Into the arms of Love

This morning Syd gave me a booklet of quotes she had collected. In purple marker she titled the booklet, "Words of Wisdom For You while catalogue shopping." One of the quotes reads, "She wasn't where she had been. She wasn't where she was going...but she was on her way."

Rather abruptly. I found myself in downtown Vancouver. Suddenly the only people who would make eye contact were the kind of folk with whom you don't necessarily want to be making eye contact. My familiar trail dirt was replaced by the skeezy scum of public places in a big city. A hooker leered at me from across the top of the cop car against which she was pressed while being cuffed. Men hooted at me in a variety of languages. China Town in Vancouver. Great. I quickly found an economy hotel with two locks on the door, no window and a small TV. I locked myself in and wondered. Where was I? Who was I? The identity which I had spent so many miles building; The confidence which I had earned. It felt like I was trading on a bunk currency.
The next day I jumped on the bus to Seattle. I was both frightened and in mourning. The palpable life of my PCT journey was over.

When I arrived at the Amtrack station in Seattle, Dan and Edward were waiting. As they wrapped their arms around me, the spaces of my self which had shrunk away, welled back up and I felt whole. I felt comforted. I felt loved. They had brought balloons and flowers and doted in a way which simultaneously made me blush and made my chest puff up.
Allow me to back track: through the end of the bad weather days, when my appetite was ravenous, and even through the final wonderful weather days on the trail when food fantasies were prevalent, I often ventured back to this All You Can Eat Mongolian restaurant where Dan and Edward had taken my family when we visited, some 5 years ago. I had eaten myself sick and when Anna came to check on me in the bathroom, she found me rejoicing at the realization that, having just emptied my stomach, I could eat all over again!
Flash forward, I was craving that restaurant again, but this time I had earned my merit and would hold my own. I had not yet worked myself up to asking the uncles to take me there. On our ride back to Renton, Uncle Dan glanced over at me and he casually suggested that they wanted to take me out to eat and there was this Mongolian place down the road from their house. It seems my stomach had been pulling some strings in the cosmic connections department!
The next day I found out that Rif-Raf and Shannon had just caught a bus down to Seattle as well. Now, here's the deal, we are used to coordinating rendezvous in tiny towns; places where crossing paths is all but inevitable. Our skill set was not gauged to Seattle caliber. However, with a great deal of patience and commitment from Uncle Dan, we met the boys at the bus station. From there he dropped us all off at Pike Street Market where we randomly encountered Princess and Lip and her parents. We chatted on the corner; a small huddle of familiarity in the midst of bustling indifference and sound pollution. The girls headed off, we bid our final set of goodbyes.
Then, as coordinated by cell phone contact, Frog and Nancy found us. It was so wonderful to see their faces again. Well, Nancy's face at least. I really only saw about half of Frog's, as he was sporting a beard which would put a Russian to shame (but I was very happy to see the half which I did=P). Seriously; the thing was epic. We ate and shared stories, as we had been separated from Frog for the final leg of the trail. I watched each of their faces, trying to memorize them. For a while I was incredibly aware as our time together grew shorter. Then I thought, "Fidgit, get off your little 3rd person observer could and BE with your people." As soon as I committed to that, time became irrelevant, but flew by anyway. Suddenly, our time was up and the uncles were there to take me home. Rif-Raf had a plane to catch. The others had hotels to find. It happened just like that. The family disbanded, already on our ways to being stories and cherished memories. Each moving into unrealized futures.
While the uncles were open to my spending more time in their home, I ran. The conclusion of a long trail was a new experience for me. I have arrived at and subsequently left many places, both physical and mental, many times but I don't know that I will ever become accustomed to it. I have, however, become familiar with the process and know that abrupt periods of sedation are open pockets for depression to ooze in and fester. Terrified, I scuttled on to a plane to Duluth, Minnesota.
Again, the voyage cast me adrift anonymous, but I moved with less trepidation this time. Well, actually I was just really distracted. See, I had taken an orange for the airport and decided to eat it while waiting for my flight. Now, Rif-Raf can attest that even when armed with my pocket knife all I end up with is a gore of pulp and juice running over my hands. Factor in airport security and my trying to peel this thing by hand and, well...having been so fixated on peeling the darn thing it wasn't until I was trying to tilt my head to approach the massacred corpse of orange at such an angle as to minimize the dribble on my chin that I noticed several other passengers watching, aghast. I hustled off the the restroom to wipe juice off my arms, elbows, chin, neck, etc. and just barely made last call onto the plane for which I had been "waiting" for over an hour.
So, yeah, if you're ever trying to escape from fear, a messy job of an orange is a good place to hide.

Syd and grandpa were waiting for me at the nearest point possible. Again I was ensconced in love. Again I was treated to all you can eat; Olive Garden soup, bread sticks, and salad. Heavenly. Grandpa insisted on informing everyone who came within 10 feet of us that I was his granddaughter who had just hiked 2500 miles. Again and again I blushed. I have never been one to shy from credit for my own accomplishments but I just don't know how to fill this one.
I have spent a week up at Syd's beautiful home on the lake. I sleep a lot; I meander out onto their many trails to walk, run, or bike. Sometimes Ruff and Ready (their two, tiny dogs) escort me, sometimes I go alone. Each day we are blessed with marvelous temperatures and blue skies. I have purchased a car, gotten my hair cut, and glasses; tools I will need to move into this next place/phase. At night I dream that I am still on the trail and wake up surprised to find myself in a bed contained within solid walls. Using a toilet has been an adjustment. Each evening I have to empty my pockets as I am still in the habit of keeping trash there. I am embarrassed at what a challenge it is to pedal a bike. I have to keep track of how much I eat. I have plenty of time for yoga and a beautiful stretch of flat, green grass looking out over a lake on which to practice. I get and give hugs and kisses several times every day. Syd and I sit up talking into the wee hours of the morning. Grandpa explains more about my car than I can hope to process in a single spell. He warns me of serial killing truck drivers and reminds me to wear my seat belt on the drive home. I head for Kansas City tomorrow.

I have been congratulated on my accomplishment. Certainly I am proud and fulfilled. I feel better connected to the source of my own strength and while moments can certainly still overwhelm and make me feel far from it, I am certain that strength come from within. Not defined by others' opinions or assessment, I recognize the infinite source of my own worth. Infinite, and in constant need of being fed and nurtured, allowed to breathe; open to helping and being helped, as that exchange is integral to healthy growth.
Yet, as I prepare to return to my home, to my family and friends, I am faced with overwhelming Reality. Those same people who effusively congratulate me on hiking the trail are wrestling with challenges a thousand times more difficult. Matters out here are complicated by so many factors. On the trail, my direction was always clear. The path was not necessarily always evident, but I could make an educated guess based on the lay of the land. Out here, in 'the real world', it seems like struggles are more akin to my experience on the 'knife's edge', being lost in fog. Some situations seem to stand with no real path, no resolution in sight, all we can do is fortify ourselves to push on through. Words of comfort fall, hollow and asinine before being spoken. I can only promise to stand close at hand and offer support, even as I have been given so much love and support throughout my life. If nothing else, together we can sustain ourselves and know that time will continue to do as it always has; we just have to survive long enough to be there for it.

...and then...

