Wild Country Found

Zero day in Kennedy Meadows – no hiking

I first saw Early Bird on the trail outside of Casa de Luna – I couldn’t help but think there was a person who was having a bad day, groaning and inching down the descent as she was. Later, from time spent with her and stories told to me by others, I would come to regard Early Bird as the toughest person on the trail.

The second time I saw Early Bird on the trail was the day we hiked across the LA aqueduct. I slowed my pace to walk with her, something she was unexpectedly grateful for. She told me that people usually just rushed past her, barely saying a word, and that she’d cried in her tent last night thinking that nobody liked her. How she’d started with two friends, but quickly fell behind their pace. Getting the trail name Early Bird because, in an effort to keep up with the people she started the trail with, she’d often started hiking long before sunrise. A retired Los Angeles fire fighter Early Bird would beam at her phone as texts and pictures from the men at her old station came in. She called them “her boys”, they were rooting for her, and now I was too.

I last saw Early Bird at a campground above the aqueduct, singing quietly to herself as she set up her tent; but I think of her often. How she’s willing to get up at two and three in the morning in order to get her miles in. How she’s often hiking alone because her pace doesn’t match the other hikers – either those she started with, or the packs of young people rushing past. She seems capable of marching along through circumstances that would push many hikers off the trail. I desperately want her to find her trail family, or even just one other person who she can hike with, I want her to finish as badly as I want to finish this trail myself. And I think she can, I believe she has it in her, she just might need a little help, as we all do from time to time.

Chimney Creek Campground (mile 681) to Kennedy Meadows (mile 702)

Today feels like the final chapter of a book that you’re not quite sure if you enjoyed. Or rather, a book that challenged your world view and which you will not come to fully appreciate for years to come. Rebecca Solnit’s writing, for example.

We woke up 21 miles from the road into Kennedy Meadows and spent the morning walking in and out of the accordion folds of the hills; as is so common in the desert. 700 miles. Today we’ll cross the 700 mile mark and the arbitrarily determined end of the desert. Intellectually I know this mile marker has little geographic significance, and yet the screaming emotional monkey side of my brain leaps against it’s cage, flinging emotional poo willy nilly. I think back to the stoic thrill of the first day, first town stop, first trail magic. I think about the hardest days where I often wondered what it would take to make me want to quit, what that breaking point would or will be. I thought about our good fortune with the weather, blisters, logistics; we’ve been so lucky on the trail thus far and I think it plays a big part in our currently good morale. And I laugh over the random nothingness that sometimes is my brain on walking. The fragments of song that chase their way around the inside of my skull for hours or days in ceaseless monotony, or the scenes of random interactions played-altered-replayed ad nauseum, or sometimes just seeing how long you can close your eyes while walking.

After lunch we finally come down from the hills and Rockhouse Basin explodes around us in all its splendor – clouded purple skies, golden grass, haphazard piles of white granite boulders. Different memories flood back from a long weekend Keith and I spent traversing through Domeland Wilderness, just across the river from where we’re standing now. Where we left the well groomed meadow trails to bushwack down ridges following the footprints of bears and drank from soot blackened Kern that taste like campfire.

The Kern river flows more clearly today. It’s beautiful here today, truly magical.

We almost reach Sherman Pass Road at 6:00 just as five cars woosh past. But by the time we walk the remaining quarter mile they’re gone, and after a half hour sitting on the road side without another car anywhere in sight, we accept the statistical anomaly and walk the mile to the general store instead. By the time we make it to Grumpy Bears Retreat the kitchen is closed and the milkshake I’ve been motivation fantasizing about during the day evaporates from possibly. I can’t even be mad. Somehow the extraordinary effort and low grade discomfort of the PCT has erased my ability to get upset over little things. Besides, the bar is still open and serving massive glasses of cheap wine for four dollars. After hiking 21 miles to the end of the desert I drink wine for dinner, surrounded by our slowly forming trail family wondering how I ever could be so lucky as this.

Hitch from Lake Isabella (mile 652) to campsite at mile 662

Ten hikers are riding the bus back from Lake Isabella to the trail at Walker Pass. We’re comparing trails hiked when an older man in front of me turns around and says “the Camino del Santiago, PCT, and AT give up elevation like women give up sex.” I’m already wary of where this is going, he continues: “the Camino is like a nun, never gives up anything. The PCT is a regular woman who gives it up the right amount, and the AT is a whore, going up and down all god damn day long!” He roars with laughter and gestures to his wife who is sitting in the seat next to him in agitated silence, “she hates when I tell that joke.”

