Wild Country Found

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!

McKenzie Pass (mile 1984) to campsite at mile 2004

Last night we stood on the back porch of Alana and Peters home in Bend, Oregon, surrounded by eight other thru hikers and two young women couch surfers. Our eyes were trained on the sky, looking for a steady white light to cruise overhead—the international space station which would be visible from our location as it circled the earth. The giggling drunken semi-silence faded away as the station came into view over the western horizon. The realization that there were humans up there who at this very moment may be looking back down at us silenced even the most inebriated.

Scattered around the backyard were people’s sleeping pads and bags, lit by the warm light pouring from the kitchen windows. And inside that brightly lit kitchen Peter gave us samples of variously aged scotch, teaching us how one sipped the drink, what flavors and notes to look for while Alana took requests for 80’s bands to be played on the turntable. These strangers who had invited a bunch of stinky hikers into their beautiful home, where they offered us showers and laundry all because they liked Carmen San Diegos YouTube videos. All because they wanted to help some new people and trade stories.

*****

This morning, promptly at 8am Dan came to give us a ride to the trail. Starman and I had met Dan at a local cider bar two nights ago and got to talking. He is a recent Bend transplant, a hiker and former sailor who offered to drive us back to the trail on Sunday. 40 minutes out of town. Nearly two hours of is weekend just to help us out. He was even willing to take Squish too, and make a few quick stops in Sisters so that we could hit up an ATM and grab breakfast from a bakery there.

*****

We pile out of the car at McKenzie Pass and have barely gone a mile, picking our way slowly over the sharp volcanic rocks when we see a blue pop tent and a sign for trail magic. This has to be the luckiest day ever. Larry and Marcia and their cute dog Lucy have set up in the shade with hotdogs, watermelon, beers and cold sodas. When we spot Mirage, Beehive, Nero and Zero sitting around in camp chairs we quickly pull over.

I eat water melon while petting Lucy, and Marcia and I discuss the merits of the new Star Trek Discovery series when compared to the old Next Generation episodes. It’s refreshing to have a conversation that doesn’t focus on milage, gear, or food.

*****

Later that day as well make our way out of Big Lake Youth Camp I thank a camp counselor who is sitting at the entrance, waving in cars full of excited kids and stressed out parents. In the few words I manage to utter in the time it takes me to walk past him I try and convey the gratitude I feel for the fact that this camp in central Oregon let’s hikers mail packages there, that they’ll feed you dinner for $5, let you shower and wash your clothes and fill up your water bottle. All while they’re running a full scale youth camp. And even though we only filled up our water here and spent an little time sitting in the shade of the A-frame that they dedicated to hiker use, I’m still grateful. He replies “oh, no problem at all!” Going on to add “it’s the least we could do.” Which of course, isn’t true. The least he and this camp, and everyone who goes out of their way to help a hiker could do is nothing. They don’t have to provide any of this for us, and yet they do. Because they’re kind, because they’re interested in what we’re doing, because it’s a nice and generous action to take. But certainly not because we deserve or are entitled to their generosity.

Bend, OR (mile 1984)

Zero in Bend, no hiking

We’re relaxing in Bend for two days so I’m going to keep these posts on the short side and focus on some of the more random aspects of thru hiking.

By the time we’ve left camp each morning we’ve decided we’re going to camp that night, and probably where and how many times we’ll get water during the day. This is largely Keith’s doing. He is an obsessive planner who likes to know the details of what is to come. Partially this is so we don’t get stuck without enough water or else have to hike late because we weren’t paying attention to where campsites are. But also it’s because he doesn’t want to miss out on any cool sights. He is a perfect example of the type A hiker, and he’s definitely not alone.