The weather gods smiled on us and beamed generous blessings on our endeavour. We awoke each morning to blue jay skies and hiked through crisp, autumnal air. The days would warm as we contoured along the valley walls. Climbing through the turning leaves of huckleberry and blueberry shrubs. Beneath the yellow pine needles of the larch against the evergreens.
It has been an incredible gift to move through such a wide variety of ecosystems through three seasons. The words for the colors in desert spring: red, orange, yellow; are the same colors present in a Washington fall. Yet, creating such a very different atmosphere. For weeks now the awareness of changing season has been upon us. Fortunately the weather remained moderate but days grew noticeably shorter at a quick pace. It remained dark and chilly later into the morning and the sun left us earlier and earlier each evening. As we propelled ourselves toward wintering quarters, so too did the animals prepare themselves. The mice had a growing desperation to seek and gather food; so strong an inclination that it outweighed their fear of being swatted. They became more aggressive in their advances on our food. Of Rif-Raf, Shannon, and I, all three of us ended up with holes in our tents. My visitor fortunately just came in to make a few laps and as too courteous to gnaw into my food. However, he was also too prim to use his entrance door as an exit and so chewed a second doorway less than an inch away.
Shannon seemed to be engaged in battle the most. One night he awoke to hear a visitor taking a tour of his tent and so, as an act of defense, he ate his entire 'crack bag' (a ziplock bag filled with an assortment of hand picked candies) because, well, better him than the mouse. In the morning we all approved of this as very sound logic.
Rif-Raf was our most aggressive warrior; even going so far as taking the life of a rodent nemesis. Again, while the rest of us certainly cold sympathize with his justification, Shannon and I were more likely to attempt to lure them away or buy them off, offering up peanuts, dirty pots and other tidbits to try to distract them rather than to engage in direct combat.
The bears also have been preparing for winter. On one particular, drizzly difficult day Shannon and Rif-Raf and I were stopped for a break, trying to figure out how we could catch up with Frog who was some 12-20 miles ahead of us. As the prospect of the mileage we would have to push weighed upon our weary minds and bodies, I felt drained. Maxed out. But my boys were there and spoke gently and encouraged me with their own sense of determination, so onward and upward we trudged. Up into the hanging meadow bowls above the trees. Into fields of ripe and overripe berries. There we quickly came upon a momma black bear and her cub. They were a safe distance up the hill so we moved slowly and deliberately, speaking to them and snapping pictures. Not but five minutes later, just as we began to regain speed, there appeared another berry field patchworked in the brightest shades of fall and dotted by three large, black, moving spots. As we came closer, the features on the bears stood out. Judging by their sizes and behavior it was a large momma and cub, while the third figure seemed to be a single male. When they became aware of our presence and made an initial pretense of running away, their heavy coats shambled around their bodies, the black catching in the sun, giving off tints of red and brown. Quickly exhausted by the effort to run, we could hear them huffing heavily. Quizzical, long faces watched us warily; even as we did the same to them.
The next morning we continued through the high bowls (which were actually only at 5000-6000 feet but feeling much the same as 10,000 feet would in the Sierras). We passed through an area densely populated by unafraid, silver backed marmots. As we began to traverse down, we passed a young single female, not more than 3 years old, foraging on her own. Within 12 hours we had each more than doubled our bear sighting counts. It was spectacular.

As we came within days of the border, our motivation changed. Every day we gave thanks for the blessing of the weather; how could such a gift not be construed as heavenly approval of our efforts? A reward. A goodbye kiss. With all the same passion and melancholy. I paused often, looking backward and forward. Rotating slowly, attempting to infuse myself in that place and moment thereby allowing it to emblazon on my soul. I do this often throughout my life, in special moments. It never sticks as thickly as I would like but it does leave an imprint.
Then, at 8:07 pm on October 1st, there we were. Just as night fell we began down a small group of switchbacks. While our eyes had adjusted to the dim and we were not wearing our headlamps yet, a bright light shone around from below us. We wondered whether it might be a border patrol of some sort. But no, it was just little Miss Pony, our friendly local pyro. She had just accidentally thrown her pen into her campfire and returned to the monument to dig another out of the receptacle there. The marker which stands at the northern terminus is identical to that at the southern. The only difference being that rather than standing in an open desert near barbed wire and a 15 foot tall corrugated fence, this one is placed in the middle of a road wide strip cut out of the thick trees, running up and across the hills; the only demarcation of a border at all.
For just a fraction of an instant was I able to taste the reality. Tears welled up and I laughed. So this is what I had been working so hard for all of these months. For this, I had risked my life. It was just exactly right. Just that tiny hint of comprehension and then it was gone and I was standing in the forest at night with my friends celebrating an accomplishment which we had all admitted was beyond our comprehension.
That night, as we sat around the campfire I looked at those around me and gave such a deep thanks. I was incredibly honored to be finishing the trail with three individuals who now had two thru-hikes under their boots. To be one of them and to share this with each and all.
The next day was another 8 miles to the nearest civilized establishment, Manning Park Canada. It, as with the following couple of days, was anticlimactic at best. In Manning Park we encountered other hikers and sort of moved around, purposeless. Who were we now? Why bother to tell our story to the tourists passing through? They didn't seem to believe and even when they did, their congratulations felt almost innocuous.
Shannon explained it best when he spoke of each hike as being a life in and of its own. The idea is born and, with time, gives way to action. The experience of investing in its life. The blessings and tribulations. Gaining from each. We grow and learn within it and are defined by it. It matures and we gain confidence, it becomes routine and we are good at it. Then we recognize that it is not infinite, that soon this too shall pass and so we seek to hold on to the moments. Then. It's over. And we mourn. And we celebrate. And we gather ourselves together and each of us asks, "where to from here?"

In the same way that dismal weather can make the distance between yourself and hope seem like an eternal expanse, a single day of sun obliterates the drear. To elucidate this difference, I must go back a bit and re-itterate some matter which I have covered in a previous post.

