Because I like to Hike

New Site

2011-05-14T16:09:00.000-07:00

I started blogging angsty poetry as a teen on everyone's favorite site, Xanga. A few years later I discovered Blogger and shifted everything over, recording various adventures in different blogs.
Now, I'm switching again. At the behest of some, and the lure of better site tracking, (not to mention the fact that several of my heroes keep their blogs there), I'm scooting my trend-following butt over to Wordpress.

The fact that you "follow" my site and hopefully draw some sort of enjoyment from what I write, is why I do it, so feel free to check out my new site and like or follow or comment, or whatever it calls that kind of stuff:

http://bethanyhughes.wordpress.com/

See, I can't even figure out how to make the link turn blue and be underlined so you can just click on it. Or maybe Blogger is mad at me for turn-coating. I'm sorry Blogger, you've been good to me.

Into the arms of Love

2010-10-13T23:20:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-10-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

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?"

2010-10-04T12:43:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-18T13:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-18T12:25:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-09-05T23:24:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-09-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-05T08:43:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-08-21T19:47:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-31T19:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-07-16T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-16T16:23:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-14T19:22:00.001-07:00

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.

How to Sweep a Girl Off Her Feet

2010-07-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

How to Sweep a Girl Off her Feet

The next morning, Green Tortuga and I packed up and hiked the one mile to the Evolution Creek crossing. To be honest we moved with some trepidation, having heard plenty of horror stories about deep water and a strong current. According to a note posted at the ranger station a few miles before, we were going to try to cross some 25 yards up river of where the trail actually hit the water. When we arrived at the morning light splashed river, we pulled up short. Whoever decided to call this thing a creek must not have seen it at this time of year. Seriously, the thing was a river.

Up stream did not look that much different but we headed up through the trees and splashed through the small overflow streams. Once I had plotted the most likely looking path by which to cross, I decided that standing there, looking at it wasn't really accomplishing much so I pushed in. Facing up stream and planting my trekking poles firmly, I began to sidestep out toward the center of the current. As I got out into the middle of it the water was about butt deep and the force of the water made my poles vibrate in my hand. I breathed deeply and tested my footing. While the current was strong, my legs were holding strong. Several deep breaths later and I was able to let the current push me toward a tree trunk which had fallen over the water. I climbed out the other side, pretty shaken but confident. As Green Tortuga did not have poles I shouted to him to go back up the trail and cross through the meadows up there where the water was deep but not nearly as strong. Another hiker, Anne, was over there with him so I moved on down the next set of switch backs.
I was glad I had crossed before I saw what was downstream. The water gushed and rampaged against rocks and over cliffs. Truly it was a beautiful display, with the mists creating rainbows in the morning sun. This did not change the fact that it would tear a human body apart. I developed an even healthier respect for the immediate power of nature. I thanked all those whose prayers protected me, as well as the river itself for allowing me safe passage. It crashed along, seemingly indifferent to my appreciation.
During my morning lunch break, Tortuga caught back up. Apparently he had decided to cross at the same spot as I had. As it turns out my voice doesn't carry across 30 feet of raging water. Either way, we had both made it and we hiked on in squelchy shoes. Every time they threatened to be nearly dry, we had to cross another small creek. All in all I would say there were about a bazillion little crossings. While I probably could have log or rock hopped across most of them, that just seemed silly, so I splashed through with bravado. Tortuga, being more balance blessed and dexterous than myself stayed slightly drier. As evening drew nigh, we came upon Bear Creek, another reputed challenge. Driven by the determination of the day, we planned to cross that night and camp on the other side.
Again, we scouted the river up and down but upstream it was a narrow canyon with a raging torrent, downstream was very treey and Tortuga came back with a report of nothing better. We assessed the water and plotted the best course by which to maneuver the currents. I stepped into the chilly water and three steps in, I was up to my waist. A third of the way out the water was pounding against me, causing me to lean forward. Carefully I moved each of my four grounding points on at a time. In the span of a single instant I felt one of my poles slip as my leg was turned by the power of the water. The taste of metal gushed into my mouth and I quickly made my way back to Tortuga.
Back on the bank I breathed deeply, determined to maintain composure and not to be defeated. I stepped in again and was almost half way out when I felt that the current was stronger than I could handle. Only a few steps of this, certainly I could handle it. I continued to thrust my poles up stream and drove them down as hard as I could, trying to get purchase before the water hurtled them past me. On the next step I felt my footing give. As I twisted in a moment of panic, trying to maintain my balance my vision flashed on the bank where Tortuga stood, his face aghast and his hand over his mouth. In that moment everything flashed before me and came quite clear. If I lost it here there wasn't much anyone could do and I would be at the water's mercy. The water did not seem to be feeling very merciful that evening. Your prayers and thoughts held me strong and I regained my footing and quickly side scuttled back to Tortuga.
For the rest of that evening my legs remembered the feeling of the force of the current and my hands shook as if still holding onto vibrating poles. We made camp right there and for the rest of the night, the river taunted me. I tried to convince myself that the water would be lower in the morning, that I was meant to accomplish this and there would be a way. The roar of the "creek" just laughed. "You just have to try again in the morning little girl, and I've got ALL season," it seemed to say. Sleep came in short fits, I repeatedly jerked awake thinking I was being washed away. As I lay under the mesh of my tent I looked up at the stars. I can only do what I can do, and that's that. If I am meant to get across this river, I will. I knew I was meant to, and so I would but that would have to be a worry for the next morning. I gave up the weight of the worry and slept as best I could.
The next morning a cold sense of dread saturated my spirit more deeply than my wet shoes and pants did my lower extremities. I hunched over my breakfast of pop-tarts. Tortuga decided to scout downstream and I went upstream again. There was a log about 6 inches under pounding water. It would be less deep but pretty much death if you slipped. I was further disheartened. "What did you find?" Tortuga inquired when we met up at the trail. I gave my dismal report. "Well, a little further down the water spreads out into several braids and looks a lot more shallow," he beamed. I breathed a sigh of relief. We headed down to see what there was and, while wide, the water was no more than two feet deep. I don't know how to explain the depth of thanks which I offered up once we were across. I knew God had been holding that spot in store for us but it just seemed so wonderful that it could be nothing but a concession that, yes, I was meant to hike this trail.
I hiked the rest of the day with a jubilant gait and none of the rest of the river crossings were nearly as challenging. Well, the mono creek ones seemed pretty intimidating but Tortuga's scouting and map reading had us cross lower down and then we climbed up a large rock pile to catch the trail at a point where it was already past the second two crossings. Tortuga was very proud to have made it past those crossings with perfectly dry feet.
The next day we climbed over Silver Pass which didn't hold a head-lamp to its predecessors. I am not sure what it was but something snapped in me up there. I was sick and tired of being challenged to my limits every day and I just wanted to be done with it. After making our way across two or three more snow clad dips in the hillside, I was just done. I didn't dare talk to anyone because I knew I didn't have anything nice to say.
At about 4:30 pm we came across two other hikers, Double D and Danny were washing their faces in a creek. They planned to hike another 9 miles in to Red's Meadow that night to catch up to two other of their buddies. Their plan made sense to me. It would mean hiking later into the evening than I had planned, and it meant a 27 mile day but damned if that wasn't what I was going to do. I charged ahead, sometimes breaking out into a run. I got in to Red's at 7:30 and was thrilled to find the little store there was still open. I happily munched on food and drew a great deal of solace in the cheerful and happy company in which I found myself. Double D and Danny came in a bit after me and we gathered up with Green Mile and Red Head. We made camp and had a fire and their positive energy quickly drew me back from the mire of the funk toward which I had been headed. It was a joyous evening.
I had come out of the Sierras battered and bruised but not broken.