Gee, I can’t imagine why.

I try to let it go and plan to avoid this guy in the future. We haven’t seen this couple until now, there’s a good chance they’ll pass out of our bubble and I won’t have to see them again. But later when we’re standing on the side of the road applying sunscreen the same guy shouts over to Keith, “hey Starman! What’s the difference between a giant, raging boner, like a huge hard boner and a Cadillac?” Keith, unsettled, just shrugs. “I haven’t got a Cadillac!” laughs the man before heading across the road and up the trail.

I round on the guys still standing around, “what a fucking creep, right?!” One guy shrugs and says “I like a joke as much as the next guy, but his delivery is terrible, too slow.” Yes, because the delivery is the real issue with the boner joke. Well spotted, you.

Immediately I’m equally mad and tired. Tired that the PCT, like so many outdoors spaces, is a veritable boys club, mad at the fact that men refuse to police themselves, mad that when a woman says certain behavior is unacceptable she’s labeled an over sensitive kill joy. I’m mad that folks will defend these behaviors by saying “not all men are like that” when movements like #MeToo and #YesAllWomen reveal that an alarming number of men are like that, and a fair few more offer complicit approval through their silence. And I’m tired of people offering up the hollow phrase “I’m sorry you had to deal with that” instead of examining their own actions, the times they condoned rape culture by not calling out a tasteless joke, the times they made a woman feel uncomfortable with their actions, the time they didn’t take “no” as a complete sentence. I’m mad that some people will read this and say “hey, let’s not get political, I come to nature to escape all that!” A phrase that is only said by those who are so shrouded in their own privilege both on and off the trail so as to be able to avoid politics completely. Why care about poverty if you’re safely middle class? Why speak up against fatphobic and ableist language when you fit societies standard of ‘normal’? Why care about police killing unarmed black men in their own back yards if your whiteness ensures that your every interaction with law enforcement ends in “thank you officer, have a nice day”?

People want to hide behind the idea that nature is for everyone, that the trail doesn’t care what you look like. But the reality is the outdoors have been built, branded, and all but reserved for a select few and they’re not all that kind to folks who fall outside their mold.

Do you need an example? I have them, I have more than I could ever possibly write down, most women/queer/fat/black/lantina/black people do.

We’re standing at the southern terminus and some guys turn to chat with Keith about first day milage, they block me out of the conversation, literally turn their backs to me, ignore my existence.

Taking a break at Boulder Oaks Campground when an older man comes up and asks Keith if we’re staying there tonight. Keith looks to me and I tell the man we’ll be hiking on. He tells me it’s uphill to the next campground. I know. It’s a ways away. I know. He won’t let the issue drop until he shows me his maps, points out every detail, as though I don’t have the exact same maps, as though he’s more informed of my abilities than I am.

Sitting around a camp fire one night I notice men blatantly taking over women and queer folks, interrupting them mid sentence again and again.

Filtering water at Tylerhouse canyon and discussing old Mel Brooks films a college professor says “they could never make that film today, it’s too offensive, and all the directors now days are pussies.” Ah yes, the old usage of female genitalia to refer to cowardice.

One night a drunk man old enough to be my father puts his arm around me and tells me I remind him of his college girlfriend.

Hitching into town an older man mumbles “that bitch” to every female driver who doesn’t pick him up. To the men he says nothing.

An alarming number of people still casually use the word retarded in a pejorative way.

At Carmen’s in Julian we meet a rad 19 year old hiker from Seattle. When she leaves the table to get a drink a guy informs me that they’re going to give her the trail name “Barely Legal.” Because apparently all women are divided into “can have sex with” and “can’t have sex with, yet” categories depending on age.

Hiking from a spring between Mojave and Tehachapi a guy launches into a 30 minute tirade when he learns I’m a P3 Hiker. He tells me he applied and was rejected because they wanted to pad the program with more women and people of color. It never seems to cross his mind that the choice might have been made on talent, and that he simply didn’t make the cut. He rants “they just picked a bunch of women and Asians, that’s not even what the trail looks like!” As though we all need reminding of the lack of diversity on trail.

Taken individually these incidents seem insignificant, petty even, which is what so many people fail to comprehend. Because it’s never just one man, one interaction, but a lifetime of being seen as weaker, less intelligent, and less talented than my male peers. Imagine being told in ways subtle and overt that the simple fact of your gender makes you less than for your entire life. It’s never just one man, and I’m not speaking from a place as just one woman.