I had pushed through weeks of rain and loneliness, my first respite came in catching up to the boys. It had been a day of constant overcast and drizzling misery. I did not want to stop to fill my water bottles because, well, who wants to drink cold water when being drenched in it. Furthermore, my Aquamira solution needs five minutes to mix and sitting in the rain, waiting for that did not appal to me either. Against my better judgement, I just pushed on. Trudging through the pools of mud on the trail. It was really a crap-shoot whether to just walk right through the puddles on the trail or to tiptoe through the sopping grass and shrub on either side. I climbed, I dropped; I climbed, I dropped.
Going on five hours of hiking without a break, without drinking, trying to convince myself that the power bars I was eating were enough. I began ranting out loud; airing frustrations I had with middle school nemesis's, re-creating mighty feuds in which I was the only contender. These were not amoung my proudest moments on the trail, but they were very real and present and powerful. I learned that there are moments when you have to take the joy and power of your spirit and hug her small and tight into the deepest spot in your bosom and allow the storm to rage around it, so long as the winds of that storm are blowing you forward, maintaining momentum. Knowing that soon they will pass and your true self will take the helm again. I was absolutely focused on forward momentum because I knew I needed my family if I was going to make it these last couple hundred miles. Because I know I am not crazy but sometimes it feels better just to let yourself act that way, I did. I laughed defiantly at the skies, I got the joke and was not amused.
Yet another climb and I was looking down at the trail in front of me. Suddenly between my feet was a note in a plastic bag, it said "Fidget camped here." I was livid, there was another Fidget on the trail? What was she doing camped here. I looked over and the offending character even had the exact same tent as me. Wait, Shannon had the same tent as well. Wouldn't that make more sense? Reason began to seep back in to my thoughts. I hurried over and sure enough, Shannon's head popped out and smiled up at me. I grinned back and informed him that I had gone mad temporarily but as soon as I drank a liter of water I would be much better. He allowed me that space and quickly I brought myself back to a level of lucidity wherein I could rejoice at having caught up.
There is a reason these people are called trail family. It is something which goes beyond what words could ever hope to explain. They are your sanity when you just can't hold on. They are your motivation when you have lost sight. They are your sense of humor when you've gone flat. Because of them you are not alone. Because of them you know it is okay to struggle, because we all struggle and we all band together to pull ourselves through. Over these final weeks we have often discussed a truth which has become abundantly evident to us; that humans are social creatures. We band together and generate a strength greater than that which any individual could.
In fact, the weather gods smiled on Shannon and I's rejoining and we awoke the next morning to clear blue skies. By early that afternoon, we caught up to Frog and Rif-Raf along a beautiful ridge, looking across at the mighty Northern Cascades, mountains which struck a chord in each of us. A chord which ran as deep as the valleys themselves. From the forested gutter where the trees grew and the rivers ran, up the talused bowls carved out so many years ago (yet quite young in a geological sense) to the peaks which comprised the horizon. The range across the valley ran like the graph of a heart monitor.
We dropped down into the bottom of the valley and followed along the river down to a connecting road where we were able to get into Skykomish. There we rested at the Dinsmore's. I got to see LaDeana and the girls. We ate at the welcoming little cafe in the minuscule, once upon a time logging town, and hid from more dreary weather.
On the morning we had planned to set out, the boys were all packed and went to the cafe for breakfast; I felt uneasy and stayed at the Dinsmore's. All the other hikers were out and about so I had the garage space which was our turf to myself. I began to clean and it made me feel better. I also felt the tired weighing down. When Rif-Raf came back to see if I was ready to go, I informed him that I was not, that I would try to make it out that afternoon and catch them but I just couldn't bring myself to move. He left and then returned with Shannon. They had decided to stay with me. Frog pushed on, aiming to make his set finishing date and meet up with Nancy.
Shannon, Rif-Raf and I made it out the next day. We sat under a tree in a mountain meadow peering morosely out at drab skies. The will to push on was waning. The weary was heavy on us all but forward we pushed. As we never seemed able to make it out of camp before 7:03 am (no matter how early we awoke), we pushed late, often hiking into darkness.
It was difficult but there was such strength in being together.
The terrain continued to be challenging, especially as we came into a valley which had been washed out by a mud slide recently. While Yogi's guide waned us of hundreds of massive blow downs and no bridges, it seemed the forest service folk had been hard at work and the trail was mostly cleared and rebuilt, the only challenge was the Suiattle River, as there was still no bridge. I crossed quickly on a large log which swayed underfoot, Rif-Raf and Shannon thought more carefully and chose a log further upstream. I watched from the far bank as they meandered up along the water; I came to appreciate how minuscule we truly are as they passed behind massive trees which had been uprooted and thrown downriver like matchsticks in the flood which had passed.
During one of these days we sat high up along the mountain ridges, in the wind and again under threatening skies. We all felt beat up and tired. We took a miserable break in a little wind tunnel area of the trail and then moved on again, coming around into mountain bowls, patchworked with fall colors and berry bushes. As we came into the first, I looked uphill and saw a momma black bear and her cub. Five minutes later we passed above another field where three bears grazed lazily. It was such an affirmation of our efforts. A gift, encouraging us forward in our efforts.

September in Washington

The rain keeps tumbling down. Some days ago I was hiking with Sneezes and Hot Mess. As we traversed the ridges of the cascade mountains through swirling fog and spattering rain, they informed me of the hiker coalition which they have formed. It is called T.H.A.W. Thru-Hikers Against Walking. A school of indoctrination which encourages hikers to walk as little as possible. i.e.- Never go off trail for water.
Never go more than 50 feet off the trail to camp.
When in town, acquire centrally located accommodations which minimize the amount of town walking, as those miles don't count.

Truly what is getting most of us through these last hundreds of miles is allowing ourselves these sardonic ruminations. Taking comfort in that we are all in the same boat. (With the amount of water running down the trail, we may as well be in boats. Inner tubes at the very least.
The terrain has again become difficult, making a 25 mile day a challenge to cover, but we do it. At this point in the game, with the aid of power bars, I can walk 4-5 hours without stopping. I do this because stopping means getting cold and even more wet. Once I start walking again, it takes at least 45 minutes to get myself thawed enough to be able to use my extremities. String cheese wrappers are the bane of my frigid fingers. Whoever is the fellow who labels things 'easy open', well, I would like to bring him up here for about a month, just to get a taste. Let him try to work buttons and buckles with numb, weak fingers. No matter how many times or how much you focus on sending the commands to your digits, they just won't work. Let that guy try to open a wrapper or packet of hot chocolate. Then, may he spend the rest of his life trying to peel shrink wrap off of CDs.
Despite the daily challenges, or perhaps in light of them, I am keenly aware of the tremendous blessings. A few days ago I caught up with my trail family. Rif-Raf, Shannon, and Frog were three faces which brought sunshine to my heart when I caught them. Other dear trail-friends as well, such as Princess, are moving in the vicinity as well. Recollections of encountering the people around me, thousands of miles ago lends a certain strength to our bond. This is made even stronger by the fact that we are all fighting our way through the same conditions. I cannot emphasize the power of community enough. Certainly without them I would not be at this point today.
Another major blessing are my blood family. The night I rolled in, LaDeana and the girls came up to see me. Having already had a full day, they loaded up into the car and drove well over an hour to bring me cheer, and love, and food. We chatted over pizza and I drank in their beautiful and brilliant faces. Listening to the girls' laughs and seeing how they are growing into such kind, polite, generous human beings. I am honored to be a member of such an astounding family.
A final source of strength for me, is you all. Knowing that you stand behind me, encouraging, hoping, supporting. I cannot begin to explain how many times my thoughts wander to those back home and around the world who are rooting for me, and at the moments when I cannot find the strength in myself to push on, well, I draw on you.
I head out under cloudy skies and banks of fog, beginning the final push. I am terrified and elated. Nervous and hopeful. Sometimes all at once. While I know I have walked 2475 miles to get to this point, I cannot wrap my mind around it as a unified concept. I know I have done it. I have been getting up and walking as far as I can every day for 5 months. It makes sense, but that does not necessarily lend any conceptual grasp. So I suppose I will just push on and make of it what I can. Wish me strength. I'm going to need it.