Year of the Lemming

2010-07-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

As I headed up the valley floor toward Pinchot Pass, I had no idea that I was already well into the routine which would rule my life for the next segment. I climbed into the snow field bowl before Pinchot feeling intimidated to be tackling these giants alone. I was comforted to hear other hikers calling to one another and trying to dodge between the few plots of solid ground. From these rocky vantage points we could assess the best approach to the pass. One tiny dot of a figure waded through the snow, often disappearing to his waist. Eventually four of us gathered on a rocky outcropping at the foot of the pass. I recognized Green Tortuga (now clothed), and met Hurricane and Shanghai. Each of us gathered our inner reserves and charged up the snow bank to the pass. According to my notes Forester Pass was 'intimidating', Glen Pass was 'challenging'. I labeled Pinchot 'irritating'. We enjoyed the vistas for a few moments and took the advantage of the view to consult maps and place our best navi-guesses as to where the trail would be coming out of the snowy mess.

A few miles later Green Tortuga and I began to see signs of switchbacks and soon the snow patches gave way to definite trail. Thrilled to be on a surface on which we could actually move at a reasonable speed, we made our way down to yet another canyon floor, edged our way through the enthusiastic North Fork King's River and on up the next canyon. That night the two of us cowboyed just at the hem of the snowy skirt of Mather Pass. As the sky passed into dusk and we cooked our dinners, Green Tortuga recited the Ballad of Blasphemous Bill to the delight of myself and that austere landscape in which we had made camp.
Early the next morning we headed up the 'frightening' pass. It was certainly the most treacherous pass yet. The ascent climbed at an angle up a sheet of snow which blanketed the mountains at probably something like a 30 degree angle. We carefully tread in the footsteps left by those who passed before. Honestly, I have been doing that a lot. Even when I stood at the top of the pass and consulted my maps I knew that when I dropped into the next basin I would be more likely to follow the footsteps rather than make my own. There is some strange comfort in knowing that whatever you do, someone else has been there too. Whether I would follow them over a cliff was still left to be seen.

From Mather we were again rewarded by a beautiful and secluded run down yet another tree clad canyon. As Tortuga and I moved I enjoyed the smells, shade, and flowers. Less pleasant were the mosquitoes. We spent the afternoon labouring up toward Muir Pass, the last of the 1200 ft. passes. We camped in a grove of trees just before the earnest part of the ascent. I reviewed my maps and found that we had done some 20 miles that day, really a rather significant accomplishment for the Sierras; this year in particular.

I awoke the next morning and felt all the previous miles weighing heavily on my body. I was exhausted and had many miles yet to cover. By 7:20 am we were on yet another seemingly endless fields of white; I stood on a snow bank looking across 20 feet of flowing water at even more snow. I choked back tears of frustration. Truly, what option did I have but to show those relentless slopes what I was made of. Tortuga and I encountered another group of hikers. Curly was moving along with the Kiwi Klan and we all ended up closely navigating the confusing complex of canyons. My notes call Muir Pass 'navigationally challenging' and I was immensely grateful to be moving with a group. As we came to the foot of the pass we congregated on yet another rocky island. Wika suddenly called, "oy, everyone, Dave is up to his neck." I turned around and sure enough one of the older fellows had been swallowed whole by a post hole along a rock's edge. Only his head popped out of the snow, looking around. His team dug him out and we all arrived at the Muir Hut just after mid morning. The small stone cottage sat nestled in the middle of the pass, offering shelter for those caught in poor weather. Fortunately we were blessed with wonderful weather and I wandered out around the hut taking photographs and greeting the various local residents. A marmot squeaked at me, trying to look cute enough to earn food. A tiny kangaroo mouse bounded across the snow and stood outside his hole, peering at me as I peered across the cirque bowl containing Wanda Lake. On our ascent we had passed Helen Lake; each named for Muir's daughters. I wondered whether there had been any sibling rivalry regarding the fact that Wanda's Lake was twice the size as Helen's.

In the end we spent nearly nine miles on solid snow over the course of that path. By the time we hit actual trail again we were so exhausted that we didn't even care that Evolution Creek had swollen over her banks and encroached on the trail space. We slogged along and made camp just before the crossing of Evolution Creek. This was an intentional plan because we both knew that rivers are always lower and easier to pass in the morning...right?

One of those Crazy People

2010-06-29T14:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to think of a way to open this entry. Here’s what I have come up with:
The High Sierras are not easy.
I and the hikers around me regard this as something of an understatement, It is. But I must begin at the beginning.
Anne and I were climbing up Kearsarge Pass on her first day out. We had five miles of steep ascent and at the third mile a naked man came jouncing down the trail. He wore a multicolor backpack and a fanny pack over his dangly bits.
“HI! I’m Green Tortuga, what’s your name?” he saluted cheerfully.
We introduced ourselves and commended him for having the cojones to actually practice ‘Naked Hike Day,’ the backpacker’s salute to Summer Solstice.
Finally we summited the pass and dropped back into the domain of giants. Precipices look down from all sides. Only when perched in the passes themselves do we see as these Lords do. You know what they see? A whole bunch of other mountains…
We climbed through a second pass on that same day. Glen Pass was the first of our 12000 foot passes. The entire approach was blanketed in snow as we rose into the cirque bowls.No sign of the trail, only white and that incredible blue of frozen water. We made our way up and over, only to encounter three more miles of snow. On the descent I post holed (when the snow is so soft and deep that it will happily engulf an entire leg) and left a shoe buried under four feet of snow. Fortunately my shoes are bright orange, which helped with Mr. Mountain Goat’s excavation efforts.
Eventually we began to see trail in little spots and finally made our way down to Rae Lakes. As we hit the basin bed, thick, angry clouds began to gather overhead. We set up camp and veritably slumped into inactivity.
That next day, Anne and I slept, ate, and explored around the lake beds. Such a unique ecosystem. We climbed onto an out cropping of rocks and could see huge fish listing lazily some 20 feet under water.
The ground underfoot was positively buoyant. You could look back across the mossy, muddy field and watch your footprints disappear. By the end of the day, three other groups of hikers had come into camp. They were all out for week long trips. One group (three uncles and a nephew, had the boy out for his first big hike. As they planned to go through Glen Pass they were anxious to hear about the snow conditions. That evening one of the uncles, the nephew and a fellow from another of the groups came up to our camp to exchange notes.“How long would it take you to climb up this side of the pass?” the uncle inquired.
About two hours, was the answer.
At this the other fellow leaned forward and scrutinized me, “yeah, but you’re one of those crazy people,” he concluded.
I was about to protest but then realized that maybe I was. Certainly by his standards I would be.
The next day we packed up and marched toward the sunlight, which had begun to pour into the valley ahead and glided to meet us.
For miles the ground sloped downward to a T junction. Skeletons of Red Pines contorted in a limbless dance in the foreground as the face of Castle Domes reared up from behind them. Morning light’s reddish-orange lipstick mark still lingered on the granite face, even as a trickle, a tiny spill of water poured prom the precipices’ upper echelons.
As it turned out, up close, that tiny stream of water was actually a gushing mass of H2O particles flying about and dashing into rocks and one another at painfully high and powerful velocities. As such, our Federal and National Parks systems had built a pretty rad suspension bridge. Even though sturdy timbers were anchored and held us safe, the wires of the bridge bounced around as you crossed, making it safe for only one person to cross at a time. The frothing water churned dizzily some 15 feet below, forcing me to stare straight ahead.