The PCT is largely undertaken by people who are privileged, moderately affluent, and for the most part are pretty high achieving in their regular lives. After all, how many people do you know who want to go on an extended vacation that involves constant effort, discomfort, and is wrapped up in a massive succeed or fail goal? PCT hikers are the triathletes of the outdoors world, we’re a little high strung and want to see how far we can be pushed. While you’ll meet a lot of different kinds of people on the trail, many of them will share a desire to challenge themselves, have a moderate competitive streak, and generally be bad at sitting still. Furthermore, thru hiking is a lot of logistics. From saving money for the trail, to planning resupply boxes, to researching gear choices, if you like comparing the weight of backpacks and tents, you’ll love planning for the PCT. It’s classic Type A behavior.

But those aren’t the only folks on the trail. There is a small and somewhat quiet subsection of thru hikers that are more freewheeling and intuitive. You won’t hear from these folks on the forms because they don’t care to participate in those discussions. These aren’t the people who have PCT 2020 on their Instagram accounts because they’ll decide to hike the trail only a few months before they start. On average these type B hikers are doing the trail with less money, fewer plans, and less ego attached to finishing. You can spot a type B hiker by asking them where they’re going to camp that night and watching them shrug, or else they’re the folks who are sitting like hungry puppies near the hiker box because they’re running short on money now that they’re in Oregon and want to spend as little as possible on food, or maybe they’ve just been relying on hiker boxes since the beginning. I’ve seen it done, or rather, attempted.

The difference between the A and B hikers comes down to how you view the trail. Is thru hiking about achieving a long term goal, or is it about a loosely formed adventure? I’m not saying one is better than the other, each have their merits. But it is interesting to think that this kind of life attracts such divergent personalities.

Bend, OR (mile 1984)

Zero in Bend, no hiking

We’re relaxing in Bend for two days so I’m going to keep these posts on the short side and focus on some of the more random aspects of thru hiking.

Let’s go on an adventure into imagination land! Close your eyes. Wait, no don’t do that you can’t read with your eyes closed. Silly.

Picture in your minds eye your bathroom, whatever products you have in your shower, the few or many types of gels and powders that you put on your face and skin, all the way down to the cleaning products you use. I bet you have a distinct smell to you. Some culmination of your own special funk mixed and masked with the hygiene products that you most often use.

It’s something I never even thought about before I started the trail, and now it’s something that I think about all the time. Sure, on trail we mostly smell like some combination of body odor, onions, and cat piss, but once we’re in town the real party starts. It is a bit of an odd sensation to never smell the same. Being at the mercy of whatever products you find in a hotel bathroom, or occasionally washing your entire body -hair included- with cheap hand soap. It’s like attending a costume party of smells!

Campsite at mile 1970 to Bend via McKenzie Pass (mile 1984)

I am grateful for No Chello, a fellow thru hiker who we met this morning and is currently entertaining us with stories from his life in Hawaii as we pick our way across the razor sharp volcanic rocks. He and Starman talk motorcycles and then slide effortlessly into a discussion of the highs and lows of what it’s like to be a white guy and a sushi chef, then it’s on to trading stories about drunken college shenanigans. No Chello responds to most things with either yeah! (excited) or yeah? (tell me more), and has a seemingly endless stream of funny stories and weird life experiences. We pull off the trail to allow a southbound hiker pass and No Chello greets then in rapid Japanese while Starman and I stand in mute astonishment listening to their exchange. So apparently he also speaks some Japanese, good to know.

At the road we part ways. No Chello is pushing 30’s through Oregon in an effort to finish his hike early, and we’re heading into town for a few days of rest. I watch him cross the road and soon his blue shirt is lost behind a swell of red-brown rock and he’s gone. Goodbye nice stranger, I think, maybe we’ll meet again, but if not thank you for the hours of good conversation. Happy trails.

