Folk is the music of long car rides and vast horizons, of contemplative looks towards the sunset. The great wide west is where young folks go to make themselves, the land of opportunity as told to you by the mandolin.

‘Cause I was lost in comparison

Always pretending I knew

The familiar ache of poignant nostalgia swells in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me with the sheer luck of it all. This body and mind, to be alive in this country at this point in time. Maybe I should play the lottery, clearly I am the luckiest person alive.

I’ve read the script

And the costume fits,

So I play my part

Campsite at mile 2214 to campsite at mile 2190

I wake to the now familiar smell of forest fire smoke drifting in on the morning breeze. The sky is an endless flat white stretching overhead, and in the trees the soft shadows blend the various hues of green together forming shapeless backdrop to our morning. The forest slides past, indistinguishable, unknowable, lulling my waking mind down into a low gentle hum of nothingness. Occasionally there are punctuations of beauty, warm light dancing across ripping leaves, blueberries bobbing heaving with juice, but overwhelmingly there are trees and trees and trees.

In early morning we reach the top of a ridge and there we can look out onto the world. Beyond 100 feet the dark green of the forest begins to fade and blur into the smoke. A half mile out and lines become soft shapes and shadows; beyond that there is only white, vast shapeless white. On the maps someone has commented “a great view of Mount Hood from here!” Oh invisible commenter, I wonder what you have seen, for I am blinded. We have been set adrift in a sea of white, with nothing but a sameness of green to anchor us to this world our eyes are as good as useless.

The afternoon passes in much the same way as the morning, a sort of walking purgatory. We climb up into the sky where there is nothing and less to train your eyes on, then down into the wallpapered hallway of the forest. And so passes one full day on the PCT, not with a leaping joy but with a frustrated sigh.

Trout Lake (mile 2229) to campsite at mile 2214

I am the statue of liberty. Though instead of holding a torch aloft to welcome the huddled masses yearning to breathe free unto my shoes, I am begging my phone to grasp fleeting data from the sky. Standing in a bramble patch awaiting Google photos to load and confirm that the plants I believe to be huckleberries aren’t in fact going to kill me. Starman is below me on the trail, absently squishing a berry between his fingers. Finally the internet confirms that these are indeed huckleberries and not some previously unknown North American murder berries. I return to the trail to give Starman the good news, to which he replies “I already ate one.” Super.

We spend the next 40 minutes in berry picking bliss. Filling my 11oz coffee bottle to the brim with the sweet dark berries, and eating at least half as many in the process. How calming to be in a place where food grows on bushes right along the trail. And the next morning we’ll even have enough berries left to have some with breakfast.

Zero in Cascade Locks (mile 2246), no hiking.

I’m sitting on a bench at the Bonneville Dam outside Cascade Locks, Oregon. Somewhere Starman and his brother Kyle are deeply engrossed in a diagram about the construction of the dam—their inherent engineerness means they can find turbines and drive shafts infinitely more engaging than I ever could. In fact, if it were up to Starman we’d probably spend the entire day wandering around the dam and adjacent fish ladders. So I elect to find a quiet place out of the way and catch up on phone errands.

In between drafting emails a woman approaches me to ask if I am a PCT hiker. I smile and say I am. From here the conversation will go one of two ways, the first and most common will be that she’ll ask if I started at Mexico or Canada, if I’m hiking alone, and how many days I’ve been on the trail, after I’ve answered these questions I’ll proffer a quick narrative about an especially beautiful part of the trail after which she’ll smile, wish me good luck, and go on her way. However, this particular stranger elects to take the discussion less traveled and upon learning that I am in fact one of those infamous thru hikers, she replies “wow, but you’re so clean!” This line of discussion is a little more confusing for me, because I’m never really sure what to say other than “yep!”