Friends

Last week I made my way down out of the clouds and into the town of Packwood. Once a major lumber center, the industry has all but died off and the mills all shut down about fifteen years ago. With a population standing at less than a third of what it once was, there was an almost dismal feeling to the place. I was, however thrilled to find a room at the Hotel Packwood for a great price. The owner was an incredibly kind woman who took my laundry and gave me a pair of loaner clothes so everything could get washed. I expected Andy to arrive that next morning and so went to bed by eight.
At 12:30 that night there was a knock on my door.
"House keeping," the voice called.
I stumbled to the door and cracked it slightly. There stood Andy!
The next morning he somewhat timidly reported that he had sprained his ankle some three days before, but hastened to report that it was feeling a lot better and was healing quickly. We took the rest of the day in town, buying food, going over his gear, and testing out his ankle.
The next morning we headed up to Chinook Pass. With him, Andy had brought good weather; clear blue skies and ideal temperatures blessed us. Also, the terrain was quite forgiving and the floor of peet was easy under our feet. By 5:30 we arrived in camp. We built a fire and roasted brauts and then had hot apple cider. The next day we tried a few more miles and again, all went well. We arrived at a beautiful cabin, open to back country wanderers at a spot called Government Meadow. Inside we found a five gallon bucket with all the fixings for pancakes. The next morning we built a fire. As we tried to get the wood dry enough to burn a bow hunter and his son appeared out of the trees. Aside from other hikers, these were the only other significant group of folk I have seen out here. Always moving quietly, camouflaged, and knowledgeable about the trail and thru-hikers, they were exceptionally pleasant folk to chat with. This gentleman in particular was clearly very familiar with the area. He spoke of 'patterning' the animals and was clearly a very responsible steward of the earth. I was proud to get to spend the morning chatting with he and his boy. As they prepared to leave, he gave us a few chocolate bars and snacks. Yummy.
Not having taken a trail zero day in some time, we decided to enjoy a day of lounging and to make sure Andy's ankle healed up well. A few other hikers moved through and I began to sense our community banding together, encouraging each other through these final stretches. Truly, no matter how the time has been spent, anyone who started the trail at the beginning of the summer and is still out here, has some serious gumption in them and we are all celebrating that.
The next day, the Washington weather was back and Andy pushed his first 20 mile day (over much more challenging terrain than we had yet encountered. He persevered like a champ.
The next morning we climbed again, with only 8 miles left to the pass. A few miles before we stopped at a road crossing at windy gap and a buddy from Philmont years past, Also Andy, and his wonderful lady, Leda, and their ever charismatic dog, Hobbes, rolled up and did trail magic for the afternoon. Feeding hungry hikers is no easy task! Not only are most of our road crossings rather remote, but the weather is not always ideal. Yet, here they were, all smiles and hugs. As my hiker friends moved past I began to feel so saturated with good people. Truly, my friends and family are the most wonderful people and to think of how much support and love they have given. Well, it is overwhelming to say the least.
As Leda put it, she and Also Andy kidnapped Andy and I, bringing us down to their house and feeding us some of the biggest, juiciest, most delicious burgers I have ever encountered. Today we ate an incredible breakfast scramble and they gave Andy a ride to the airport. I have been sitting at their computer for some hours now working on the posts and other business.
It is difficult to conceive but I must come to terms with the fact that I will be finishing the trail in less than two weeks at this point. I am beginning to work on some of the details of homewardness, etc. and that is actually what I am going to do right now.

The Sky is Falling

Into Washington I wandered; under the stereotypical cloud cover. A high ceiling which periodically misted or spat rain but largely just maintained a damp environment. The trees, lichens, and mosses reflected this nature. Fallen trees in varying states of decay, being reclaimed by the forest floor; coated with a frosting of thick, green moss. Fall colors appeared on the trees around me. Hues of red and orange carpeted the foliage around my feet and along the trail. By the second day the clouds had dropped and I moved through a fog. I can say that I know a very narrow swath of southern Washington. Due to private land issues the trail made its way up and then promptly back down mountain sides.

I was pushing miles to try to meet Andy up in Packwood and so, as the ground was taking longer to cover, I found myself walking late into the evenings. Where I used to be able to walk without a headlamp until about 9 pm, the shorter days made themselves felt. By 8:30 I was in total darkness. While I had always enjoyed night-hiking with my trail family, it was a very different thing when hiking alone. In particular, one night I was pushing to the top of a mountain and came across a sign labeling the area into which I was head an 'Experimental Forest', the 'Cougar Creek Branch'. Certainly an innocuous enough sign but under cover of night my mind wandered to the island of Dr. Moreau. Suddenly I couldn't move fast enough and setting up my tent was a race against fantastical creatures. The next day I came across a couple of trail angels who did trail work in the area and we were able to laugh about it.

Having been out here this long I am coming to know my own physical and mental limitations. Somewhere in southern Oregon, my will was tested to its limit. About 5 miles out of Ashland I sat down on the trail side and began to cry; nothing specifically was getting to me, it was just everything. Rif-Raf sat with me and explained that this was a challenge which we all faced at that phase in the trail. Somehow, knowing that this was not something particular to me made it more manageable. Over the next couple weeks I spoke freely of the difficulties I was dealing with and began to cast them in a light of humor. Almost every member of my trail neighborhood were in the same boat. Knowing this was something we were all facing gave me strength.

By Washington, it was my resolve being tested. After a week of moving through constant fog; having circled Mt. Adams without a single view, I began to wonder why I was doing this. Why push on through all of the wet and cold and heavy. Why, why, why. I came up with a variety of reasons and responses but the mantra which it came down to was, "because it matters to me." Because I now know this is something I can do; it is just a matter of proving it to myself.
At one point I was headed through the Goat Lakes Wilderness, a reputedly gorgeous area (of which I had seen nothing). I had been pushing long miles for a week without my trail family around and it was beginning to wear on me.

I began on an extended uphill late one afternoon and felt the full weight of it. Days of pushing through brush which had soaked all my clothes and were scratching and grabbing at my legs. Bleak weather and physical, emotional, and mental wear. I needed to know someone Up There was on my team. I called out and asked for some sign of support. Anything. I trudged on for a mile; disillusioned and alone. The second mile I was choking back tears. At the end of the third mile I came up into a pass at about 7000 feet. There, an entire herd of mountain goats waited for me. The kids cavorted, young bucks wrestled, mothers protected, and then there was Billy. He lay atop a high rock and watched the herd; eyeing me. For just a moment the clouds broke and the colors of sunset reached across the valley below me. I felt refreshed. I felt strong. I knew my way was blessed.

Butt Fingers (Fidget's dad again)

One more thing I'd like to share about our past eight days that didn't fit very well into the spirit of the other post. Trail names. As you know by now, trail names are not chosen by the hiker, rather they are conferred by other hikers. Thus Bethany's restlessness on the night before her first day on the trail earned her the name Fidget.

Some of the through hikers I had the privilege of meeting are Non-stop which refers to both his hiking and talking. Maybelline, who carries makeup at the top of her pack. Sweet Sixteen, who is really 22 but her dad hiked the first part of the trail with her and told all the guys she was just 16. Thump-Thump, the sound made by an indecisive squirrel when it gets run over. (She has a hard time making up her mind.) Micro-burst, a tiny young lady who is a bundle of energy. Interestingly enough, she, like Fidget, had gone from college to work in Montana and Alaska before coming to hike the PCT.

I felt proud to hang out with these through hikers, even the guys like Non-stop in dirty shorts with a scraggly beard. At the posh Timberline Lodge about eight through hikers held down a table or two from five in the afternoon till 11 PM. While the other guests walked about with their collars turned up and their designer outdoor clothes, the thru hikers gave a distinct air to the place and I could see some of the posh patrons leaning in to hear the stories of the trail arising from our group. Several of this group pulled me aside and told me things like, "Fidget is my favorite hiker out here, she has such a great positive attitude." And "You should be proud of your daughter, she kicks butt on the trail. We have to push to keep up with her." Whenever she would come upon a camp or a group of other through hikers, laughter was soon heard.

Let me get to my point. How I got the trail name of Butt Fingers. Prior to my arrival, she was telling a group of through hikers about a rappelling accident I had while working at Philmont back in 1980 where I rope burned my hands to the point that I needed skin grafts on six of my fingers. My coworkers back in camp were surmising where the skin for the grafts would come from and thus dubbed me with that moniker. (It was actually taken off my thigh.)

The name was a hit with the through hikers, who are a rather scatological bunch as it is. And my first night on the trail, as I was crawling into my tent, a couple passed by and after seeing I was Fidget's dad, called greetings to Butt Fingers. Fortunately they knew me well enough that when we'd reached the more refined Timberline Lodge and Rif-Raf called out to me, he had shortend my name to "Fingers."