Dumbbell Lake (mile 1947) to campsite at mile 1970

The alarm goes off at 5:30am and I do not want to get up. Starman, it would seem, is also reluctant. We snooze and snooze again, our secluded campsite next to the lake insulating us from the clacking clomping footsteps of other hikers. I know we have a 24 mile day planned, plus a two mile detour into Elk Lake to pick up stove fuel, but I cannot get worked up about getting on the trail late today. I’m tired of feeling like I’m always rushing towards something, always looking one step down the line when truly I have nothing to do but be here. There is a pervasive sense of false urgency in thru hiking and I’ve decided I just don’t care to participate in it anymore. Not when I could be eating breakfast next to a perfectly calm blue green lake.

It’s almost 9am by the time we’re walking, and I observe my utter lack of caring as though I’m watching someone else. Who is this new person who is wearing my body and doesn’t particularly care if we’ll have to night hike. Around me the forest is quite. The trail rolling and undulating below us as it ferries us up and over a ridge into Elk Lake. We eat nachos and ice cream in the cool darkness of the resorts dining room, weekend tourists in swimsuits and cover-ups take shots of vodka and thoroughly ignore us until after 1pm when we finally drag ourselves outside and down the trail. We’re still supposed to hike 18 miles or some such malarkey. I guess we’ll see, maybe.

On the climb out of Elk Lake we can see the three sisters along the horizon. We climb up up up onto their shoulders, the trees shrinking back into the ground while volcanic rock begins to pepper the landscape, the sky a perfect blue expands above us and I can finally see the forest and the mountains without the hindrance of the trees. South Sister stands alone and red, her dark face pockmarked with small grey bowls, as though someone giant has eaten into her sides, taking great ice cream scoops out of her. We walk before her along the Wickiup Plane, heading north towards Middle Sister. Middle Sister looms large over the rest of the day, grey and dominating the skyline. Her darkness is shot through with the white of snowfields, drawing the eye along her smooth sides. The grey fading to brown and red as the sun angles towards the western horizon, she has a thousand faces in the shifting light. While North Sister hides behind the skirts of her sibling, neither so prominent nor brave as Middle or South, we only catch the occasional glimpse of her face as she peeks at us like a small nervous child.

Our path wraps us north below the Sisters and in the warm slanting light of evening the world feels both grand and small. Above us mountains loom while to the west an enormous maw of a valley opens up as though we might slide right off the shoulders of the Sisters and down into the waiting pine teeth of the forest below. Even as the sky near the horizon burns yellow and orange, above us the air is a deep unending blue. The iridescent middle of an enormous donut of smoke that surrounds us on the horizon and makes for a dazzling sunset. We eat dinner ensconced in our warm tent, watching the world go dark around us.

Is it possible to feel nostalgic for something that you’re still living through? Maybe. But I know that I’ll miss these moments so much. The knowledge that our trip will soon come to an end settles inside my chest like a dark, heavy stone and I try my very best to hold onto the moment as the sun burns red and disappears from view.

Charlton Lake (mile 1925) to Dumbbel Lake (mile 1947)

In the early morning we walked through a recovering burn area. Grey trees stripped of bark and needles made a forest of ghosts. Everything was quiet without the normal hustle and bustle of birds, their homes singed to ash and not yet regrown, what would they have to sing about. And where would they do it. This area made for a stark sort of silence, and a small chance for a view before we were once again consumed within the tunnel of trees before us. The sky overhead was a startling blue. When was the last time I’d seen a perfectly blue sky? Weeks? More? The haze of fire rimmed the horizon in all directions but here in this little bubble the sky was a clear perfect blue.

And for the first time in a long time I could see a horizon beyond a wall of trees. Low rolling hills like torn shades of construction paper layered one on top of the other. This sight, more than the months spent walking, far more than the ever growing milage number that I record each night, made me realize that we are well and truly waking to Canada. That those ridges represent a tiny bit of my future, again and again in little bits. Until one day, if I am very very lucky I will arrive at a funny wooden monument where the trees are cut down in a long line stretching towards the horizon. And then this two and a half year dream will come to a resounding end and I will cry a million tears for everything that we did out here because it was so so beautiful.