Though it occurs to me now that perhaps I should have something a little more clever to say. Because the “you’re clean” comment is one I get with increasing frequency, and to which I can barely think of a reply more engaging than “well ya know it’s actually not that hard, most people just can’t be bothered.” Or if we’re in town perhaps I might be tempted to spout a “yes, well we have access to showers and laundry just like you do.” Though of course I say neither because I don’t need to be a jerk to folks who are just curious and can’t possibly know how often I’m asked the same questions. And beyond that, as I’ve already discussed, I’m a bit of a clean freak when compared to my fellow hikers. What I think people fail to realize is just how little effort that actually requires.

On trail I spend only about 10 minutes each day wiping the dirt and sunscreen from my body. In town I will shower and do laundry exactly once each, sometimes even with soap! Compared to folks I’ve seen who roll into camp and directly into their sleeping bags, or else slide from town to town without so much as wiping the dirt lines from their necks, I suppose I’m infinitely more hygienic. But it also comes down to making your time on trail feel more livable, not simply something to be endured. By taking a little time each day and in towns, the trail becomes something sustainable, you’re not suffering through day to day, but instead developing habits that make the whole experience livable.

Ramona Falls (2107) to Cascade Locks (mile 2246) via Lolo Pass Road

Southern Oregon felt like a dream after the relentless climbs of Northern California. After all of California, more than three months of walking across such an absurdly tall state came to an end driving into Ashland in the back of a Nissan. The world outside the car a blackened husk of formerly green trees and rolling yellow grass, while inside our hermetically sealed bubble of automobile Starman and I sat in air conditioned comfort. That burning waste was in the process of being replicated a few dozen miles east, hence why the trail was closed and we were entering this new state not on foot, but on butt and four wheels. For the best. But I still wanted that arbitrary crossing and little wooden sign, even a whole state later I still envy people with their picture next to the tree with the California/Oregon sign. Smiling, pretending that one side of that tree was really any different than the other—though of course it is, because we’ve all decided that is what state borders mean.

And the land told me it was different, not just on that sign but in the wild flatness of the land. Here it was easier to carry on what I had been doing for so many weeks; walking through a forest without end, through a land without sky or depth, only trees and smoke and myself and this man besides me. We walked through days of this flat hot relentless frustrating anguished nothingness of forest, right until the day we saw the sisters. For three days things were different. Soft pine needle footing gave way to sharp pumice, hemmed in horizons let go their choke hold and above us stood three volcanic goddesses. South, Middle and North we called them and they built this land, and they made it known in their scale and their endurance of time that I was ever so small, and I thanked them each day for the reminder. Thank you, Sisters. For helping your human siblings learn.

Soon the forest grew back up to reclaim the land and Starman and I walked on towards Hood. On the way we crossed the 2,000 mile marker, just some rocks in the dirt but I hung onto Starman for a long minute and tried not to cry for everything that we’d accomplished and everything we had left to do. Left to do, left to do, 650 miles seemed like so much left to do, so we hiked. Because there was nothing else to do.

And in the flatness I grew a little mad. And in the smoke I raged against Mama Nature, in only the prideful way a thru hiker can, to be so supercilious as to wonder why the land should burn when I am hiking. And in the forest I tried to be my best self, and I thought about my future and who I would be. In Oregon I was sometimes strong, and other times I hated every minute of it. Just like during any other part of life, and I came to recognize that the trail was not sperate from the real world, but part of it. And could be a larger part of it, if I could only be brave and seek it out.

Then one day we popped out onto a road, before us a grand river. There was Washington, just on the other side and I suppose we’d done it, Oregon that is. And just like before there was no fanfare, which was for the best, I suppose. In that moment I remembered the lesson that the mountains try to teach us, what the sisters told me; that I am small upon this earth, that we all are, but not without grandeur because of it.

I’ll be at Trail Days in Cascade Locks from August 17th to 19th, if you’re in the area and would like to come say hi message me on Instagram @kaymkieffer so we can meet up!

