Wild Country Found

Dick’s Lake (mile 1108) to Echo Summit (mile 1090)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1148

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.

Two strangers appear to be waving at us from the shores of Echo Lake as we descend towards the road under leaden grey skies. I wave back merrily because if nothing else, the PCT has taught me to embrace odd moments. It’s a good thing too, because upon closer inspection the strangers turn out to be Joyce and Mike—Keith’s friends from work who are here to give us a ride into town. We weren’t sure if they’d be able to meet us and I’m so grateful they’re here; saving us a hitch into town and ensuring that we’ll get to eat pizza. Heck yes.

After dinner and many pets of

Joyce’s dog Zeb, they abandon us to grocery shop while they head back to their lives in Berkeley. Goodbye friends, thank you for the food and company!

We are wandering the over stocked, over lit, and overwhelming aisles of Raleys South Lake Tahoe when I spy Hulk sitting at a table with two hikers I do not know. They have bad news, he and Lite Brite are getting off the trail. They’ve run low on money and are pulling the plug.

What do you say to news like this? I’m sorry, that sucks, oh no? Everything I can offer feels hollow and superficial. I imagine that the choice was an agonizing one, and that their good humor about the decision is something that has only bloomed once the sting of leaving the trail has mellowed. They say they’ll come back and finish the trail next year, and I really hope they do. I was so sure they’d make it to the end that their pending departure has left me feeling unmoored. This news comes on the back of learning that at least three other people we’ve hiked with are also ending their hikes. When we all started out in the desert it felt impossible to know who would make it and who wouldn’t, who would come to love the trail and who would hate it. I guess it’s still impossible to know.

Unlike traditional sports where there is a clearly designated winner and loser, a first place and a last, there is no reason that everybody can’t finish their thru hike. Or rather, there are many reasons people do not finish their thru hikes, but there are no set number of finish places every year. And because there is no need to scurry for a limited number of finish places, there is a desire for everyone to succeed. I wanted Hulk and Lite Brite to finish as much as I wanted every hiker I’ve met to finish. Learning that someone is getting off the trail strikes at something deep within me. Empathy, sympathy, sure. But if I’m being honest, it’s also a little scary. A reminder that we control less of the world around us than we’d ever like to admit. That sometimes doing your best doesn’t get you all the way to the finish line. That nothing, nothing is certain in life and that is the scariest thing to accept. I think many of us are taught that if we follow the road map and the rules we’ll arrive at life’s destination happy, unharmed, and fulfilled. It’s certainly a more comforting world view than the idea that we’re all just doing the best we can while roaming around through mostly chaos. Then again, maybe we’d be better served by learning how to float within the randomness of life, instead of striving to cling to what we think should be. Good luck Hulk and Lite Brite! I hope to see you in Washington next year, the trail magic is on me.

Four mile hike from hwy 89 toBarker Pass (mile 1125) to Dick’s Lake (mile 1108)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1130 (including the 11 miles between Five Lakes and Barker Pass which we did not hike.)

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 first hiked into the Desolation Wilderness in the summer of 2016. I was high on solo backpacking, using an old day pack and borrowed gear from Keith I had been spending nearly every weekend in the backcountry. Embarking on my most ambitious hike yet, I planned a circuitous figure eight loop—exclusively because it was the only permit I could get—that would traverse the entire wilderness in three days. The trip ultimately proved to be a comedy of errors. During my three days tromping around: I got more mosquito bites than I ever have in my entire life. Lost the trail not once but twice, which resulted in me walking the PCT past Middle Velma Lake repeatedly as I tried to find my way on low res paper maps. In the end I basically hiked in circles for two days before bailing early only to return to a car with a dead battery because I’d left the headlights on when I’d crawled out through the passengers side door. You see, the front fender on the car had been jammed back when I’d hit a deer on the drive up, and as a result the front drivers door wouldn’t open. Yes, I also hit a deer while driving Keith’s car, or rather it hit me as it sprinted to it’s untimely death upon the side of the vehicle.

At least I can honestly say I’ve become a more proficient backpacker in the intervening years. And have killed no more deer.