As I came down on the other side I grinned at Anne, “good thing you’re not scared of heights!”
“I am,” she replied simply. This is one of the many reasons I consider her a personal hero.
At that juncture we made our goodbyes and Anne headed 15 miles downhill to Road’s End and the attached resort. I, being the masochist that I must be, turned up that same valley, only to climb higher and wander more deeply into the wilderness.

Where Purple Mountain's Majesty

2010-06-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

Well, there should be an entry (some 60 miles worth) between my last entry and this. However, the only matter of particular note is the story I am about to tell.

Around mile 670 I was beginning one of the first serious climbs of the trail. Switch backing about on the mountainside, the trail dropped into a shady creek hollow some 3or 4 times. I was coming up the trail when I saw a figure shimmy across the trail in the shadows. Presuming it to be a fellow hiker, I made a greeting and came along the bend and found myself some 10 ft from a young bear. We both froze.
As soon as reason began again, I backed up. It was a small bear but not quite a cub, perhaps almost 2 years old or so. I began to sing loudly and badly and after a moment a curious little face peeked around the corner at me. The furry, shambling creature cocked its head and then ducked back. I kept singing and waited for few moments (hoping Rif- Raf and Frog would catch up). After a few minutes I pressed forward again but my new little friend was plopped right in the path. My voice quavered and I snapped a photo before backing off again. Two more times we took turns advancing on one another, neither being wholly sure what to make of the situation. Finally I clacked my sticks loudly and it scuttled down the hillside and in the thick brush.
Some 30 miles later, I came into Kennedy Meadows, at the edge of Sequoia National Park. We picked up our bear boxes, mailed resupply and snow gear before trooping off into the high Sierras. Over the course of a day, everything was different. We climbed above 9000 feet and the coniferous forests for which I had pined, were all around us. We were camped above 10,000 ft by the second night and Fuzzy Monkey built a beautiful fire around which Frog, Rif-Raf, Mr. Mountain Goat and I gathered. 21 mile days were now as exhausting as 26 mile days had been, as the air is notably thinner. For most of those first 2 or 3 days, any time I hiked reasonably quickly, I began to feel as if a heavy band were being tightened around my chest.

We moved over sandy floors and between redwood sculptures. Trees stood tall on thick trunks. Many were branchless and barkless and their cores glistened red and brown in the sun. Others seemed to have suffered incredible trauma, vertical rifts ran deep from the ground up, exposing hundreds of layers of shades of red. Still others bore massive tumors and countless other nuances. All so similar, each so unique.
The mountains began to sprout up all around us. Yesterday, Frog and Rif-Raf moved a bit while I summited Mt. Whitney with another group of hikers. We set out by 6:30 AM and were in the high, snow filled basins within two hours. Peaks and spires jutted up all around us. Walls of rock thousands of feet high, fluted like a pipe organ. We began to climb a steep talus ledge but quickly encountered even steeper banks of snow. Sometimes we scrambled straight up the rocks, other times we used our ice axes and braved the snow banks. As the air thinned we slowed. Five and a half hours later we stood atop the highest point in the lower 48 States. The sky all around us was clear, except a few fluffy cumulus near the horizon. The San Andreas fault ran parallel to the mountain, across a valley space. It promises to make these mountain beach front, given a couple million years. To the north, the snow clad Sierras ran. It was astounding and daunting.

By 2 PM we began to make our way back down. The snow made it challenging but we all arrived at our campsite in Crabtree Meadow that evening. A group of thru-hiker boys had camped just across the river from us and they stood in the soggy meadow casting fishing lines into the crystal clear river waters. The pink of the alpine glow graced the peaks which cupped around us and it was a truly wonderful evening.

Today I packed up and climbed several ridges, snow shoed across a snowy valley and dropped to yet another torrent by lunch. I crossed safely and stopped for lunch and spread my sock and some of my gear out to dry. As I ate, I began to calculate mileages and found that I am now some 6 days ahead of schedule. I have 4 days to make 25 miles. At this next town my friend Anne will be coming out to hike with me. I scheduled a few options for our week together and decided to call it a day.

It is 4:30 PM and the sun is still warm and I’m thinking about an early supper and bedtime. Tomorrow I tackle Forester Pass. At 13,180 ft, it is the highest point on the PCT. It is also reputed to be one of the most dangerous passes. Early mid-morning snow is still firm enough to not post hole but is also not too icy, so I’ll tackle it then. Right now all I can think about is tackling a box of Annie’s Mac and Cheese.

Through the Desert & Over the Hills, To Kennedy Meadows We Go

2010-06-19T07:23:00.000-07:00

Fortunate to have found rides in and out of Tehachapi, Frog, Rif-Raf, & I made the quickest resupply yet. We were back on the trail by 4:00 and made it 3 miles up yet another desert ridge before pitching our tents. We quickly tucked in, as the wind was brutal. It battered us throughout the night but, with the aid of ear plugs, I slept heavily.

I awoke to find a whole encampment of new hikers around us, including, to my delight, 3 other young ladies. We all set off, up the open hillside, battling both gravity and the wind. The howling gusts did not permit to hold a thought for the span of even a second. I proceeded in something of a bewildered state. reaching the top of a ridge, we found trees and shelter from the wind and I spent our morning Union Break trying to gather my scattered and scrambled thoughts.

The next several days blurred into fog of tree-lined ridge walks and following jeep tracks. As it turned out, a couple of our new friends were suffering from what we have termed 'butt plague'. 5 days into their process of illness, I found myself out of energy and pukey. This, coupled with the shin splints I have been hiking on, made for less than easy going. By the second day, our trees gave way to open desert again, a very El-Paso-ish landscape called Kelso Valley.

Both of the boys were so kind and patient. Frog kept trying to convince me to let him have some of my pack weight. Rif-Raf kept close to my plodding pace and engaged me in conversation and stories. These shows of support made a world of difference for me.

All of the water supplies in this area were pretty far off the trail but, again, we were the beneficiaries of another's kindness. An older woman, by the name of Mary, carried hundreds of gallons of water on her motor bike up to dirt road crossings along the trail. Because of her efforts, we did not have to go ff trail at all. In my condition, this was significant. At 3:oo pm we sat at Mary's 2nd water cache, peering up yet another daunting, exposed climb. Thankful not to be encountering it in the middle of the day's heat, we began upwards. Rif-Raf's company and encouragement helped keep my mind from stewing and 2 hours later we sat atop a ridge, much like the forested part of the Tooth of Time Ridge at Philmont. he reminded me that despite my lack of appetite, I needed to eat, so I did.