Timberline Lodge (mile 2097) to Ramona Falls (2107)

I wake in a hostle in the small town of Rhododendron, Oregon, the cool light of morning drifts in on a breeze, bringing with it the light scent of fire smoke. I wonder absently which fire we’re smelling now. Which fire has blown in on the wind to smudge the horizon with it’s muting grey haze, which bit of land has gathered enough tinder to burst into an unmanageable flame after years of aggressive fire suppression and the hubristic human belief that we are in control of this land and that fires are uniformly bad. Between California, Oregon, and Washington there are hundreds of thousands of acres burning, it seems like we hear about a new one every few days. If last year on the PCT was dubbed the year of fire and ice, then this year the ice has given up the go and it’s exclusively the year of fire. It leaves a lingering sense of impotence rattling around my chest.

We are slow to rise and rouse ourselves and there is little urgency. Despite the plan to hike 25 miles, we have the luxury of a mellow morning as we wait for the bus to start running and the Timberline Lodge buffet to open. Oh yes, that fateful day has come at last and we are to be delivered to the promise land of breakfast. Waffles, whipped cream and fruit, pastries, eggs, oatmeal, sausage, ham, coffee, smoothies—it’s all ours for the taking. And take we do, sitting with Carmen San Diego, Wren, and Freeze, whiling away the hours until the buffet is closed and we really need to start hiking. It’s almost noon.

Today we’ll make our way around the base of Mt Hood, or at least we would if we didn’t have to pull off the trail every other minute in order to let pass a constant stream of uphill hikers. Toddling families and Timberline Trail hikers with their too big bags smile as they stream by, so close to being back to the trailhead where impending tantrums of young children can be stymied and weeks long trips will come to an end around beers at the bar. Trail runners skip past with barely an acknowledgement, their sleek bodies shinny with sweat and entitlement, keen eyes darting to their Garmins in annoyance any time they are forced to slow or stop to accommodate others on the busy trail. In and out of cool, dark forests we play hide and seek with Hood, the sporadic wind blows smoke in and out, making each sighting of the slumbering giant a little different. At once she is shrouded in grey, then minutes later she is shining down on us in all her unconcealed splendor, brown rivulets of water streaming down her face, merging into rushing creeks where they meet us.

By 4pm we’ve gone ten miles and are plopped in front of Ramona Falls talking to SoBo hiker Flow. She is trying to convince us that the afternoon of hard climbing we have ahead of us will in fact be easy. However, I am disinclined to fully trust someone who walked down all of the thousands of feet that we will have to climb up. Hiking feels catatonic today, stopping early feels like resignation, I know that every option ahead of us will suck. I’m so tired, I don’t want to go on, nor do I want to throw in that proverbial towel so early in the day, so far short of where we planned to be. Or. Or we could just let it all go and camp here tonight. More truthfully, I can choose to let it go, as Starman is down for whatever I decide. It’s cool by the falls, misting water dragging the heat from the air, day hikers smelling like oatmeal cookies take selfies as I watch and think. There are dogs running in and out of the water and the shade is deep and unending as thoughts tumble around my head.

Progress is not linear. There are days when I feel invincibility strong and others in which I feel that I can barely do this, that I can’t do this to the level of perfection I’ve somehow found myself expecting. That this simple, stupid task of walking all these miles will make and unmake you. Will leave you wondering what kind of person you are when things get hard. It’s between grit and grace, commitment and compassion. It never gets easier. It never does. No matter how much I want it to, no matter how repeatedly I try and convince myself that everyone is having an easier time than I am. It never gets easier, not for anybody.

Here’s a nice picture I took of a stranger’s dog.

I’ll be at Trail Days in Cascade Locks from August 17th to 19th, if you’re in the area and would like to come say hi message me on Instagram @kaymkieffer so we can meet up!