I have such vivid memories of this place that it feels as though the 2016 trip has been superimposed on the landscape around me. Campsites and missed trail markers remind me of settling on a site above the lake where in the morning I would easily find the missed trail that I was so sure didn’t exist. Or the side trail where I emerged from a swamp onto the PCT with no fewer than 50 mosquito bites—a number that would swell to 80 before the weekend was out. I counted.

Memory vignettes slide across the screen in my mind and I marvel at the feeling of fondness bubbling up for an experience which at the time felt a complete fiasco. Time has worn the sharp edges from memory and the misery of Type 2 Fun has been long ago morphed into the kind of good story you can laugh at. It also helps that I can see the improvements rendered on myself. More capable, better traveled in the outdoors.

What is more striking, however, is the different face of Desolation. Just a few weeks earlier in the season and the area feels wildly changed. Long snow fields hide the green grass and bright wild flowers of July. While rivers run hight, loud, and white from water that pours from the hills. Snow melting fast as we approach the longest day of the year. The lakes feel the same, a visual anchor of sorts. It makes me question, a little, my tendency to want to see everything, try everything just once. The pull deep within myself that wants to explore more than know intimately. I am not really the type to return to the same lakes in a high alpine valley and see how they change with the seasons. Sometimes I wonder if that is a mistake. Is it indeed better to know one thing deeply, or many things superficially?

Triple zero in Lake Tahoe with Keith’s parents. No hiking.

We’re taking three days off in South Lake Tahoe to rest and visit with Keith’s parents. On our last full day off the trail I got the opportunity to take a glider ride with Keith’s dad. Honestly, I wasn’t really stoked on the idea, I was scared. Which is odd because I really like flying. But with a glider it feels like there is no room for error. Just a tiny, fiberglass cabin with wings, oh and a 4,000 foot drop to the ground. However, being brave isn’t the absence of fear, it’s being scared and doing it anyway, and beyond that I wanted my time on and around the PCT to when I pushed myself to do new things.

Try everything once, right?

And now for some light house keeping.

First – thank you to everybody who is reading this blog, commenting or liking my posts, or sending me money via my tip jar link. I don’t always have to reply to every comment or get the chance to say how much your readership means to me. I’m very flattered that so many of you have decided to join me on this adventure. Thank you so much.

Second – if you can, I’d love for you to share my blog or Instagram with a friend of yours, or via your social media accounts. Even just reposting your favorite post of mine goes a long way towards drawing in new folks. After the trail I would like to continue writing, and maybe even find a way to turn it into a job – this will be a lot easier if I have a substantial blog and social media following. I know that’s a little bit of how the sausage gets made, but it’s true and you’re support means a lot. Thank you!

Campsite at mile 1138 to Five Lakes Trail (mile 1136, plus four miles road walk to highway 89)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1102

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.

This morning we discover that the Five Lakes Trail is less than two miles from where we camped. This is relevant because we are looking for a way to bail into South Lake Tahoe, and if we take this side trail paired with a two mile road walk we can be at highway 89 this morning. Yes. Done. This is it, we are heading into town a day and a half early.

This decision is based on a few factors, one being that Keith’s parents are meeting us in South Lake in three days time and given our slower pace due to the snow, we’re not sure we’d make it. When we initially planned this section—64 miles with 10,000 feet of gain in three days with unknown snow conditions—it was going to be challenging but achievable. However, when we only made it 15 miles yesterday that original plan became immediately unachievable. The second, and frankly more significant reason is that I am tired and on the verge of burn out and I just need a break where I can sit around and do nearly nothing. Not hours of writing, scheduling, and posting followed by hours of errands, emails, and phone calls—as an average zero day consists of. But a day of well and truly nothing.

I recognize that hanging out with Keith’s parents will be days off trail as well in which my body can recoup, but hanging out with your partners parents is never truly relaxing, is it. Even though I really like Keith’s family, especially his mom who I have often told him is especially cool. You’re a rad lady, Carol! I know it’s going to feel more like being at a friend’s slumber party where you’re having good time, but you know you need to be on your best behavior and volunteer to help clean up after dinner because your parents raised you right. And I don’t want to volunteer to help clean up! For a day, a day, I want to be my most basic, slovenly self.