Solitude, Hospitality and Prayer (by Fidget's dad)

It would be hard to exaggerate the significance of a father and daughter relationship. I'm blessed to have two outstanding daughters who shine like twin moons over my world.

The past eight days with Fidget, braving freezing temps, rain, snow, thousands of feet of ups and downs, as well as walking in the shadow of Mt. Jefferson, the Three Sisters, Three Fingered Jack, and Mt. Hood guided us into a new range of interactions.

When the newspaper reporter asked her what led her to take on a 2650 mile challenge she said, "When I was little my dad would take me hiking and challenge me to push a little harder and go a bit higher than I had before." That is a good description of one role I've played in her life till now. Being ahead of the kids and leading them to be and do more. Also walking beside them and congratulating them and encouraging them. In the very early hours of August 28th a seismic shift in our roles began. The first was when the taxi from Redmond/Bend Airport dropped me off in front of room 31 at the Cascade Lodge in Bend. The door was opened by a tall athletically built lady in a dress that showed sculpted, muscular legs and a lean, powerful torso.

After overcoming the surprise of how different she looked from the last time I saw her, we made plans for the AM and crashed. I'd been up working and traveling for the past 21 hours and Fidget on the other hand had upped her pace to 30 - 38 mile days over the past week to meet me in Bend.

The next morning, after breakfast and dividing the food I'd brought and giving Fidget her passport and border crossing papers for Canada we were picked up by a trail Angel, Loyd Gust. He dropped us off at Elk Lake, 172 miles from my terminus, of Cascade Locks on the Oregon/Washington Border (which is also the Columbia River). As we were saying good-bye to Loyd we realized we had forgotten to buy fuel for our stoves. Fidget still had a bit in her bottle and Loyd offered to meet us in a couple of days at a road crossing with more.

We set out needing to hike 25 miles a day to make it. It was chilly and drizzling . We occasionally glimpsed mountains in the Three Sisters Range through fog and mist. We were going over old lava fields interspersed with high mountain meadows on narrow paths which were worn by decades of horses and hikers into troughs about 6 inches deep and 12 inches wide. After being passed by a cavalcade I was distracted by watching them and fell. I heard a crackeling noise, felt a sharp pain and saw my left ankle at an unnatural angle. Fidget helped me up and after determining that nothing was broken, encourage me to keep on. This had happened to her many times especially at the start. She offered me a trekking pole which I gladly accepted. Only a little later did she ask, "Dad, do you remember what you used to call trekking poles?" Sheepishly I replied, "Wussy sticks."

The trail eventually led us into an obsidian field and down to 30 foot high Obsidian Falls. We camped near the falls with only 20 miles covered. It was good to have the soothing sound of the falls to sleep by. Although it was sometimes hard to hear over the hail and rain.

The morning of the 29th we awoke to frozen tent flaps and more mist and snow. We had to pack our tents and flys and ground cloths still heavy with moisture. As we climbed through more lava flows I realized my body wasn't used to carrying a 45 pound pack for that kind of distance up and down that kind of terrain. Fidget hiked near me, letting me lead or follow as I desired. She made sure my ankle was fine and kept the conversations on topics other than the difficulty at hand. At McKenzie pass the sun finally came out for a while and we stopped to dry our wet gear. As I was about to climb up a stone look out tower to get phone reception and call Loyd to discuss plans to get fuel, Fidget said, "Dad, look behind you." I turned and there was our guardian trail angel looking over us. Loyd was just returning from refilling a water cache in this otherwise dry area. We made plans to meet the next day and were encouraged by news he brought us of the trail ahead. Shortly after he left, trail magic happened again. A section hiker named Ben came striding down the road on his way back to his car that was parked at the nearby trail head. We were able to Yogi ("talk someone out of" as was oft done by Yogi the Bear) a bottle of fuel from him. We also were able to call Loyd and save him another trip.

After this second day of I became more accustomed to the routine and was able to speed up a bit and hike some 25 mile days as needed. I did manage to bruise and blister the balls of my feet by running downhills on rocks. This meant that for the next five days Fidget helped me deal with blisters and pain. She encouraged me. She knew what I was going through since she had faced the same thing for her first month on the trail. When I hit tough climbs or low points in a day she would keep me going by talking about family, other through hikers she'd met, stories from the past and future plans. She also seemed to effortlessly guide us through many trail intersections, reading topo maps as quickly and accurately as I would read road signs. Thus I realized that our relationship had moved onto a new plane where she was now encouraging and guiding me to go beyond what I had done before.

Each day she would weave our conversations into one with the Creator of the Douglas Firs, Cedars, Maples, huckelberries, blackberries, dozens of types of wildflowers, snakes, Jays, glaciers, peaks and waterfalls. She would talk to Him as easily as she'd talk with me. Thanking Him for family members past and present. Asking Him to care for for them and other friends. She'd also tell Him how much she was enjoying His artistry and creativity.

While there are many joyous memories I'll take from these past eight days together. There is one overarching message and meaning that gives this dad his highest joy and deepest pride. Out of her accomplishments on the trail my oldest daughter has earned a self-confidence and esteem that allows her to sing and rejoice in solitude. From this arises a spontaneous and generous hospitality toward others. And an attitude of admiration, gratitude and prayerfulness toward her creator. In the tradition of Henri Nouwen, she has developed a spirituality as solid as the mountains she climbs. Fidget, thank you for helping me complete my small section of the PCT. Keep enjoying your journey to Canada and beyond. Someday may your children and grandchildren "go together" on the Creator's paths that reveal even more of His nature.

Papa on the trail

"Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not grow weary." Isaiah 40:31

Through this northern third of Oregon I have been lucky enough to hike in the company of my dad. He flew in to the Bend/Redding airport. While his flight did not get in until midnight, he was ready and rearing to go by 6 am the next day. We ate a delicious 'down home' style breakfast and then went over gear. We had everything, except fuel for our stoves. We planned to pick that up on our way out to the trail head.
Not but an a minute after we had just packed everything away, Lloyd Gust pulled up. Lloyd has been trail angel-ing for the past 14 years, after over a decade of dedicating himself to section hiking the PCT. Now, when you try to thank him for his service he replies simply, "it's what I do."
We set off up the trail. For 2 days we walked through old growth forest. Branches draped with lichens, peet floor caked with moss. Fog made space as irrelevant as time. We glided through the nether space, content to share company and sense the mighty presence of wildreness around us. When walking along ridges, instead of getting views off across expanses of land, we saw white. At some points I almost wanted to jump, so sure that there was either nothing down there or space had become infinite.
Most importantly, we talked. We shared stories, we spoke prayers to the Creator. Dad told me stories from his childhood and helped me dig in to my earliest memories. He told mer about my predecessors, and we just generally rejoiced in all that was around us.
On the third day, the skies cleared wholly. Birds sang, branches dripped and we were rejuvinated. We climbed into lush meadows at the fringe of the skirts of mighty Mount Jefferson (named in 1806 by Lewis and Clark in honor of the President who had commissioned their endeavour). It truly was a magnificent view. We came upon a massive red X in tape across the trail and a notice that it had been closed due to fire. We had expected this and anticipated making up some distance. We did not know it would be directing down 6 miles of rocky, steep trail.
On this section of the adventure I began to see signs of thru-hikerness in Dad. He acquiesced that running down hill was sometimes easier than walking. A few hours later we hit the trail head and ate our lunch. As if on cue, the shuttle to take us around the re-reoute showed up. It was about 40 miles of road driving to get us around 17 miles of trail. It dropped us off near triangle lake and again we hiked under gauzy overcast skies. Sometimes sunlight filtered down and we could feel it warming us, but, looking up, you could barely see it. And so the skies ranged from snow, to hail to rain to drizzle to mist to clear sunnines. Through it all, we walked.
Then we began to climb the fringes of the skirt of Mt. Hood. The skies were gloriously clear and the climb was a little steep. Up and up to the mighty and Timberline Ski Lodge. Built by the CCC in the 1930s, the grand old stone and wood edifice is now getting a face lift courtesy of the current stimulus efforts.
The intiricacy of the work inside was amazing. Wrought iron, twisted and decorated. Heavy wood rail banisters decorated with intricate carvings of animals and pine cones. Truly the original workers took delight and pride in their work. And thruly the cooks took pride in the food they produced. It was delicious, and I'm not jsut saying that because I am constantly ravenously hungry these days. It really was good stuff. As we sat there, enjoying the company of a group of my Trail Family and Friends, Dad suggested we get a room there if one were available. I certainly had no objections!
But now I must cut my story short, as I am already 15 minutes late to head out for breakfast. I will leave the rest of the story for a guest entry to be made by Dad when he gets home.