As we walked the 6 miles along the ridge top, I thought about Philmont and thanked God for my experiences there, for they gave me the confidence I needed for this undertaking. I thought about my cousins, Brian and Travis, who are staff out there this year and felt so proud and blessed to have such an amazing family who understand how to celebrate the outdoors.

That night we cowboy camped (sleeping bag under the open stars) in a dry, sandy wash. I slept heavily and awoke the next morning feeling much better. I decided to grant myself an extra 10 minutes before getting up and rolled over. As I blinked my still sleepy eyes, I saw that my ground cloth was crawling with ants. While they hadn't bothered me all night, I could not consciously abide their presence and so gave up. As I reviewed what I had considered to be a dogged progress the day before, I was surprised to realize we had covered 21 miles and, despite my illness and heavy loads of water, had still been moving at about 2.5 mph. A pace of which I would have been very proud of only a month ago.

The 12 miles to Walker Pass were a largely gentle downhill slope and we tore it up quickly, at the rumor of a Trail Magic grill out at the Walker Pass Campground. We arrived at 1:oo pm, just as the day's heat was reaching it's peak. No rumors or even exaggerations could have prepared us for what awaited. Not only was there water and food, but coolers of an array of icy beverages, hot dogs on the grill and a collection of prominent characters from the trail.

Warner Springs Monty, whose emails back and forth had assured me that the PCT was the right thing to do. Yogi, whose guide had let me know I could do it. Meadow Ed, the first person to start leaving the water caches along the trail. I also met Okie Girl and Jackelope and Eagle Eye. These latter two having been previous thru-hikers and Okie Girl, a section hiker. Each having driven a significant distance from their home, were out here for several days, making us food and offering rides to town. After a yummy supper we sat around and told stories and spoke of this trail which we all love. I basked in the company and array of experiences. I can't wait to grow up and be just like them and they assured me they wished to be in my shoes.

A jolly good time was had by all. Tomorrow morning Rif-Raf is picking up a box at the Post Office and we will set out across these last 50 miles to Kennedy Meadows. Reports of the conditions are starting to leak out, but I will just see for myself in three days. Wish me luck!

Midnight Lunch and Other Matters of the Mojave

2010-06-12T20:57:00.000-07:00

This trail is blessed by a marvelous array of Trail Angels. People who go out of their way to aid encourage and support the hikers. There was Marlene who served Orange floats to us through an arid section several hundred miles back. Christine who helped me get into new shoes at the kick off gathering. And many others who opened their homes and shared food and showers and laundry. A recent stretch put us in the home of the Saufleys; a couple whose home and property had been converted into an incredibly efficient complex to provide our filthy, weary hordes with all we needed and more.

Twenty -four miles later were the Andersons. A group of us hiked into the road and within 15 minutes as if by and acute, extrasensory understanding of our patterns, Terrie Anderson appeared in a minivan. She wrapped each of us in a heartfelt hug and ushered us into the vehicle and then her home. Upon arrival we were taken on a guided tour of the property and informed that there was a 2 day minimum stay. We pitched our tents in the “Magical Manzanita Grove “and were fed at each meal.

The next day it rained so we holed up in their living room with at least 12 other hikers and 4 dogs and watched movies. The next day the rest of my group had rolled out, but I stayed to journal and relax. That evening Terrie drove me back out to the trailhead and by 4:30 I was back to it. I hiked 14 miles and bore witness to the rising of a full, blood orange moon. She was mighty and cast shadows as heavy as one might expect under a mid-day sun.

Knowing that I was half a day behind my cohorts, I pushed a 28 mile day onto the edge of the Mojave. At yet another hiker complex, Hikertown, I found Frog and Rif-Raf. Two of Frog’s friends were visiting and we had supper at a little restaurant some miles away. We three spent the next day hiding from the heat and gearing up on naps for what was ahead.

At 6:30 that afternoon we headed out along and aqueduct which supplied L.A. with a portion of its water needs. Form there a dirt road led us into the heart of the flat arid land. A spectacular sunset burnt the clouds into all shades of wonder before clearing the skies for the cool of the night. An hour of headlamp hiking gave way to yet another striking moonrise. As she climbed into the heavens, casting enough light that we didn’t need our own, we began to gain a bit of elevation. At midnight we stopped and ate our lunches, watching the broad and mighty heavens overbear the spot of light pollution from a town some 20 miles off.

Around 2 AM we found a spot near water and slept until 5. Again we awoke and trudged on, up toward the mountains. The only impulsion to keep moving was the knowledge that sleep could be had ahead. We navigated the foothills and finally dropped into Tyler Horse Canyon, with a running stream and a few trees for shade. There we ate and slept through the hot part of the day. By four we were moving again and quickly encountered the most daunting climb yet, 3000 feet of absolutely exposed mountainside. I charged up that beast and 3 rises and 2 hours later I sat amidst the charred trunks of once burnt trees with green vegetation and millions of tiny purple flowers around my feet, a staggering display of the resilience of natural life. The boys caught up and we headed in and out of trees and exposed burn area.

Again, as always, the sun sank behind the mountains. First casting hues of blue and purple and then drawing a crisp silhouette of black mountain ridge against graying sky. We hiked on until the trees gave way to open windy hills. In the darkness, the hum of wind turbines reached our ears. We came to walk at the feet of these monolithic testaments to human ingenuity. Their massive blades chopped the starry sky and hummed a solemn hymn. That night we slept under a giant, hollow metal tube so as to hide from the wind. Looking back we realized we had hiked some 40 miles in 28 hours.

Early the next morning, we were up and moving through thousands more of the turbines. In the middle of a field I found a bag of oranges someone had left for us and I happily gobbled down the vitamin C and easy energy. By that afternoon we had made it into the town of Tehachapi for a quick in and out resupply… and a visit to an all you can eat Chinese buffet. A local trail angel found us at the grocery store and offered us a ride back out, we gladly accepted and so began the next leg of this grand adventure.

Home is Where You Hang Your Hat

2010-05-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

These past weeks have been spent acclimating to the trail routine. It's rather straightforward, really. Wake up, pack up, eat, walk, eat, walk, set up, eat, sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Yet, each day brings it's own treasures and tribulations. For example, Guffy campground was a lovely place to stay; but the water was pretty far down a steep ridge.

Coming out of Devil's Punch Bowl and beginning the 39 mile road walk re-route, we switched up the routine and cooked lunch for dinner before hitting the pavement for a desert walk into the extending shadows of late afternoon. Around dusk, a car slowed down. A daughter, Ashley, was driving home from work with her Dad, Doug. They offered up their lawn, some two miles ahead; we accepted happily. Not only did we all 'cowboy'(sleep out in the open in only a sleeping bag) under their childhood play set, they also invited us all in for ice cream and cake. Our arrival coincided with a visit form their son, a recent college grad, and his climbing buddies. There were many cookies in a Tupperware in the kitchen. We chit-chatted and explained our objective, motivating factors, and food strategy before hitting the hay at 'hiker midnight' (8:45 pm)

The next few days were lost to a road beaten and simmered head and feet. I am pretty sure I lost grip with reality for several segments of time but it was only witnessed by others, who understood, and so let it pass.