We reach highway 89 at 11am. Three hitches with three different people, one Lyft, and 38 miles later we are posted up at a hotel on State Line looking up the best buffets in Tahoe. Heck. Yes.

Claire Tappan Lodge (mile 1153, plus 1.5mi hitch on hwy 40) to campsite at mile 1138

Total PCT miles hiked: 1100

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 snow gives way just a little, proceeding a violent flash of images which come, unbidden, streaking across the inside of my mind. A sliding foot, a tumbling body. Knees and elbows on snow, accelerating towards an unknown abyss. Then, fingers, nails scrabbling into the crusted ice frantic and impotent. Faster. Faster. Uncontrollable now. Before a rending stop, limbs tangled within trekking poles, pack split open it’s contents spilled out across the mountain side like the innards of a dead deer. Rocks jabbing soft flesh.

With enormous effort I rip my focus back to the present. Keith is saying something which is lost to the wind as he climbs easily away from me. It’s my turn then. I take one giant step up and ease myself onto the snowfield. You wanted this, I remind myself, you could have gone up and around the peak but you wanted to try the crossing, you wanted to push yourself. I shrink my world to the next step, then the next, and in this way I make my way slowly across the snow. Ramming my trail runner into the slushy snow to flatten a step, easing myself up a foot at a time, then repeat. I never look down, never look around at the view until the snow levels off and I can scramble onto some solid rock. Blissfully stable rock.

On the descent after the crossing I’m nearly shaking from the adrenaline. Maybe hiking is an action sport after all. I feel incredible! I can do anything! But, oh no, I can already feel the excitement wearing off and with it the tense muscles creeping in—tight biceps and back from gripping my trekking poles too tight, Bambi legs and sore toes from kicking steps. Across the valley another massive exposed snow crossing looms and I know I’m in trouble.

The next crossing isn’t as steep, but it’s sustained. Spanning a half mile along a steep face broken by just enough sparse trees for the occasional hip-deep posthole. There is no boot pack to follow, no trail to guide us; only Keith and I kicking steps and gingerly picking our way across the snow. I try, and fail, not to think about what might happen should I fall and need to self arrest with my trekking pole. The ultra light piece of metal and plastic in my hand suddenly feels comically flimsy. But there, through the trees is dry trail. My over tense body senses the approaching respite and tears bite at the corner of my eyes. Not yet, not yet I grit my teeth and will myself not to cry until I’m off the snow. I barely not really make it and then suddenly I’m gulping down air, immune to the beautiful spring day around me. I just want out. Not fifty plus miles of snow travel to Tahoe.

I am tired way deep down in my body. Tired in a incomprehensible way, I don’t know where it’s coming from, I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know.

We sit for a long time eating lunch. I text my mom over the spotty cell service, I just want someone to tell me it’s ok, and mercifully she does. Thank god for moms. But then the service disappears and we need to get moving. At 2pm we’ve only gone seven miles.

The afternoon passes like mashing buttons on a remote control, fast forward, slow motion, stop, play, rewind. Sometimes we’re shooting along on dry trail, the next moment we round a corner and the trail is gone, replaced by snow in all directions. Stop. Reroute. Find the trail. Move. Repeat. Sliding forward on slippery slopes, each step moving us as much forward as sideways. Towards the top of Squaw Valley ski area the best route across the snow is straight up. I lead, preferring not to have to watch Keith inch up first. If I keep moving I don’t have to think about what happens if I fall. If I’m in front, then I can kick my steps into this blank canvas of snow as deep as I need. The snow is mushy snowcone consistency until it’s not, cooled by the late afternoon shade into something almost too firm to kick my trail runners into, and we are forced to traverse sideways towards a band of rocks.

We crest the ridge scrambling with hands on rocks, feet punching deep into soft snowcone snow. It’s almost six and we’ve gone just twelve miles. Before us the trail winds in and out and between snow banks until they are lost to the trees which are in turn lost to the peaks on the horizon.

We’re going to need a bigger boat, or barring that, a better way forward.

