Wild Country Found

Middle Trail Junction (mile 827) to South Fork of Kings River (mile 811)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1378

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.

Cheryl Strayed is accompanying me up Mather Pass. Around me the world of green living things is falling away, trees shrink back into the earth under the force of elevation, replaced by ancient crumbling granite where almost nothing grows. White clouds with bruised bottoms merge and break apart in the vast sky, casting a fragmented sort of light over the rock, shading it in a thousand kinds of brightness. A view that might have been formed by the hands of a deranged artist with scalpel and clay—the cuts in the rock so deep and permanent as to look intentional. A landscape forged by water and ice and rock and time. And through it all runs a serpentine trail, leading me ever higher towards a notch in this wall of stone where the rock cedes to the sky and we can scramble into the next valley.

In my ear Cheryl narrates “Tiny Beautiful Things” – a collection of replies from her time as the voice behind the Dear Suagr advise column. All of these people sharing portions of their stories, most of which are challenging, tragic, and beautiful. Though I suppose you don’t write into an advise column if everything in your life is dandy. In some ways it’s the bits of life we least want to live that makes the best stories. It’s the same reason why good news doesn’t sell. An engaging narrative needs challenge, strife, suffering, drama, and hopefully overcoming and triumph—that is, if the story is to have a happy ending. It’s why the outdoors make for such compelling narratives. What better antagonist than a mountain to climb, a jungle to conquer. The man versus nature narrative is so worn in some ways, full of mostly affluent white people—men historically and mostly currently—who venture out to challenge themselves in a very specific way.

The PCT certainly fits this trope. I certainly do as well I’m sure, in ways.

Upon crossing the top of Mather Pass we are suddenly alone and without the reality of other people it is easy to conceptualize the journeys of thousands of hikers through the presence of the trail. Concrete proof of the existence of humans, all following this well trod path across the earth, a line across a map. Each one of us the center of our own dramas and challenges, each one of us overcoming in a way that feels uniquely our own, our story.

Bishop (11 miles on the Bishop Pass trail) to Middle Trail Junction (mile 827)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1362

Due to our early start Keith (Starman) and I arrived at the Sierras when there was still a lot of snow, and decided it wasn’t safe to attempt a crossing given my skill level. We elected to flip up to northern California and hike southbound (SoBo) back to where we left off near Lone Pine – giving the snow a chance to melt out. During this flip the PCT milage will be counting down, but I’ll include a tally of our total milage hiked so that you can keep aprised of our progress in a linear fashion.

The sky above Bishop Pass is the most ethereal blue. Void of smoke or clouds it presses into the earth with an blanketing, radiating intensity. Painting the landscape in broad brush strokes of good kind light in which everything everything looks aesthetically pleasing. Happy aspen trees wave their little hands at us as we pass, their dusty white bark an extension of the granite peaks towering above us like the shattered edge of a grand bowl. Rumpled green and a thousand shades of blue, all shot through with white—belonging to bark, to rock, to snow, the shades of white and blue tie the world together. And somehow we can walk through it all on this nicely made trail that will take us just where we want to go. How thoughtful.

I leave Keith filtering water at a steam and meander towards the gaping maw of the sky. Below me is a gently rippling lake which from a distance is a burnished undulating blue that fades to hues of aquamarine as it presses against the shore. Behind me someone is shouting. No, they’re shouting at me. No wait, it’s Keith. Have I dropped something? What is wrong? No, he’s smiling and so are the people following him.

I stand in the cool shade as Pied Piper style Keith leads a group of four day hikers to me. The woman at the head of the pack is Andrea who reads this blog and recognized me by my voice as I walked past. She is utterly generous in her compliments and effusively kind at our chance meeting. It’s as though a book has snapped shut, pressing two scenes from the same story right up against each other. A delightful surprise with such minuscule odds of occuring. Had we stuck with our original plan and hiked over Bishop Pass heading into town instead of out, had we left town yesterday instead of today, had we dallied at the trailhead or left a few minutes earlier this meeting never would have happened and I would have lost a great unknown gift. What even is this sort of reality which places kind strangers in your path? How delightful to live in a world in which one woman writing on the internet can positively impact the life of another, if only with a few words for a few minutes.

As I climb towards the pass I think about Andrea and the kindness she showed me today and it dredges up two conflicting sentiments which have always lived in terse symbiosis in my mind. That, on the one hand, I believe that individual people are deserving of recognition and validation and that sharing our personal narratives helps everyone feel less alone. On the other hand, I recognize that most individuals are largely unimportant when held in comparison to the scale of seven billion humans and counting – even more so when compared to the scope and scale of the natural world.

Though perhaps that is the wrong comparison to make. Perhaps I am guilty of operating on an impractical scale.