I rage hike up the trail from Walker Pass, mad at myself for not saying something to the man on the bus. Feeling like a crap feminist and a bad ally. Why am I preserving his comfort over my own, over that of other women? Why can’t I speak up in the moment and tell people they’re behavior makes me feel uncomfortable? Am I really so worried about being liked by people like that? Have I really bought into the idea that the best thing a woman can be is nice? I feel like I’m failing myself, like I’m failing the hiking community and those who will come after me looking for a safe space and only finding a boys club. Already the PCT has forced me to be uncomfortable physically, so why stop there? Maybe this is the catalyst to growth that I need.

Campsite at mile 634 to Walker Pass (mile 652 + a hitch into Lake Isabella)

I’m just starting to think that Onyx is going to be a hard town to hitch out of when a big man driving a big white pickup truck pulls into the now defunct gas station across the road. He thumbs silently in the direction of Lake Isabella – our intended destination for the evening. I nod silently to the man and he waves us over.

“You two PCT hikers?” He asks by way of an introduction. We are, and we’re trying to get into Lake Isabella after hitching first into the tiny community of Onyx to pick up our resupply box and then being called further afield by the siren song of showers and restaurant meals in the substantially bigger town of Lake Isabella. After some shuffling of dog beds off seats we’re rumbling westward into the afternoon sun.

Our driver’s name is David. He’s clad in a blue flannel button down tucked into brown work pants, a large gold and silver watch glints on his wrist, catching the sun as he pilots the truck – the attire of a man accustomed to manual labor. A union carpenter of 40 years who just retired from working in the film industry, a foreman on prime time family TV shows, Murphy Brown, The Big Bang Theory among others. And after he retired he and his wife bought a ranch up in Keyesville, a piece of property and a house for them and their dogs. But that was a while ago. His wife passed away five years ago, and now it’s just him and the dogs. But maybe not forever.

David tells us he’s heading out to Bakersfield to visit his new girlfriend. His response to my inquiry about online dating is similar to that of so many in his generation; “oh, I’m not sure that’s for me.” To which he adds “I think if you’re on the right path, you’ll connect with the people you’re supposed to. And that’s good because then your paths are similar, it’s how you’ll connect to each other. That’s why I keep myself active.”

Active means volunteering on a desert trail crew and with the local adubon society. He answers my questions about the differences between crows and ravens – ravens are bigger and with a hooked beak, while crows are smaller and with a straight beak. And about a striking yellow bird we’ve seen on the trail recently – a finch. Outside the window the south fork of the Kern river cuts a lazy path through the flat valley bottom. In this riparian zone, David informs us, they see some of the largest flocks of migrating turkey vulchers, enough to warrant a festival each fall. So fitting, a turkey vulcher festival in a small town in the Sierra foothills. I’d like to come back and see that one day.

After 20 minutes David drops us at a trailer park and campground on the edge of town. He climbs out of the truck with us and stands by as we unload our backpacks before shaking both of our hands. Then he gets back into his truck and drives away, out of our narrative and back into his own. Like all of us, he is the center of his own movie and we are but small characters.

Kelso Valley Road (mile 616) to campsite at mile 634

“You know what would make this really good? Add some dark chocolate, like the not even sweet stuff. Maybe a hint of cinnamon.” Keith nods appreciatively.

We’re eating rehydrated Bear Creek chili that we’ve tried to doctor up by throwing in some spare beef jerky, a cheese stick, and a stray packet of crushed red pepper flakes that somehow found its way into Keith’s food bag after a pizza order who knows how many town stops ago.

With an excitement that breaks like waves across his face Keith asks “do you think we could do a backcountry chili cook-off and get people to participate?”

I consider. Keith is full of improbable, if not comical, ideas which he’s found of punting out in quiet moments.

“That’s probably not in-pasta-bowl.” I say with all seriousness. A smile, eyes breaking away from the skyline.

Keith and I have started a game of sorts in which the aim is to replace an arbitrary word with one that sounds similar, just to see if people notice and say anything. Turns out the answer is mostly ‘no’ if you say the replacement word casually enough and without laughing. For a while it was ‘grape’ instead of ‘great’ and now it’s ‘in-pasta-bowl’ in place of impossible. I have no idea why other than I’ve found myself finding miscellaneous means to entertain myself during hours spent walking.