Campsite at mile 1172 to Claire Tappan Lodge (mile 1153, plus 1.5mi hitch on hwy 40)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1085

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.

Only the footprints through the snow reveal the presence of other hikers this morning. Sometimes there is a distinct boot pack leading the way, other times it’s as though everybody is suddenly choosing their own path; footprints meandering off every which way. Other times the trail up and vanishes under the snow and we make our own path forward, following the trail as often as not. We contour up and over steep rollers, through and around tree wells, cross snow bridges where the burbling sound of water echoes up from below. Sometimes postholing up to my thigh, sometimes picking my way gingerly across ice, other times walking like a drunk, feet sliding out from below me. It’s a real fiesta of damp feet and small tumbles.

It’s not until early afternoon, as we crest Castle Pass that we see another hiker. 100 meters down the trail a couple walks a dog, then a single hiker with yet another dog! Except this one I’m close enough to pet, her name is Emma – the dog, not the person. A sweaty family of four trudge past us, a peppy father in the lead spouting encouragement to his disgruntled brood. Within a mile we’re passed by a lithe trail runner. The onset of June and the end of the school year has brought out the weekend and day hikers. Our proximity to interstate 80 and highway 40 make for easy trail access and we see dozens of clean day hikers enjoying the perfect spring weather. One thing I notice about all of these folks is their smell. It’s delightful.

I’m not sure that day hikers, and to a lesser degree weekend backpackers, realize how good they smell to thru hikers. Wafting scents of pine and cinnamon, lingering trails of clean laundry. I cannot help but take a deep breath as these wonderfully clean humans pass. And I hope that for their sakes, they don’t do the same when I pass. Because, and this is another thing I’m not sure day hikers realize, you never get used to the stink of being a thru hiker. Even though we had a shower two nights ago we still smell awful. Or rather, our backpacks do. Our one item that we use every day, rarely if ever wash in town, and unlike shoes, most folks will only use one pack for the whole trail. The resulting odor is something between piss and a beef stew that’s really heavy on the onions. It’s not a great look. You know how bad we smell, we know how bad we smell, and we know how bad other thru hikers smell.

And geez, do some of them smell. South of interstate 80 we start to see other thru hikers. The fast kids who powered through the Sierra early are making their way past Tahoe, we’ve been seeing them in ones and twos since Belden. This afternoon we see ten or more. The first wave of what will eventually become the primary bubble of hikers streaming north while we continue south. A big stinky bubble. May god have mercy on our noses.

Sierra City (mile 1195) to campsite at mile 1172

Total PCT miles hiked: 1066

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 forest leaving Sierra City feels like something straight out of a fairy tale. Dark trees grow out of dark rocky soil. The same green moss that has covered the trees through the majority of NorCal is somehow more sinister here, as though this place hasn’t seen human inhabitants in a long time. As though some foolish children are wandering into a witch’s cabin just beyond our line of sight. Harsh, whipping winds make the trees around us groan and sway, their branches heavy with spring buds. Arms reaching to grab unsuspecting passersby. While high above the same wind pushes the clouds across the sun, the light flashing like some drunk toddler got ahold of a light switch.

Stupid fairy tale murder forest I think to myself as the trail begins to climb up out of the valley and towards the snow covered peaks. Unbidden to any nameable emotion, I begin to silently cry and quickly quell the tears. It’s hard to hike, or do any kind of cardio, if you’re crying, and beyond that I’m not even sure what I’m upset about and I don’t really want to try and explain this grab bag of emotion to Keith, so hiking it is.

I just feel tired. Yesterday I spent the whole day writing and scheduling posts, running errands and doing laundry. By the time I got a chance to talk with my family it was late afternoon and just like that my rest day was over. I don’t feel rested, I feel overwhelmed, I feel like I want my mom and maybe a nap. Almost 30 and a few weeks of hard hiking have devolved me into a toddler playing with my emotional light switch. It was so hard to pry myself from that hotel room this morning when all I really wanted to do is sit on the old leather couch in my parents house watching Harry Potter movies with my family. But I’m pretty sure nobody finished the PCT sitting on a couch, so instead I have to make due with appreciatively eating the nice baked goods they sent me and then hiking out. When you’re feeling great and when you’re feeling terrible, the only answer is to keep hiking.