Now we are gathered at the home of the Saufleys, Hiker Heaven. L-Rod opens her home and with corporate efficiency, to scores of hikers. She pushes laundry through, feeds two horses, tends to a pack of geriatric dogs and still makes time to help out when the likes of me gets a bike chain malfunction on one of their fleet of 'to town' bikes.

Yesterday, Rif-Raf hunched over maps of the trail after Kennedy Meadows. The John Muir Trail promises to be absolutely snowbound, leaving us only the option of trudging through on snowshoes, making about 15 miles a day. We held a conference in Dude and Trouble's huge and awesome palace of a tent. Checking numbers and distances, elevations of passes, and what time of day to hit them. For about 4 hours I felt like I was in a war room. All our planning aside, we cannot anticipate what the High Sierras hold; aside from long runs between resupplies.

The plan of attack being set, we resupplied for this next 6 day run and packed our bear vaults with food to be sent to Kennedy Meadows. Another week and a half of desert walking and there we'll be.

Team Crass-a-Frass held a conference regarding group interdependency. That each unit maintain a greater degree of autonomy was our general conclusion but with first regards to safety in environments like the mountains. I know I am blessed to be hiking with sound reasoners and the independent leanings of each is why we get along so well.

And so, northward we press.

Who'd-a-thunk it

2010-05-13T19:33:00.000-07:00

It feels ridiculous to admit that my winter survival skills were most heartily tested in a Southern California summer. However, facts are as they stand.

Six days ago Rif-Raf, Frog and I caught a ride out of Idyllwild with a well known trail angel, David Ledbetter. He told us stories of years and seasons past. Every mile closer to the trail, it became harder to sit still and wait. Finally we were there and were powering through the scrubby, mid-morning ascent The switchbacks finally gave way to a crest and trail which swung up peaks and dropped through saddles. The desert valley floor spread out some 6000 ft below. Across it the San Andreas Fault crimped the earth. It looked like a giant gopher had burrowed past.

Our ridge became idyllic, green landscape. A mix of deciduous and coniferous trees filled the spaces between alpine meadows. A crystal blue lake danced under the afternoon sun in some tucked away valley floor. We began to notice snow, frozen into sideways blown icicles, clinging to the south sides of trees and shrubs. While I had chafed at spending 2 days in Idyllwild, we were all glad not to have been present for the storm which had made those! Nonetheless, passing when we did, it felt almost ethereal.

The next morning began a 2000 ft climb over 1.6 miles. As the trail snaked into craggy nooks and around the South face of mountains and ridges, we began to encounter patches of snow. Anxious to be safe (and to play with our winter gear) we carried our ice axes in the uphill hand, and poles for steadying on the downhill side. At first the patches were short and flat. Then short and steep. Fortunately others had passed before us and kicked in steps. Then the patches were longer and steeper and we began strapping on our traction devices, crampon or microspikes. By the last 2 miles there were no signs of the trail and we were relying on the contour lines and Granite and Terrapin’s GPS to give us the way points to follow. That night we made camp on the snow and slept cold and hard.

The whole of the next day was the same, except with new challenges. Our resident Viking, Granite muscled out front, cutting steps and shooting bearings. Rif-Raf was our route scout, picking his way ahead and calling us along. When safer options were available. We traversed snow chutes thousands of feet long and paused to enjoy views when our axes were snuggly sunk and the footing was good. The difference in the snow quality changed dramatically depending on sun exposure. The open fields were soft and prone to post-holing, under the shade of trees it was icy. At one point I slipped and lid some 10 ft before I was able to roll and self arrest. It was exciting and I am glad for the half day of training on the glacier last year! The south-east slopes were largely melted and clear and we got a couple half mile sections of exposed trail. The rest of the time we were doing good to make it a mile an hour. One day we made 8 miles and I’ve never worked harder for it!

Yesterday we began to bleed elevation, dropping a total of 7000 ft. The trail ambled and meandered down scrubby desert and through boulder fields. One rock looked like a huge schnoz; we had fun with that! Another was a catcher’s mitt and still another was as monkey wearing a Spanish Armada Helmet. 16 miles spat us out into a wide ravine where the local towns gather melt water to try to reduce the amount trucked in. A small fountain stood proud to see, as you would think we’d found the fountain of youth.

We all hid from the afternoon heat in the shade of a boulder and took turns cleaning ourselves and our socks. As a group we decided to hitch into the town of Cabazon as the snow had slowed us down enough to run us a day shy on food. So as to stagger our hitching efforts, Frog, Rif-Raf and I made dinner with the others at the water source and then moved out into the windy desert flats to camp.

We watched the sun recede up the face of the mighyt San Jacinto Mountain and the ridges from which we came. The snow riveted peak wore a skirt of sandy foot hills, stained red by the sunset. Ridge faces speckled by shrubs looked exactly as even any tiny component; sandy blond with tiny dark speckles.
And so, another mountain range passed. Today we moved into a wind turbine field. The mighty beasts whistle their winsome song as I write this, hidden in the shade of an above ground water tank, waiting for the final four of our seven to catch up.

Oh yeah, so our original five: Granite, Terrapin, Rif-Raf, Frog and I finally met up with friends of Granite and Terrapin from the east. Dude hiked the AT with them in 2007 and his woman, Trouble, is my most favorite singing partner. Our powers combined are team CRASS-a-FRASS.

Newspaper article about the Trek

2010-05-13T05:39:00.000-07:00

You can read what a Smithville Herald reporter wrote regarding the Trek at this site:

http://smithvilleherald.com/201005129435/news/community-news/local-woman-on-2650-mile-trek.html

Welcome to the blog if you just connected through the article.

Note, it should say, South America, not South Africa.

We're All in This Thing Together

2010-05-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was the annual kick-off celebration. As with such gatherings, word spread widely and frantically concerning everything from weather to the number of attendees. 100-700 people were there, according to the gossip, although it felt like 7000. Terrapin, Granite, and I got to ride with Frog, as his lovely woman, Nancy, came down from San Francisco to see just what kind of fruckus he was getting himself into. What has taken us a week of hiking was covered in an hour and a half.

Upon arrival we were all directed to the 'thru-hiker' section of the camp. It was easy to find as there were several hundred itty bitty tents, as opposed to the comfort palaces of those who came to celebrate the trail and community. A variety of presentations were offered ranging from mountain lion safety to water/snow reports. My favorite was a panel of three women who had hiked the whole thing some decades since. One of the panelists was Jean Murdof, a woman who rode the trail in 1959 with her husband. Every person they contacted had told them it could not be done in a single season. They did it anyway. When Scout and Frodo (the coordinators) posited the question "What was your favorite piece of gear?", she replied, "My horse!"

Hearing these women's stories truly was a source of inspiration. I experienced a moment of placement, as I sat listening to them. They were mother past, speaking words of experience to myself as woman present. Beside me a freckle faced little girl played with a puppy. Daughter future. It was wonderful.

I enjoyed observing all the other hikers around me, with aspirations like my own. The dread-locked young hippie-avants, the older folks, setting out to fulfill life long dreams, and everything in between. Each with our own motivators, but all with the same objective, Canada.