Over the Mountains and Through the Woods

And so, the mountains handed us over to the trees where time was lost between shady groves of Fir, Spruce, and Pine. Each morning I awoke, packed up and moved onward and northward. From time to time the trees parted around nagging meadows of wildflowers or exposed us on magnificent rocky ledges. In these moments the world spread out and around into a seeming infinity of forested hills and mountains.
Somewhere in this time a fellow named Shannon joined Rif-Raf and me. He brought a new perspective and a keen wit. He also brought a knowledge of geology. As we passed from granite to mafic and onward. Rif-Raf and I badgered Shannon to dredge up recollections from his college studies. At one point we sat high on our crest trail at the head of a valley which fed into the plains around Mount Shasta. The soil and rocks faded between strips of red, green, grey, and brown. I knew we were blessed to be sentient and to behold such an awesome display, created over millions and billions of years.
Passing through each day, there was much to marvel at. Fluorescent bugs, digging bees, gnarled trees, shifting clouds. While I find no end in subject matter for my journal, in retrospect, it all blurs together.
A few endeavors do stand out; such as the evening when we left the Heitman’s home. They are a couple of trail angels with a wonderful cabin in Old Station, California. We had spent nearly 2 days caught in the vortex of their hospitality. Firefly, the husband, spoke of the days when he served in the Navy. I told him that sometimes when I hike, I get this old marching chant my Grandpa taught me, stuck in my head:
“Left, left, left, right, left
I left my wife and 48 kids
Crying in the rain, so step to the left
Left, left, left, right, left,”
Georgie, the wife and ring leader, taught me how to bake in a dutch oven.
Rif-Raf, Shannon, and I departed at 5 pm, planning to night hike through as much of the next 38, burned, waterless miles along the Hat Creek Rim. After 8 miles we crossed an overlook with a restroom and parking lot. It seemed a fine enough spot to make supper. A few minutes into the meal, Georgie pulled up in her minivan. She had needed to escape the house and only accidentally ran into us there. As she sat and chatted with us in her turquoise shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and conductor’s hat, I decided I want to be like her when I grow up.
The sun was setting as we moved on, walking along the edge of the rim. Sunlight cast orange over the red dirt. A sudden and familiar sound startled me out of an evening reverie. A herd of heifers stampeded across the trail in front of me. Possibly startled by a bear, or, just as likely, a fart (heifers are jumpy and curious like that). The cloud of dust they left, caught in the evening glow, created an idyllic instant which etched itself deeply on my conscious.
On through the night we hiked, kicking rocks, and stumbling along under the half moon. Shannon introduced me to the idea that it might be easier to hike without a headlamp. Once my eyes adjusted, it was.
We stopped for a break at dawn and when I awoke from my cat nap, the sun was drawing a dewy perfume from the flowers around us. By 10 am we had covered the 38 miles and hitched into Burney. We decimated an all you can eat pizza joint, slept in the park, shopped, and got back on the trail.
As we moved, I began to feel the miles clinging to me and wearing on me. At this phase of the trail, any long distance hiker faces this truth. My coming-to was exacerbated by shoes which had gone flat some hundred miles ago and were now resolved to drag my feet into the grave with them. I had a new pair waiting for me in Seiad Valley (another 160 miles away). Sometimes the pain was consuming. The skin on my soles was rubbed through and bleeding. At one moment I decided I could no longer dwell on it, so I made myself focus on the scenery; with the aid of Ibuprofen and a prolific foot bandaging session by Rif-Raf, I made it with no long term ill effects. I was, however, thrilled to reach Seiad Valley, retire my shoes, and eat a burger.
It was 500 foot climb out of the valley. A climb which we undertook early the next morning. By 9:00 am I was sitting at the top of Devil’s Peak, running from one ridge to the next, from one day to the next. And onward and onward; northward ever northward.

Sirens of the Middle Fork River

Knowing that a mere 11 miles stood between myself and a potential swimming spot, I was packed and headed out quickly the next morning; despite some stiff legs. As I descended through the trees I had to focus on staying in the moment and enjoying myself rather than getting fixated on the fact that I knew that every foot of elevation I dropped meant having to climb back up once on the other side. The river was at the bottom of a gorge and just past several delicious, icy cold springs. As we descended we passed a trail crew working diligently on the trail, as their dogs played overseer and watched from a comfortable looking spot in the shade. I thanked them for their work and took a moment to greet the dogs before scuttling on. I listened as the sound of rushing water became ever closer. Eventually the bridge came into sight. The heavy metal frame had been helicoptered in to where is sits now between two rock banks some 40 feet above the river itself. A truly impressive feat! Descending over a talus pile I found my way down to the water's banks and began assessing my swimming hole options even as I took my shoes off.The water was at a perfect level to be played in. It was still high enough to be flowing through plenty of side pockets, spilling from one into the next, creating perfect pockets of rock where you could rest your shoulders and allow the pummeling water massage sore hiker muscles. Then there was the center of the river where a good current ran. Moving quickly, I could make it out to a barely submerged rock and hop into the current, allowing it to carry me out into the middle of an open pool. As I floated in the calm eddies along the side I looked up the canyon walls and reveled in the moment. "You probably can't find a view like this in very many swimming pools," I thought.On the rocks along the opposite bank I first saw Gin. She had just ridden down a length of rapids on an inner tube and was tucked up onto the rock wall. I thought it unusual to see non hikers out in this area but, as always, I think its pretty rad to encounter other folk who like to come celebrate these sorts of awesome spots. I swam over and began to chat with Gin and her boy Joey. Then Liz came out to our small mooring point. We were still trying to put together one another's stories and I was still trying to figure out how all these folks had come together and ended up at such an awesome spot. Two chocolate labs began bounding about, swimming and battling over fetching sticks. Seeing all the humans localized, they flopped into the current and swam out to share our perch. Finally Kim came down the river on an inner tube, having just returned from a toiletries bag rescue mission some distance up stream. Now the story came clear, I was sharing a rock with three stunning sisters and one very lucky boyfriend. We enjoyed the sun warmed rock and I told my hiking story as Gin explored potential spots on the rock from which to jump. I decided this was a good idea and, in the spirit of showing off, went to launch myself into a deep pool. My foot slipped and I pretty much just fell in. Ah the subtle reminders...We sat and chatted some more as they told of having come down to this river since they were wee; the youngest having been carried out in a baby carrier by her mother. With every move the girls demonstrated an easy comfort with the water itself. Understanding the eddies and twists in the river wall with such ease; I was impressed. At this moment the Queen of the Middle Fork appeared, floating down the current in a large tube, with a coffee mug holder in the side. It was her perfect throne. She drifted about lackadaisically, manipulating through the eddies and pools effortlessly. Somehow she caused her tube to drift upstream without any effort.Eventually I crossed back over to my side and picked up pack. Rif-Raf and I climbed over the bridge and dropped down to the girls' campspot. Man, they knew how to do it right. As they explained, they only had about a one mile walk in to that spot, but they had to carry everything on their backs, and jeez luise, those packs couldn't have been light! Inner tubes, 2 stoves, the big comfy variety of sleeping bag, etc. etc. etc. Oh yeah, and food; which they shared. Some large and in charge cookies and any of a vast array of hot drink mixes.I looked around and was impressed at the amenities of the camp itself. Driftwood benches were scattered about. A plywood table. The rocks of the fire ring were so intricately arranged and structurally solid, I couldn't imagine a trail team investing so much effort in to one particular camp. I commented on the setup and the daughters elucidated that most of it had been their mother's doing over the course of years.As we all lounged around they told us stories of how their mom, the Queen I described from earlier, had an insatiable wandering spirit and had transmitted it to her daughters by taking them out to spots like this, hikes on the John Muir Trail, and many many others. I enjoyed witnessing the family dynamics, as they bantered and jockeyed with one another. It made me miss my own family, in particular my mother and sister (no offense boys).The interaction caused me to ruminate in my journal as to all the different ways of enjoying the outdoors. As hikers, we get caught up in our own hiker mindset. Making the miles, lightening the load, etc. This was something else entirely; and I admired it. No matter what or how you do it, get outside! I have encountered so many marvelous folk, out here in so many different styles and capacities, and each one of us is doing it just right by our own terms. That is what being out here is about; exploring ways to fulfill your spirit.