Joe Graham Horse Camp (mile 2073) to Timberline Lodge (mile 2097)

I have this memory of Starman standing at the edge of a valley, I am hiking along a low ridge behind him and he looks minuscule when compared to the world around him. We are a half day north of Mount Laguna and below us is an alarmingly flat expanse of desert. From our perch along the shoulders of the mountain the earth appears to have been gouged away down to a flat tan nothingness where nothing but heat and a small lonely highway live. To the north I can see Mount San Jacinto, the sharp plunging peaks of the San Gabriel mountains. It feels so far way and it feels like it’s right there, and a crowbar of understanding cracks into my skull and 2,650 miles seems like an impossible undertaking. There were so many things to the north, so many future possibilities; too many. Too many to think about, to want. And what if I don’t make it? What if I wanted all of those things so bad only to never get there. I didn’t think I could handle that much disappointment, so I elected to only think about the next town.

One of those myriad things was the buffet at Timberline Lodge. I learned about the buffet more than a year before I hiked the PCT. Though I now can’t recall who told me, I do vividly remember their hushed tones of reverence for the waffles and pastries, their face shone with a soft glaze of rapturous delight. Yet, I never let myself seriously think about going there, not until a few days ago. Almost as if I didn’t want to jinx myself, as though by keeping the idea of hiking in northern Oregon out of my mind

I wake up this morning knowing that tomorrow is the Timberline Lodge buffet. The famous breakfast buffet of which our fellow hikers have been salivating for weeks. Though, if I’m being completely honest the buffet represents far less than the sum of it’s parts. Getting to Timberline Lodge means we’re two days from Cascade Locks and the end of Oregon, it means we’re almost into our final state on this trail; the breakfast is simply a bonus.

As I make my way through the relentlessly thick and viewless forest around Mount Hood I am afforded one single view in the course of 24 miles. A break in the trees, a single view of the mountain, and sitting at it’s base a grey smudge of what must be the lodge. I can’t believe we’re actually here.

I’ll be at Trail Days in Cascade Locks from August 17th to 19th, if you’re in the area and would like to come say hi message me on Instagram @kaymkieffer so we can meet up!

Olallie Lake (mile 2046) to Joe Graham Horse Camp (mile 2073)

There are fires in California. Fires in Washington. Fires in Oregon. And no matter how far we hike north the smoke from those fires finds us. When we leave Olallie Lake this morning the looming shape of Mount Jefferson is barely visible on the horizon; the white of glaciers blending with the hazy sky, as though the formidable peak is being erased in sections.

We hike into the forest where, unable to see beyond the trees to track the daily migration of the sun we are thrust into a scene of perpetual late afternoon. The light cast through the haze is so red that the shadows appear like blue stains upon the ground. A forest reduced to the crude color drawing of a child, red light and blue shadows imposed on a forest of endless green.

I’ll be at Trail Days in Cascade Locks from August 17th to 19th, if you’re in the area and would like to come say hi message me on Instagram @kaymkieffer so we can meet up!

Campsite at mile 2029 to Olallie Lake (mile 2046)

Since leaving Bend we’ve entered the primary bubble of southbound (SoBo) hikers, most of whom have started in the first ten days of July. The SoBos are great because they can provide relevant beta about what is just up the trail and have different stories and experiences than the hikers we’ve been surrounded with, most of whom are northbound (NoBo) thru hikers who we’ve begun to know well. Conversely, they also can be an annoyance since you now have to find a place that’s hidden from both directions when popping off the trail to pee, lest you be surprised with a sudden visitor while in the middle of sensitive business.