From the top of Bishop Pass we cross onto a valley of arresting scope and beauty. In the literal sense that the scene into which we are descending demands that one stop walking to fully appreciate it. To stand in awed silence. To behold just one tiny piece of this world that so completely dwarfs our human form. Turrets of dark stone reach into the sky and simultaneously plunge with brutal efficiency to the valley floor. All at once I am cracked open and silenced, the mountains roar into the chasm within my chest that I am small small small. While at the same time letting me know that my smallness, my very human limitations are ok. I will never be as ever-present or humbling as a mountain, I will never impact thousands of living creatures the way a river might. But then why, tell me why should that be my aim? Maybe there is just the one, and maybe if I am lucky there will be a handful of humans who I can positively impact in some small way. Maybe that is all the majority of us can ever hope to accomplish within our limited lives. Maybe that’s ok, or maybe it’s enough to break my damn heart.

Zero in Bishop, no hiking.

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.

The end is looming, closer than I would like to believe. The approach of the northern terminus is like a stone thrown in a vast, calm pool—it’s ripples reaching out and out until even in the stifling heat of central California, I can feel them. These ripples tell me that as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, there will come a day when I will run out of time, of weather, of chances to finish my PCT hike. While that may still be months away, it demands action in the immediate.

As a result of both Keith and myself getting sick on the trail, and an impending schedule, we’re going to skip about 100 miles of the PCT. Specifically we’re going to skip the section between Mono Pass and Bishop Pass, along with the section between Kearsarge Pass and Mulkey Pass. And in all honestly the only reason I’m worried about this choice is because the online thru hiking community can be absolute garbage to anyone who they feel doesn’t thru hike according to a strict set of kinda arbitrary rules. But that’s also a pretty crap reason to make a choice. The bigger truth is that almost everyone we’ve met on the trail has skipped some miles here and there. Sometimes it’s due to injury or illness, heat, fires, or closures, sometimes it’s to accommodate weddings or graduations or the birth of a siblings baby, sometimes it’s because people miss their trail family and are tired of hiking alone. And it’s all ok. A thru hike is a made up activity with no winners or losers and nobody gets to judge or rate anybody else’s hike. It’s all ok.

So we’re electing to skip some miles on the PCT that we did while hiking the JMT last year. Because while the Sierras are a beautiful special mountain range, they’re also a repeat for us. And they are not the most important thing.

It is more important for Keith to be able to take the time off trail to attend the bachelor party and wedding of one of his best friends. Because those things only happen once, and you only have so many best friends, only so many special moments to share with them. It’s more important for us to heal from being sick so we can enjoy our hike, not unnecessarily abuse our bodies in the search of absolute completion of the trail. It’s more important, for both of us, to see new views in new parts of this wonderful country than it is to travel the same stretch of trail we’ve hiked on or near for years. And it’s more important for us to get to the northern terminus in time for Keith to return to work in late September. Because while this hike can feel all consuming, it’s not all there is to our lives.

Zero in Bishop, no hiking.

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.

The end is looming, closer than I would like to believe. The approach of the northern terminus is like a stone thrown in a vast, calm pool—it’s ripples reaching out and out until even in the stifling heat of central California, I can feel them. These ripples tell me that as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, there will come a day when I will run out of time, of weather, of chances to finish my PCT hike. While that may still be months away, it demands action in the immediate.

As a result of both Keith and myself getting sick on the trail, and an impending schedule, we’re going to skip about 100 miles of the PCT. Specifically we’re going to skip the section between Mono Pass and Bishop Pass, along with the section between Kearsarge Pass and Mulkey Pass. And in all honestly the only reason I’m worried about this choice is because the online thru hiking community can be absolute garbage to anyone who they feel doesn’t thru hike according to a strict set of kinda arbitrary rules. But that’s also a pretty crap reason to make a choice. The bigger truth is that almost everyone we’ve met on the trail has skipped some miles here and there. Sometimes it’s due to injury or illness, heat, fires, or closures, sometimes it’s to accommodate weddings or graduations or the birth of a siblings baby, sometimes it’s because people miss their trail family and are tired of hiking alone. And it’s all ok. A thru hike is a made up activity with no winners or losers and nobody gets to judge or rate anybody else’s hike. It’s all ok.

So we’re electing to skip some miles on the PCT that we did while hiking the JMT last year. Because while the Sierras are a beautiful special mountain range, they’re also a repeat for us. And they are not the most important thing.

It is more important for Keith to be able to take the time off trail to attend the bachelor party and wedding of one of his best friends. Because those things only happen once, and you only have so many best friends, only so many special moments to share with them. It’s more important for us to heal from being sick so we can enjoy our hike, not unnecessarily abuse our bodies in the search of absolute completion of the trail. It’s more important, for both of us, to see new views in new parts of this wonderful country than it is to travel the same stretch of trail we’ve hiked on or near for years. And it’s more important for us to get to the northern terminus in time for Keith to return to work in late September. Because while this hike can feel all consuming, it’s not all there is to our lives.

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.