Through the woods

"I made it over the mountains, now through the woods, to Canada I go."
That little one line ditty (to the tune of 'to grandmother's house') has certainly been jangling through my head for the past couple hundred miles... that and the Adam's family song (the short one about Uncle Fester farting). Clearly the trail is improving my musical taste.
After three days of eating and sitting on the couch watching the food network with Frog and Rif-Raf the latter two of us got back onto the trail. Frog, being struck by a serious bout of GI distress, was in no condition to contend with the trail at that time. We planned to meet up with him again when we hiked up to Truckee.
For three days we hiked along a beautiful rim which offered views into valleys of pine and fir. They rolled away into the seemingly eternal distance. At some points we were walking along the highest ledge of the earthen rim, at our feet were an assortment of fragrant flowers, over the ledge we could catch glimpses of Lake Tahoe. Often the heat made us wish we could leap the distance to the water. There were certainly enough water sources to make it but we were still in 'Sierra Mode', expecting to encounter water at every turn. Delicious, pristine, icy cold water. While we were still technically in the Sierras, conditions had changed. We have had to go back to purifying the water, as the source is not usually immediately identifiable. We had to carry water for 10 mile stretches, and let me tell you, the heat was making us sweat, and sweating means you need to drink; a lot.
The end of that short section was a descent down an exposed ridge, to Donner Pass. I found it invigorating. We hitched a ride into Truckee with a traveling locksmith, as we wound down from the pass I missed most of the conversation for all the jangling keys and the fact that my chair was rolling about; I thought it was really fun.
Once in town we met up with Frog and his lovely lady, Nancy. Frog was looking thin and wan and Nancy was looking concerned. Unable to hold much down in the way of food is tough on a hikers' body. We spent a day or so enjoying one another's company and then met up with a gathering of Frog and Nancy's friends at a decadent French restaurant where we enjoyed a five course meal in celebration of Bastille Day. The tiny 'Le Bistro' was something from a different planet as far as I could tell, but this did not diminish my appreciation of the succulent and elaborately decorated tidbits which were set before us. Everything was wonderful and a memory to which I knew I would be clinging as I ate dinner on the trail for the next several weeks. This did not change the fact that by the time we got back to our camp I was digging in my bag for a snack. Trail hunger has set in.
Again we got back to wandering northward. Unfortunately Frog was still under the influence of his illness and did not have the weight to sustain his body through it so he had to head back to San Francisco with Nancy for some serious healing time.
Mercifully for Rif-Raf and I, the trail kept to tree cover, somewhat easing the sweltering, humid heat which had set in. Despite it I was feeling strong and, as the terrain was so much easier than the past several hundred miles had been, I wanted to test myself as far as miles. We hiked a 30 mile day. I stopped at a water source at about 6 and, in order to avoid having to carry my dinner water to what would be a dry camp, I cooked right there. At about 8:30 I rolled into camp and flopped down, a bit tired, not too worn but so very very content.
As I lay in my sleeping bag, reviewing notes for the next day I saw that we would have a swimming opportunity in about 11 miles at the Middle Fork Feather River. While I was thrilled at the idea, I had no idea just how great of a spot it would turn out to be.

Reunited

It was 1 pm and I had just learned that Frog and Rif-Raf were only some 10 miles on up the trail. I quickly tore up toward the trail's Sonora Pass. Passing two day hikers, I happily saluted them and had a quick trail chat. They insisted on giving me some extra power bars and even offered up their water. There are SO many amazing, kind, generous and positive people out here!
I moved on and found myself in snow again. I quickly found myself on a snow bank with no signs of footprints. I spent about an hour tossing about this one small pass area, looking down a snow bank into the valley where I hoped the trail would be. Clouds formed overhead and began to dump hail on me. I put on my awesome green rain jacket, flipped up the hood and stood in the middle of the snow field, munching on one of the power bars I had just been given, determined not to be beaten by the weather. Three other hikers appeared on the far side of the snowfield and we joined up, looking for the trail. As soon as we found it, they stopped for a snack and I tore on. I was so excited I just started running. According to my completely unfounded assessments, I expected to come into the area of my boys by around 6. At 5 I passed two cairns built up just alongside the trail. I was 10 feet past them when I paused to think. I figured I should probably investigate. Sure enough, there in a pretty little glen just off the trail were the boys. The rain eased up, allowing us to recount the adventures of the time we had spent apart.
For the next three days we encountered increasing numbers of mosquitoes, easier terrain, decreasing amounts of snow, and massive fields of flowers, growing in the rich soil at the skirts of uniquely shaped peaks of volcanic and basalt rocks.
We came down through the trees to the shore of Echo Lake where I picked up a resupply package. While I had planned to push on, I was beginning to feel a serious sense of tiredness and drag. I had not washed myself or my clothes in nearly a month, I was still covered in cuts and bruises from previous adventures and my socks were now specifically left/right footed. Frog informed us he had a friend in Truckee who was out of town and had offered up his home as a resting place. None of us were inclined to pass up such an offer. We hiked 18 miles by 2:30 pm and then, through a series of hitches found ourselves blessed with a delicious supper, shower, and real beds!
I have now had two days to get affairs in order, to call REI and figure out a way to trade out my warped pack for a new one, and to contact family and friends. Tomorrow I will hitch back down to Echo Lake and start progressing again. Frog and Rif-Raf may stay around fro another day as Frog has fallen unfortunately ill and Rif-Raf is planning out some mailed resupplies.
Half-way mark, here I come!