By early afternoon we’ve left the fairy tale murder forest behind and climbed up to the rolling ridges of the northern Sierras. Mules Ears are springing from the snow-soaked earth and all around us ridges roll into the distance. Instead of the endless pine forests of northern California there are lakes and white capped peaks. We roll over rise after rise, the wind doing its best to blow us off our feet. While above the clouds race by fast fast, the sunlight still a flashing disco ball. The endorphins from the climb have boosted my mood and I can begin to appreciate the dramatic landscape around me. Tomorrow is another day, and hopefully with enough sleep it can be a day without as much random crying.

PC: Keith, who took this picture right as the wind tried to knock me over.

A-Tree Spring (mile 1220) to Sierra City (mile 1195)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1043

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.

Last night a giant cliff loomed over the final climb of the day and beyond it lay a valley of lakes and steep crags. The trees had thinned allowing us to see these natural wonders as highlighted by the long, low rays of the retreating sun. I went to sleep cradled in the dark woods, hoping that after weeks and weeks of walled off views tomorrow will be different.

Today felt like we were finally beginning to break free from the endless trees of northern California. Sharp granite spires punched into the sky, white patches of snow glossy on their sides. Down below gem blue lakes winked sunlight back towards the sky. And finally, finally, we could see again.

Fowler Lake Junction (mile 1243) to A-Tree Spring (mile 1220)

Total PCT miles hiked: 1018

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.

A thousand miles feels like waking up every day with tired feet, tired body, soreness, and fatigue. Because, surprisingly, there is some truth in that fitness poster cliche and hiking never gets easier, you only get stronger. You can hike more miles, cover more elevation gain, and do it all faster, and so you do. And in this way each day is no easier than the last. Additionally, the change in strength as observed from the drivers seat of your own body is nearly imperceptible, there is no sudden arrival of fitness, no switch that’s flipped between desk jockey and mountain goat. The much talked about “hiker legs” more often feel like the carrot at the end of a telescoping stick, just a little forever out of reach. Hiking one thousand miles feels like sweat dripping down your nose, leaning on your trekking poles even though you just want to sit down more than anything right now, more than town food or a cold drink or a shower, my goodness you just want to sit. But you know that if you sit down in the middle of this climb it will just be harder to get up and so you hike on. Hiking one thousand miles is trying to stand and making the sort of deep gutteral grunting nose that would frighten children and the elderly. Moaning like two rinos making love as you extract yourself from the tent and hobble steps around your camp as your tendons relengthen into walking position.

Sometimes hiking one thousand miles feels like hearing someone utter a genuine amazed “wow” and having your attention drawn to a glorious sunset or river or mountain valley. It’s seeing the sort of natural wonder that you know, you just know, that if everybody could see the world in this light they’d all want to save it as much as you do; to swear their fielty to this irreplaceable blue dot instead of whatever is the political religious ideology du jour. Other times it’s picking your way down a slippery mud stream in the rain wishing you were anywhere but here.

Hiking one thousand miles feels like unenthusiasticly eating the only food you have left in your bag and being grateful that it’s there anyway. It is a dozen itchy mosquito bites under your sock and aching feet at the end of the day when you’re still two miles from camp. It’s cold mornings and hot, sticky afternoons. Bad farts and worse smelling shoes, salt crusted clothes, sunburn, pack chafe and raw spots on your hands from where your trekking poles rub.

A thousand miles feels like drinking the coldest, clearest water of your life, silently watching a sunset, the way the warm afternoon light hits the trees in that special way that makes everything look ordained with beauty. It feels like trying to breathe while laughing at bad jokes at altitude, like sharing snacks in the shade, like running away to never never land where you wake up every morning in this indulgent landscape through which you are obligated to do nothing more than walk.

Hiking one thousand miles feels like letting your spine sink into your crinckly sleeping pad your favorite person laying next to you as your tired body falls thankfully into sleep; the forest coming alive just beyond your thin tent walls.