Shelter Cove (mile 1907 + 2mi road walk back to trail) to Charlton Lake (mile 1925)

We leave Shelter Cove around 8am and begin the two mile rolling road walk back to the trail. Any hope of hitching seems foolhardy on this Monday morning, and indeed the only person who stops does so just to tell us he’s going only a few blocks further. So a two mile road walk it is, up to the highway, a quick dart across traffic and we’re back on the trail. Well, trailhead. We dawdle here using the bathroom and fixing things in our packs in no real hurry despite the 24 miles we still plan to hike.

I am excited about this section, with it’s promise of actual views and lakes and not just endless trees and long water carries. Southern Oregon has in many ways been a continuation of the endless pine forests of Northern California, except with less elevation gain which also means fewer views. Starman’s excitement is certainly depleted after so many weeks in tunnels of green. We further putz around at the first lake we see, filtering water, taking pictures, and sitting staring into space. A few miles later and we’re stopped again, up on a ridge we hide in the shade buying shoes via spotty data which is still infinitely better than the WiFi at Shelter Cove was. Then three miles later we’re stopped at the Maiden Peak ski cabin for lunch. We just can’t seem to get going. Or rather, Starman can’t. I can hear his reluctance in his heavy footfall.

Starman is a perennial problem solver. He sees the little things in the world that could be better, small ways in which life could be easier, and goes ahead and fixes them. He is quick to realize that things rarely have to be the way they are. This is especially true when it comes to boredom. Starman is not one to divert from hard work so long as the task is interesting. However, if the task is hard and boring he will spend considerable effort in finding a work around. He will actually spend more time and effort in an effort to be lazy than the original task might have required. Out here this trait might manifest as a desire to skip or shorten some of the tree lined miles, or to focus more on town days than trail days. I on the other hand am more likely to accept what is, which I’m not sure is always a great trait in the real world, but proves to be useful out here. If it’s hot, it’s hot, if it’s 11 more miles to camp, then so be it. In some ways the long sedate miles are what brings joy to this kind of hike. Or perhaps my longer athletic career, the fact that I’ve been camping since before I was one, means that I have a higher immunity to the specific brand of monotony that occurs when you’re outside for days or weeks on end.

I’m worried Starman is growing bored with this hike. I’m worried the PCT is losing its appeal and that he’ll want to quit. That months of the same activity, weeks and weeks of walking through trees are wearing him down. Quitting this late in the trail is not unheard of. At Crater Lake two hikers we’d recently met choose to pull the plug on their hikes. One because of nagging shin splints, and the other because he just couldn’t do it any more, his heart was no longer in it. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a dozen times: nothing ensures that your thru hike attempt will be successful, there’s no foolproof way to know if you’ll love it all the way to the end. But you can adapt as things change.

In the early afternoon we scramble off the trail onto a grey rock outcropping—the kind that might normally offer a view of an expansive valley were this not Oregon, so instead we’re looking into the crowns of trees. The light is both artificially and naturally warm, the fire smoke casting everything in an orange light, but also because the sun is lower on the horizon, signaling the arrival of fall and the fact that our trip will soon come to an end. We chat about how we might make these remaining weeks better. How we can enjoy the time on and off trail more, and what needs to change. The first decision is to shorten the length of this section by hitching into Bend from an earlier road crossing, this means fewer miles each day and a more relaxed pace. It also means that we’ll relinquish a future zero, but that seems a fair trade. We talk about how we can shift our hiking schedule to allow for a leisurely lunch break while taking advantage of the long, cool evenings. And how we can compartmentalize errands during town days so that our off trail time no longer means spending every moment getting ready to be back on trail.

Then we put on some classic American rock, music so nostalgic it can almost make you believe the good old days ever really existes, and cruise six easy downhill miles into camp. Yes, the only views are trees, but bathed in the warm golden the twang of Americana the green shines like a forest of fine silk. We pitch our tent near the shores of Charlton Lake, where a long peninsula extends into the shallow waters. There we laugh while hobbling into the water, our feet tender against the pumice stones that litter the bottom and wash the silty dirt from our legs. Paddling around in the warm water until the dust from the day sloughs away and sinks.