To Yosemite and Beyond

The sections just after the High Sierras have been my favorite. Their beauty doesn't come from the sense of austere grandeur through which we had just passed but hold an impressive allure all their own. Through Yosemite we moved through amazing reddish rocky formations. Tiered walls of granite begged to be climbed. Waterfalls cascade all around and along our trail; they were made all the more beautiful by the fact that we did not have to try to cross them, and if we did, there was a bridge. Snow still sometimes slowed our progress, but nothing like what we had just survived.
I reveled in the undulating bowls and mounds of rocks. While some of the ascents surpassed 1400 feet there were plenty of beautiful lakes and meadows to distract the attention. At one point I climbed into a pine blessed pass area and found the trail ahead of me was in use by a bear. At about 300 pounds he lumbered along ahead of me, indifferent to my presence. We meandered into a pretty little meadow. He crossed it and then turned around and looked at me. The look said, "you are off the trail, young lady, come much further and you will be on my nerves." I looked around and realized that in my fixation on this beautiful animal, I had indeed followed him off the trail. I quickly made my way back to human designated turf and moved through the rest of the morning in a sense of elation.
It was incredibly fun to hike with Red Head and Green Mile; their hiking style was much different than what I had become accustomed to. They awoke late and made no hurry of a morning. However, once they were moving, they sure did move! I felt myself pushing my limits and found that I generally ask a lot less of myself than what I can do. We hiked quickly and rested earnestly. Meal and snack schedule was the same, only a few hours later than someone who woke and moved early. At about 7 each evening we chose as mosquito free of an area as possible and cooked supper before hiking another hour or two. We usually ended the days with head lamps on and stars starting to wink awake above us. Not once did we set up our tents, preferring instead to enjoy the clear skies and warm nights (at least, much warmer than 11000 feet had been).
On the morning of July 4th we realized we were 25 miles and only three formidable climbs away from the 1000 mile mark. All enraptured by the idea of hitting 1000 miles on a national holiday, we moved rapidly. As evening fell, we were on the final descent to that mile marker. Through the darkness and trees, I spotted a campfire burning. We rolled up to a gathering of some 10 other thru-hikers and we all sat around the fire-pit, telling stories and sharing our favorite moments thus far. My sense of accomplishment, exhaustion, and joy made it a surreal evening. I have never done anything like this before! And here I was, feeling strong and exactly just right. It was a great event.
The next day granite stone gave way to volcanic rock. Trees gave way to open, wind swept ridge-sides and we moved along the rocks which changed in color from black to red, orange, and purple. Florescent orange and green lichens adorned the rocks and added an almost carnival-esque sense to the unique landscape. An 18 mile day and we came in to Sonora Pass, where a trail angel named The Owl had set up a "hiker coffee house." We snacked hungrily and enjoyed the comfortable chairs he had set out.
The next morning I hitched down to Bridgeport and resupplied in the expensive little grocery store in Bridgeport. Upon my return to the pass I encountered several other hikers who informed me that Frog and Rif-Raf had passed through that morning and were camping some 10 miles out.

How to Make Something Simple, Difficult

Via an intricate system of awesome public transit I was able to drop off the trail into Mammoth Lakes for a quick resupply. The first leg of the trip took me through Yosemite down to Mammoth ski resort. I was only slightly surprised to see snow still on the mountain. At the base of the hill I encountered both the late season skiers and snow-boarders, as well as the swagger mountain bikers who were shredding up the lower slopes. It was pretty cool to encounter new varieties of outdoor enthusiasts.
By that afternoon I was back up on the trail. By lunch the next day I caught up with Red Head, Double D, Green Mile and a couple of his friends who had come out to hike for the weekend. We sat on the shore of beautiful and iced over 1000 Island lake. That afternoon Red Head, Double D and I made our way up through a snowy field to Donohue Pass, reputed to be the last and easiest of the passes. We cowboyed on some rocks up on the pass and watched as the evening light bathed the long, lush green valley to our north. My two compadres, being a local Cali boy, related stories of ventures in the area from their childhood. Also being avid fishermen, they noted that the river was much higher than they had seen before. We slept happily under a blanket of stars and satellites. The next morning we took off at the bright and early hour of 10 am.
We shoe-skied down the initial slope and at the point where the snow bank became a cliff we decided it would be prudent to climb down the exposed rock field rather than maneuver the snow fields where the trail probably passed. The first 150 feet or so was a simple rock hop. Then it became a downward clamour. Then I suddenly realized I had made my way onto something of a cliff. I continued to carefully move between rocks, looking for hand and footholds. At one point I found myself on a sketchy section of rock where water ran over most of the surface. Again, fear and adrenaline made me shaky. I decided the next several yards would be doable without a pack. A large boulder, some 30 feet down seemed like a probable place for my pack to wait for me. I dropped it off my shoulders and rolled it toward the rock. It went exactly where I had meant for it. And then it kept going. I turned around from climbing down to see my pack against the backdrop of a blue sky; quite airborne. One of my poles was flying in one direction and my pack soared in another. A sense of horror threatened to overtake me but I was focused on getting myself down more safely than my pack. I would worry about that when I was on safe ground.
It was a literal rock climb for the next 150 feet. I was terrified. Hugging my body to the rock I would pick out a foothold but as I moved to step down the water trickle which my body had held up would gush down, drenching everything I was headed for. Finally I was on the last face above the snow field below. I was happy to see that Red Head had made it down safely. In order to safely make it down the final length I threw down the pole I had kept with me. As I came to the top of the snow bank I scanned the snowfield and saw my pack and one pole. My second pole had slid directly into an ice-cave at the base of the rocks. Red Head verbally guided me to the spot where it had disappeared and after some kicking and digging I got it out. I slid down the snow to my pack and Red Head. We sat, allowing the nervous shaking in my legs to subside. A few moments later Double D appeared from the snowy chute which ran alongside the rocks. The backs of his hands and his knees glowed a florescent orangish red. I took off my sunglasses and realized that his hands had been ground nearly to the meat. Having decided the rocks were dangerous he opted to glissade the snow and the icy stuff had torn his flesh up, much as a grater might have.
We sat there in the snow, thrilled to be alive and still functional, though somewhat nonplused by the decision making skills we had displayed at the top of the cliff. Fortunately my pack was whole and had suffered relatively little damage as compared to what might have happened. Granted the stays were warped, but it was still wearable. In fact, the stays had already been folding under themselves, digging into nerves in my back, causing my legs to go numb. The air-trip had more than corrected this, in fact, the back of the pack hardly came in contact with my back except at my hips. Double D displayed impressive resilience, rejecting most of our offers of help. Red Head suggested we could hurry on down to Tuolumne Meadows where D could tend to his wounds. "Nah, I still want to fish," D replied.

We quickly found the trail and were on our way down one of the most beautiful, lush valleys I have ever moved through (probably colored so wonderful by the proximity to serious danger that morning). We moved quickly and confidently over the next many miles. In the filth and familiarity with the mountains through which we had just passed, we found the south bound John Muir Trail aspirant hikers quite amusing as they stopped at small creeks to remove their boots and nervously tread through ankle deep water.
That afternoon we came in to Tuolumne Meadows camp store and mauwed down on hamburgers while comparing stories with the many other thru-hikers relaxing there. That evening the boys took me down to the river where I took my first shot at fishing in many years. I didn't catch anything but certainly came to appreciate the peace of the activity itself.
The next morning Green Mile caught up with us. Double D headed off to finish the John Muir Trail and conclude his 350 mile trip, the other three of us headed on along the PCT. We made camp in pretty little opening just before yet another river crossing.