One thing I’ve noticed is how easy SoBo hikers are to spot. Not just on trail where the fact that they’re going the wrong direction makes it fairly obvious that Canada isn’t their final goal, but also in towns and at water stops. They are simply less, haggard, for lack of a better word. At this point in a northbound hike, people have gone through a sort of hardening, their bodies are stronger, more tan, and their hair more unruly. 2,000 or more miles in people’s gear and clothes are sun bleached and salt stained beyond repair. There is also something in the nature of a thru hiker that seems to set in around 1,500 miles—a general disinterest in personal comfort. Where as a SoBo will still complain about the heat or the steepness of a climb, NoBos have so entirely acclimated to living outdoors and hiking all day that these minor discomforts barely register. SoBos will still talk about their level of cleanliness, or lack thereof, the dust on their hands and the sweat coating their arms are still deemed noteworthy. Where as we, we have been dirty and sweaty for months, months and months, filth has become our norm. The trail is an ever changing experience with so many moments of discomfort that it barely feels worth mentioning, it simply is.

As NoBos, we are no longer the clean and shiny hikers that wandered into the desert this spring. We have morphed both physically and emotionally beyond who we were at the start of the trip, and it is like taking a step back in time to see these sparkling SoBos, still so early in their hike that they look more like section hikers. Is that how I looked when I left the desert, still on my first pair of shoes and wondering if I’d ever make it out of California? Was that me, complaining about every climb over 1,000 feet as though it would make the experience any better? Probably yes, back when the newness of it all threatened to overwhelm us at any moment. The SoBos are a mirror to our former selves, a means for looking back at how far we’ve come.

I’ll be at Trail Days in Cascade Locks from August 17th to 19th, if you’re in the area and would like to come say hi message me on Instagram @kaymkieffer so we can meet up!

Campsite at mile 2004 to campsite at mile 2029

2000 miles feels like waking up tired every morning, like eating the same food again and again until it loses all meaning. It feels like wondering with amazement when twenty miles became a short day. Like pushing yourself up the last climb of the day. Going faster and faster while your legs ache and sweat runs down your face and into your eyes, but you don’t slow down, you keep pushing because you’ve become so strong that you no longer know where your limit is, where the bottom of this energy sits and it feels good to dig way down deep, to where you forget what easy is and there is only the burning left. And suddenly. Suddenly you’re at the top of the climb and the world erupts around you and a wave of endorphins threaten to overwhelm your more human side and you laugh away the urge to open up your throat to the heavens and howl. But the urge is there, it is right below the surface.

Hiking 2,000 miles feels like the merging of what you hoped would be, and what is. Where you realize that you’re now doing all of the things you’d dreamt of when you planned this hike. All of those desires which you held at arm’s length, knowing that the odds for finishing the PCT are not in your favor and it would break your heart to admit to yourself how desperately you wanted this only to not get it. But now you’re here and it’s nothing like what you imagined, though all the better for it. Hiking 2,000 miles feels like making it to the playoffs, the final round of the spelling bee, it feels like the moment before the hero pulls off the big heist. You’re not there yet but you are so so close, and if you can just be smart and lucky for a little longer, if you can just hold your body together for a little longer then you’ll make it. And that will be the best worst day of this whole thing.

Even though it feels sickeningly saccharine, hiking 2,000 miles makes you realize that it really is about the journey, not the destination; after all, cliches are cliche for a reason. Achieving the goal of reaching Canada will be the both the culmination and termination of two and a half years of dreaming and working. And in the selfsame way that a cliche rings with repetitive honesty, the hike becomes less novel with each passing day. In the course of hiking 2,000 miles you become more confident more capable, you begin to understand what needs to be done and when. Things are less new, less exciting, but also less stressful as a result. It feels like success through familiarity and habit.

Hiking 2,000 miles feels like the world turning around you, like a tiny beautiful bubble of reclusion, and have you ever lived anywhere but this forest? Where the world is far away and muted. Here on this little dirt path you can abstain from it all, and watch the days grow shorter even as the wild flowers riot into color for their short but fabulous lives. 2,000 miles is that feeling of sitting on the earth and tilting your head way back so you can see the tops of giant trees; until you get that feeling, the one that reaches right into your chest and squeezes til you recognize how much of the world there is, and how little you are within in.