Windigo Road (mile 1878) to Shelter Cove Resort (mile 1906)

The crinkling hiss of sleeping pads being deflated pulls me from sleep. My body feels reluctant to return to the waking world but once I realize we’re the second to last tent left in camp I rouse myself to eat breakfast. Surprisingly I feel pretty good after our 30 mile day. Everything except my feet which feel like painful puffy loaves of bread. I was sleeping around packing things away and delaying the moment that I’ll have to put on my shoes. Eventually there is nothing to do but to walk and hope that the deep ache radiating from my toes to my heels eases. Starman on the other hand feels less enthusiasm for hiking today after our big day and we decide to take the Oregon Skyline Trail alternate into Shelter Cove which will put us closer to water all day long and shave a little distance off in the process. I don’t like the idea of cutting things short just for the sake of ease, but I also don’t like the idea of forcing unnecessary miles upon a tired hiking partner. Plus, I’m not sure a few additional miles spent hiking through dense trees and forest fire smoke is really going to make or break this hike.

And dense trees and smoke is exactly what we get. The trail is mellow and kind underfoot and we make good time below the flat white sky. Winding through a hall of mirrors where everything is trees trees trees and occasionally another hiker.

It’s mid afternoon when we pop out on the road and decide to make a go of hitching the last little bit into Shelter Cove. On average Oregon has proven to be a harder state to hitch in than California ever was. So we are completely shocked when a Mercedes Benz screeches to a stop on the shoulder and reverses back towards us. Starman and I are grinning at each other like confused children who have just been told Christmas has come early. As a rule of thumb, luxury cars don’t give rides to hitchhikers. They’re far more likely to give you the shrug of rejection that says “I would give you a ride, but I’m too rich and you’re too dirty.” Getting a ride in a luxury car is a unicorn, one which I never thought I’d see on this trip. But even I can be proven wrong.

Our driver is a Saudi Arabian woman named Ava who peels out into traffic before I can even get my seatbelt on. She tells us in accented English that once she saw that I was a woman, she had to stop—that women need to look out for each other. “Men” she says “they can manage just fine on their own. They have been given enough handouts just by the virtue of their gender. But women, we need to look out for one another.” In our short ride Ava tells us she has just moved to Oregon three months ago. That she’s here to get off the track that was laid out for her back home. “We’re alike in that way” she tells me “you and I. We saw what was the norm, what was expected of us and decided to do something else. Something that feeds your soul.” Her smile is contagious, splitting her warm face and crinkling her eyes. Her short dark hair is run through with copper highlights and billows in the wind from the open window.

When we arrive at Shelter Cove she uncoils her long limbs from the car, bare legs under tan shorts, long slender arms coming from a flowing white tank top. Starman and I hop from the car and Ava joins us, walking to the edge of the water to take a picture of her new home state.

Highway 138 (mile 1948) to Windigo Road (mile 1878)

I’m pretending I’m walking on another planet. Dark droopy trees reced in all directions, their high branches cover much of the grey-white sky, their long grey trunks plunging towards the ground like Greek columns. Shafts of slanting light tell me the sun is less than a hands width above the tree tops, colored a violent neon red from the smoke so thick that it creates bands across the sun. I could be looking at Jupiter instead of our familiar yellow ball, or maybe another red giant in another solar system with another set of planets, one where they just happen to have long hiking trails and pine forests.

My feet hurt so so bad.

We’ve been on trail for nearly eleven hours including breaks and we’re about to hike our longest day yet. 30 miles with 4,000 feet of both gain and loss. I known we’re almost there but I won’t celebrate yet. Finally, I can’t take it any longer, my patience snaps and I pull out my phone to check how far we are from camp. 0.8 miles from Windigo Road. I sag with relief, I’m almost there and then I can sit down and nothing will feel as good as sitting down.