A group of us are perched atop Skinner Ridge, eleven people in total – one of the largest packs we’ve seen on trail. Each tent site gingerly spaced along a ridge so Keith and I sit secluded and watch the light splay across the mountains that roll away from us like paper waves. From here we look out upon weeks of effort, distilled in a way that feels grandiose instead of meek.

It’s one of those special moments, handed to you by the trail at irregular intervals. It feels as though the desert is not keen on letting us go before she’s revealed her full self to us.

Zero in Tehachapi – no hiking

This post suggestion came from an awesome reader, Dharma. Thanks for reading and commenting! A lot of our zero days are very boring to write about since we mostly sit around all day, run errands, nap, and snack. So I’m always down to write about what y’all are interested in as it makes great zero day material.

Like I said, Dharma was curious as to what I’ve been eating on the trail so I’m going to walk you through a normal day of food and point out what’s been working for me and where I vary from the conventional wisdom. It’s also worth noting that I eat a gluten free diet which influences what I can eat and how easy it is to do my grocery shopping. This also means that I spend way more on food than Keith, since there is often only one type of bread or cookies that I can eat.

Breakfast –

I hate oatmeal, I really do, I also cannot eat normal pop tarts so that cuts out two of the more common hiker breakfasts. This means I’ve had to get a little creative when it comes to breakfast. When I started the trail I was eating cheesey grits and dried jalapenos with a cup of coffee. However, having to cook breakfast every day before you hit the trail really slows down your morning. Then I tried Nutella on a GF hotdog bun, which was ok except it’s really sweet and the buns turn into crumbles after two days and you’re left eating bread crumbs and Nutella four days. Now I’m mostly eating cereal/granola and dried milk with a cup of instant coffee. Which I’m sure my parents find hilarious since that was the last thing I would ever eat for breakfast as a kid.

Lunch –

Some hikers don’t believe in lunch. Not in the way people don’t believe in unicorns but rather in the way that they don’t believe it’s worth it, preferring to snack all day between camps. However, I don’t like bars that much and I really don’t want to die choking on a Snickers as I attempt to walk and eat at the same time. Plus, I’ve found there’s a huge morale boost in having a real meal to look forward to in the middle of the day. Since the beginning of the trail I’ve been eating nearly the same thing for lunch and I haven’t gotten sick of it. A GF bagel with salami, cheese, and mayo, with a side of chips and a candy bar if I’m still hungry. Hard meats like summer sausage, salami, and pepperoni will keep for at least a week without refrigeration and the same goes for hard cheese like cheddar. And you can almost always snag a handful of mayo packets from the deli counter. This sandwich makes me very happy. Very happy indeed.

Dinner –

(I don’t have any pictures of dinner because hunger)

Dinner represents the biggest variety in our meals, and the only meal we plan out each day ahead of time. You don’t want to find out you didn’t pack enough dinners.

When we resupply from a grocery store things look a little different than when we pick up a box we’ve mailed ourselves. On the first day out of town we’ll pack out something a little heavier, and that won’t keep for multiple days. Often this is sausage and potatoes, or beanie weenies (a favorite of Keith’s). The rest of the meals are some combination of dried starch and a protein. Mac and cheese and tuna, ramen and salmon, instant mashed potatoes and summer sausage, or an instant soup mix. You’re probably catching on to a bit of a theme here around tuna. It’s one of the very few protein sources you can get on the trail which isn’t a powder.

Now when we get a resupply box, dinners are a lot more exciting. Before the trail we ordered bulk dried veggies and meats and packaged them into individual meals such as beef ramen with buckwheat and yam noodles, spaghetti Bolognese, Thai peanut noodles with chicken, and been, beef and cheese burritos. All told we made 10 recipes six times each for a total of 60 dinners between 11 resupply boxes. Again, this is where we diverged from conventional wisdom which says to make your boxes on the trail and send them ahead as needed. But we knew we’d be able to make better meals ourselves and so took the risk.

Putting together a Resupply –

I’m not a fan of resuppling, it’s always laced with unnecessary stress and I worry that I’ll miss something important and only discover what I’m missing once I’m on the trail and it’s too late to fix it. For this reason I always make a shopping list! I really encourage everyone to do this, if nothing else it speeds up the shopping process greatly – otherwise you’ll spend an hour wandering blankly around and not buy anything.

After shopping I typically explode my purchases out, bag what needs to be baged and throw out any extra packaging. I’m not a person who portions out what I plan on eating each day, preferring to eat what looks good in moment and generally remember that I can’t eat everything at once or else I won’t have enough for the section. So far this method is working out.

Aaaand that’s about it. Let me know if you folks have questions.