Sunday morning we tore down our camps, headed back up with Frog and Nancy, and headed up to Warner Springs. Despite fear-mongering tales of yet another storm ahead and snow levels becoming to nothing shy of a Yeti, we hiked into a beautiful sunny day. Ten miles up the trail our little clan made camp in a boulder field in a high mountain cup. Despite word that it was a dry camp, a steady stream flowed by our tents and frogs sang us to sleep. The next day we trekked on through more desert scrub oak, manzanitas, and general sunnyness.

Four miles on we crossed a dirt road just as several large horse trailers pulled up. They were a group from Back Country Horsemen of America. They were saddled up and packing back south to pick up a trail crew. Doing more than their part to love and maintain the trail. Cowgirl Jewel let us pet her valiant steed, Kansas, an impressive, powerful animal with a patient temperament. We were thanking them for their contribution to the PCT and Jewel just shrugged from astride Kansas, "You gotta be true to the trail." She smiled and took her postion in the queue as they rode off, leading their pack horses and mules. Having been blessed by several such encounters, I can assuredly say that a wide variety of marvelous and kind spirited people revolve around this trail, protecting, maintaining, and enjoying.

We camped along another stream in Nance Canyon. The water was flowing, but had a distinct...earthy taste. We were pleased to encounter a water cache some

Yesterday we rolled down to the Pines-to-Palms Highway 74 and hitched into Idyllwild. Rif-Raf, Frog, and I were picked up by a sweet woman named Christina who, being a life-long local, filled us in on all the area news. People like her make ventures like ours possible.

I began this entry under a gentle mist in the county park and now sit happily in a free-trade coffee shop, swapping stories and trail info with other hikers. Apparently this next bit is quite hairy. Those who have already passed Devil's Slide warn caution, it is a MUST for micro-spikes and an ice ax. Considering the money I dropped on a new pair of Montrail shoes and superfeet insoles (which I LOVE and have made a huge difference) and these upcoming snowgear purchases, I will be spending more than I had hoped, but as Terrapin put it, "Your life is worth more than all of it together!" I must agree. And so I conclude this and wander out into the town to finish errands.

Peace and perseverance!

Snow Way Pictures

2010-04-24T20:38:00.001-07:00

Snow Way of Knowing

2010-04-24T18:56:00.000-07:00

I sit in a hotel room in Warner Springs Ranch Resort. Three of my hiking fellows are packing food and planning for this next leg which will take us to Idylwild.It is hard to believe this all began only a week ago.

One week and one night ago I was checking gear and planning to head out from Scout and Frodo's home in San Diego. My pack's basic weight was 16.3 pounds according to their hanging scale. With food, consumables, and 4 liters of water it weighed 43 lbs. There were over a dozen of us aspiring thru-hikers in varying stages of preparedness, who gathered around the tables for a delicious Mexican supper. I spent the rest of the evening and night in a limbo state of torture. I could not lay still, much less sleep. In the throes of my torture, Rif-Raf, who was sharing the living room space with me, piped up, "You are likea 5 year old at Christmas! We might have to call you Fidgit." I liked it, I kept it, I am getting good at responding to it.

About 15 of us were at the Mexican Border the next morning, after a delicious breakfast of french toast, fruit, and eggs. I rode with Scout, another fellow called JJ, and RifRaf. As we drove through the desert hill fogs and the sun finally nibbled through, Scout put in The Tabasco Donkeys album and we listened to 'I Don't Mind'. It was so perfect, my heart was swelling, as tears brimmed in Scout and I's eyes. And so it began.

I tripped within the first 1/8 mile out of excitement and again about 6 miles in. Nothing big. The landscape was typical desert, although wind kept the temperatures very pleasant. Temperatures got as high as 90 and at night, low 30s. Over the first 3-4 days, desert landscape alternated with low, green, lush valleys. Wonderful alternations, always just warm enough to make stream crossings a very pleasing ordeal.

By the fifth day, we came upon a tented outpost of snacks and trail gear, run by an old cowboy fellow named Wayne. We sat and chatted a few of the morning horus away before rolling into straight desert mountainsides.

I will now interrupt the trip narrative to introduce you to the clan in which I have been blessed to find myself.

RifRaf is an ER nurse from Columbus,Ohio. he hiked the AT some years ago and made it 1700 miles up the PCT last year. Being of the "I will keep my word to the letter" variety, he is starting over this year. His trail and medical knowledge has been invaluable and as my most frequent hiking partner, his political and social awareness, as well as similar humor, has made many an eternal ascent pass much more quickly.

Terrapin and Granite met on the AT three years ago and have been married some six months now. This is their honeymoon. Granite is a chemistry degree bearing carpenter with a wilderness EMT license, while Terrapin is also an ER nurse. Trail wisdom and experience effuse from them, with the upbeat level-headedness to match.

Frog, or as I like to think of him, 'Frog the Filming Frenchman', is from San Francisco. he hikes with a handheld video camera, recording his trek for the sake of a school whose PE funding had been dramatically cut back. His deadpan humor and wide array of travels and experience trully round out our motley little crew. It is so perfect and wonderful for me.

Now we are at Scissor's crossing, our planned evening stop and it's only 2:30 in the afternoon. Rumors of free pie and (for me) more Ibuprofen and foot wraps, lured us into hitching into Jolian, a town where we found tourist quaint meets rural poverty. We stocked up, pied up, and headed out post haste, hitching in pairs of male/female for safety.

The next morning we climbed into the San Felipe mountains. Exposed hillsides of red lauburn sand, held together by the roots of cacti ranging from Teddy Bear Cholla, to Barrel Cactus. Tiny, colorful flowers dot the grounds surface, complimenting one another's colors and efforts at sustaining life. Erstwile the Yucca and Agave spires stand sentinel over the whole of their ecological commmunity.

Our clan ended up camping at a water cache called 3rd Gate. Gusts of wind plagued our afternoon and coated everything from our tent floors to our teeth in fine desert sand. Relying on the old 'wind dies down at night' rule, we all tucked away for bed. The wind did not, in fact, die down. Rather it tore up every fly stake and caused me to worry for the safety of my tent seams. By six the next morning I was ready to be out of that devil wind. I bandaged the crop of blisters on my feet, packed up and bounced out as quickly as possible. Dark clouds roiled about above and between the ridges and peaks. Certain turns in the trail exposed me to ripping, howling winds, others tucked me away. Some clouds spat rain, others hail, still others snow. Scrub oak and other growth alonf the trail soaked my pants, it was the kind of environment where stopping begot hypothermia. I pressed on 10 miles through this, although every time despair came too near, the clouds would break and the sun cast a rich, thick snow-bow from the cloud cover to the green valley below.

I made it out of the mountains and pitched my fly and climbed into my sleeping bag and ate a bit so as to ward off the hypothermia which I felt threatening. An hour later the rest of the posse began passing and by the time Rif-Raf (at the tail) rolled by, I was packed and ready to move. While we had planned on camping some four miles out of town, the threatening cloud cover pressed us on, past Eagle Rock, through idyllic valley pastures adorned by yellow poppies and on into Warner Springs, population 203.

We five are splitting a hotel room and enjoying the opportunity to clean clothes, dry gear, and converse with other arriving hikers. This morning we awoke to a wet snow coating the ground. Reporst are that someone behind us was medevac'd off the mountain. Others arriving report having been stopped at Scissors Crossing by Border Patrol and were driven here. I am sure even more stories will be passed around at dinner tonight!