We hit the road at 8pm and we’ve done it. There is a message board with only one note on a tiny piece of green lined notebook paper, on which someone has scrawled “welcome humanoids.” That feels about as good a welcome as any, I suppose.

Mazama Village at Crater Lake (mile 1821) to the junction of the PCT and rim alternate, I think. (mile 1839)

I think it has taken my brain four months to power down into thru hiker mode, and now that it’s reached this point I’m worried it is going to ruin my life. Or frankly, it has just occurred to me that a far more pressing worry is that I will fight against any urge to drastically change my life after the trail. In many ways the easiest path would be to simply return to the lifestyle I had before I started the trail. Change, especially that which falls towards the edges of the socially normative, requires a good deal of bravery and a tenacious belief that you’re making the right choice.

I’m not sure I can find a way to say this where it won’t sound pretentious and utterly privileged, but I’ll try my best to wrap this around to a coherent idea by the end of the post. And awaaay we go!

Boulder Colorado is a very high achieving town. Certainly athletically, but also academically and vocationally. This is in partly because during the Vietnam war young men were able to defer the draft while enlisted in higher education. As a result, college towns such as Madison, WI, Austin, TX, Eugene, OR, and of course Boulder, CO received an influx of mostly while, very libral, highly educated young people. And because Boulder is located near some amazing hiking, climbing, and skiing, many of those young people were also athletically inclined. After these second wave hippies graduated college many of them stayed around Boulder, grew up, got married, and had some kids. I am one of those kids, and I have inherited the norms of a society where it is very important to perform at a high level in athletic and intellectual pursuits. Winning age group awards at Ironman triathlons while owning a small organic dog food company while driving your two beautiful kids and equally athletic husband to weekend soccer games five hours away in Grand Junction is the norm in Boulder. It is not extraordinary to think that I would have an impressive career and do long thru hikes.

Unfortunately I have never had much direction or urgency when it comes to my career. A friend told me that when I was in third grade I told her maybe I’d drive one of those cars with ads on the sides, because I didn’t know what else I would do. Have I told you that story before? I’m pretty sure I have, but it succinctly illustrates how I so often felt as a kid. I was a pragmatic child, I could think my way out of every career I knew of—granted that was a limited number. I never wanted to be anything, not until senior year in highschool where I somehow won an award in a filmmaking competition and that was good enough to get me into film school. But only after that win did I decide I wanted to go to film school. I went because I appeared to be good at it, not because it was a childhood dream—which is what so so many of my classmates told me. But at 30, it feels like the end of stumbling through life without clear goals.

And here is the part where I bring it all back around. My concern is that I am too comfortable with the idea of returning to some version of a corporate creative gig in which I sell something, basically advertising, in order to fund the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. The second problem is that I have no idea what I would do alternatively, and coming in third with the bronze is the problem that I will need some source of income regardless. These concerns are all compounded by the fact that all I think about recently is wandering through a forest with a tiny little pack, and those two lifestyles aren’t really cohesive. Who do you know who is in a high powered career and also scampers off half the year to travel very slowly on foot?

In some ways this feels so cliche it hurts. White woman goes to the mountains, there she thinks a great deal and maybe has a vision in which a fox is her mother, she emerges months later, changed and fulfilled.

But what else? What the dingly dangly else?!?

The morning we walked into Crater Lake village the trail was a smooth, buttery brown, soft with fallen pine needles and so gentle under foot. There were great tall trees in all directions. An infinite depth of trees. A whole other world of trees and soft moss in the yellow sun with chickadees making their cheeseburger call. Keith was a bit ahead of me and I slowed my pace from his because I didn’t want to walk that fast, it felt good to move with less haste. It occurred to me how lucky I am to have these moments, these places and these people, how ratified this is. It made me want to walk away forever into those woods, to see what is on the other side of that hill and fold into the slanting light and green undergrowth.