Unusually high water levels have meant plenty of stops for loading up on drinking water, although runors are already flying as to what that means for snow passes from here on out.

Hiking friends

2010-04-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

This is Bethany's dad giving her first report from the trail. She called this afternoon to report that she has hiked over 110 miles in the past 7 days and is now at Warner Springs. It so happens that seven other through hikers started at about the same time. Two of them are ER nurses (RNs) and one is an EMT. So she has plenty of help with her blisters, which she also has plenty of. She realized she needs a better pair of hiking shoes...

The Mojave desert is getting rain and snow and hail. She has had to pitch a tent midhike to get dry and warm. However the moisture also means the long dormant plants are blossoming and there haven't been long hauls without water.

She is now taking the weekend off from hiking to attend the annual Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off day at Lake Morena. Hopefully she can score some new shoes there.

Kendall

Yesterday's Tomorrow

2010-04-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

I woke up early this morning with my parents. We breakfasted and they spoke blessings over me. I struck out with such a sense of giddy confidence. It carried me through the ride and I strode into the airport. While I was put out by the slow line to check my bag, I maintained the confidence until I got to the counter and the woman tapped at her computer, looked at my ticket, looked at me.
"You know your plane leaves in four minutes?"
In fact, I did not know this. I had looked at my itinerary a few weeks ago and had been telling everyone I was leaving at 7:21. I had said it so much that I believed myself. In fact, I had been slated to arrive in Denver at that time. Talk about deflating an ego!
She rescheduled me for a 10 am flight to Denver and I was on standby for two very full flights, but assured I would at least be on a 10 pm flight. I took a moment to reel my now flaccid ego back in and regroup my thoughts. I realized this was a lesson I was being taught. The Universe was taking this opportunity, while I was still safely ensconced in societal accouterments, to remind me of a few vital lessons. Always double check yourself. And I think more importantly: Humility.
I reflected on the lesson, glad I was learning it in an airport rather than taking a wrong turn and not realizing it until many miles down the wrong trail. I mulled it over and digested as I waited for my flight out of KC. I mulled some more as I sat in the Denver airport.
I decided I had learned the lesson and began begging God to show me some clemency. I really wanted to be on that 2 pm flight. I would go CRAZY sitting in that airport for another 6-8 hours. I asked in every way I know how. I sat near the desk and listened with dismay as I heard the attendants speak about how FULL the flight was. Jam packed, every seat occupied. No seat reassignments. I sulked for a moment, but caught myself and continued to pray.
At the very last minute, three girls had not arrived to take their seats. I was in! I was THRILLED to be on that plane.
A few hours later I was picking up my bag off the carousel and Scout met me outside the terminal. We quickly found that we had both been Philmont Staff and spent the ride Phil-chatting.
Since then I have spent the evening in their beautiful, and open home. Sharing the space with a dozen odd other hikers. We all supped on a delicious Mexican spread and discussed gear, ambitions, and just the general thrill of the trail.
We truly have come from all over. There are half a dozen Israelis, some New Zealander's who have been doing thru-hikes for years, quite a few North-Easterners, and everything in between. It is a thrilling and affirming starting energy to be in.
Tomorrow morning they are dropping us off at the Mexican Border, and, as the seasoned Australian hiker woman told me, that first step makes all the difference in the world.

Ready? Set? _ _!!!

2010-04-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

After so many months of planning and preparation, the time is actually nigh! The most striking thing about being a day out from departure is the sense of placidity. Up until now I have been dealing with bouts of hyper-reality. For example, a few days ago I was walking in the park and happened to let my mind untether, as I was just watching my feet. I slipped onto the trail without even sensing it. I saw the descriptions I had read and they were made real by my own recollections of similar environments. When I looked up and realized I was in Kansas City it felt like what I would imagine a space travel landing would.

Yesterday I tore up all my guide books into the sections I will need along the trail, purchased that last few odd bits for my pack, and sat down with my parents to review their role in this whole endeavour.
I have been blessed with a truly supportive family. While they may not understand my motivation to undertake this effort (or, as my Granddaddy said, "I understand, I just wonder if YOU do") they have truly come out to support and back me on this. My grandparents drove up from Oklahoma to spend a few days with us. On Sunday night my uncle, aunt and cousins all drove up to wish me well. Those who are unable to visit in person are also very much present in my preparations. EG: When I graduated from High School my other aunt and uncle gave me a very nice Leatherman pocketknife which will be traveling with me. My Grandpa Somerville, though still groggy under post-surgical anesthesia, asked my mother about my departure and travel plans. And truly, the list goes on. For that, I thank you all, you are the reason I am able to do this.
One of my favorite things right now are the pieces of advice which are offered. My uncle advised me to listen to 'that little voice in the back of your head' when dealing with strangers. My mom advised me to keep in regular contact, for my own well being, as well as her own sanity. The man who runs the deli where I used to work told me to 'let the trail tell you where to go' the insurance lady on the phone told me to 'have fun and be safe.' All wise words, which I intend to keep.

As to the hard skills, the planning episode is as done as it will ever be. I have emailed most of you my itinerary and such and have, for myself, reduced and laminated that same information. I weighed my pack and it has a base weight of about 17 lbs, not including consumables (food, fuel, sunscreen; you know, stuff that gets consumed).
I went shopping with Mom last night and picked up food for my first week on the trail as well as enough to pack into a box which I will be mailing to myself at about a week down the trail. I tallied the calories I will get each day and, despite the fact that it seems like quite a lot of food, I am only looking at about 2500 calories a day, at best. I will supplement this once I'm in San Diego by adding some cheese, gorp, olive oil, and other snacky bits. Learning the appropriate food quantities and weights will be a process in evolution. My needs and wants along the trail will change, not only because of caloric needs but also because I am a human and we tend to prefer variety.
I have made and tested my 'Penny Stove' and while mine is not quite as efficient as it might be (it boils a cup of water in 6.5 minutes as opposed 5) it will certainly do the trick.
At this particular moment I don't exactly know what to do with myself. I will probably unpack my bag, write out some pertinent addresses and steal a few fire starter logs from Dad's camping tubs. Don't tell.

I fly out for San Diego tomorrow morning at 7:21. I will be on the trail by the next morning.

Final Fortnight Factors

2010-04-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

A week ago I was decades away from today. I faced a span of time only slightly longer than what was needed. It has been difficult; my Spirit has already jumped ship and is off somewhere along the West coast. My heart, on the other hand, is stretched taut. She still aches for those friends and comforts which I grew to love in Montana. At current though, the most predominant aching imprint is that of my little sister. I do love making instances to be with her. To tag into her life and watch as she grows into an admirable, sure footed, and beautiful woman. The love and truth which sometimes only a sister can see and speak. That kid is well wise beyond her years. And still my heart envis-aches for those I have yet to reach. My parents, Hughes grandparents, friends, pets, the smell of home, my bed, my bathtub, and the big windows in my room which look out across the expanse of our backyard to the gully forest where I am willing to bet Spring is taking hold.
This morning I meandered out into a patch of Illinois prairie and celebrated this day. The birds danced and dove, quarreled and mated, all while singing their own renditions of praise. I walked into the woods but the litter was sickening and the bag I carried to pick it up was quickly filled. Unperturbed, the stream trickled and gurgled and frothed forward. A few joggers and walkers passed, nodding greetings. The sunny sky beamed down on us, manifesting smiles on our human faces. The woods were still quiet, in that daze of recent awakening. Not yet fully stretched and ready to commit to wakefulness, but slowly coming into consciousness. It truly was a peaceful and blessed morning.
As of now, though, I sit aboard the Southwest Chief Train. Before Chicago, I spent 25 hours aboard the Empire Builder. Most evenings on the train, I have to stride the length of it periodically and jog the length of the stations, weaving between the smokers, reminding myself why I do not want to be one of them again. Before I eat an evening meal, I make my way to the Observation Car where folk chatter more freely and windows everywhere allow you to watch the sky above and the corridors of landscape which frame our progress.
This evening the sunset was beautiful. We had just passed through Fort Madison, Iowa and got a glance of the recreation of the old fort, as the original burned down a couple hundred years ago. What stands now serves no military purpose; it is naught but a nod to history and occupies some prime real estate along the swollen Mississippi. After we pulled out of that quaint town (which also hosts a Federal Pen [I learned from a pamphlet I found about the train route]) and the sun began to sink, shadows threw themselves across the rolling hills of seeping green. Spindly branches reached from the top of narrow trees, clawing into the drooping darkness, creating black profiles against deepening blue.
Fields and hillocks are saturated still by snow melt and April Showers. Bogs of standing water glint from between crop rows of shucks. The hollow, retired wheat sheaths create the shelter and environment which their successors need to begin their own cycle of life. The earth changes tone depending on where it is but this evening’s display was a rich black; laden with nutrients which are being imbibed by seed and pip, producing tiny, incandescent green buds. Delicate knots of life emerge from the tips of seemingly sleeping branches. Sprouts and tufts peep up from the ground itself. Tiny flowers agglomerate into subtle carpets. It is all so hopeful and fresh and inquisitive. Working insistently toward full being-hood.
Cripes, am I in love with Spring time or what?!

In this fortnight advent of the adventure it is nigh impossible to wholly wrap myself around it as a concept. Fortunately, the PCT is not long to be a concept. In ten days it will become my daily reality. Sometimes, when I get overwhelmed by all there is to do, I step back and remind myself that what I am doing is really rather simple. I am walking in a northward direction; all this planning and concern for detail is to make it easier and more fun. Woo hoo. A trail, a trial. A consistent and supportive source truth. I continue to review and revamp my resupply plans and am still compiling a list of addresses and dates where you might (hopefully) direct letters and maybe treats along the trail.
Anna and I went to REI today and, with the aid of a $50 divided and $120 on a returned pack, I walked out of there with the few remaining tidbits of gear I needed to buy, and $120.32 less poor. All in all a good experience; rarely does one go to a store and make purchases and walk out the richer for it!
As to food planning, from what I have read, it is more prudent to calculate food consumption according to caloric needs rather than the foodstuffs themselves. Naturally my diet will largely be at the mercy of whatever the shops along the way have to offer. I have begun to make a habit of considering labels and percentages on various foodstuffs throughout the various grocery stores I encounter. A primary consideration pertains to how much energy I can get for the weight. Thus, whole grain noodles would be more enticing than bleached white wheat…for so many reasons. I will be striving for a daily intake of 5000 calories.
Breakfast will largely be bars and nut mixes. When I get into colder temperatures I may heat some water in the morning and mix some powdered milk into oatmeal or some such, just something to kick start. However, breakfast will not likely be a big ordeal of a meal. There are so many breakfast bars available, I get dizzy trying to read all their information. Trying to do the calorie to weight math in my head and decide which would be most prudent to carry. I can only hope that it becomes easier with experience.
Lunches should be fun meals. There are a plethora of spots along the way where I plan to park my behind and feed my face. Lunch foods will mostly be crackers, tortillas, cheese (for the first few days out of town), tuna packets, SPAM, peanut butter (yes, I will eat peanut butter for this, that is how serious I am) etc.
I will prepare supper a few miles before I make evening camp, thus more effectively using the calories I get to my body and keeping the smell of food away from my evening camp, helping the “please stay away, bears” Campaign. For these meals I will be using my pop can stove along with some form of denatured alcohol (usually HEET) and will boil a cup or two of water to rehydrate mashed potatoes, boxes of stuffing, noodles, pretty much anything that comes in a light and convenient packet, carries some calories, and will keep me warm. It is generally regarded as a good idea to drench meals with olive oil, as it has one of the highest calorie counts for its weight. Not to mention it is delicious.
I will supplement the meals with trail mixes, jerkys, and pretty much anything which catches my eye in the shop. I will also be carrying a women’s multi vitamin. In particular I am after something heavy in calcium and iron, as I have a history of anemia, am a female, and the Depo-Povera shot apparently siphons it away; where to and how, I know not.
I have tons of finer figuring to do before I take off bright and early on the 14th. So much that it is overwhelming if I don’t keep it in order. One of these points is how I will maintain my blog for y’all on the trail. No matter what, I will find a way as I love writing and I have heard a few compliments and expressions of joy at my chronicling of adventures (sure, this is me blatantly fishing for post compliments). I cannot predict how my writing will manifest on the trail but I am sure excited to find out.
Dear all, please keep me in your prayers and thoughts as I prepare to undertake one of the most independent, preparation heavy, physically challenging, and thrilling adventures of my (as yet) rather short life.

Mind, Body, and Gear

2010-03-19T06:35:00.000-07:00

Whenever I run, as I begin a homeward direction, I break down the distance before me. I mentally delineate ‘home stretches’ according to land marks, bends in the road, anything really. Then, I chant to myself “I am on the home stretch of the home stretch”. Depending on the ground I have covered, I may keep track of as many as five ‘home stretches’, each subsequent section being shorter than the last.
This mantra policy carries over in my life. Right now I am on the ‘home stretch of the home stretch’s home stretch’; although perhaps ‘home’ is the wrong word. Two more weeks in Montana, four days in Chicago with the sister, tag down at home base and then a six am flight to San Diego is the ultimate objective of the current count-down.
This week I purchased two of my final ‘bit ticket’ items. I am now the proud owner of a Fujifilm camera which nestles nicely into a traveling soap dish. The controls are simple and the little guy seems pretty durable. It turns on quickly and runs on AA batteries. I purchased two, 4MB memory cards; one to hold current pictures while I mail the other one home for my parents to dump onto a computer, then we trade back. The chips’ 1000 picture capacity should allow for plenty of space.
I decided to support the mall industry with my shoe purchase. For starters, whoever thought it a brilliant plan to call their chain of shoe stores ‘Athlete’s Foot’ must not have thought it through all the way. Either way, the little fellow was very enthusiastic and knowledgeable about his wares. We found the lightest running shoe and I jaunted and hopped about the shop floor as he asked what might possess a girl to walk 2500 miles. He demonstrated a different way of tying the shoe so as to keep the heel from slipping and I do believe I will be quite happy with my Grid C2 Flash Sauconys. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say the weakest feature on these shoes is the adhesion of the soles to the material. Most of the shoe is covered in webbing which is run through by doubled stitches and the width and support are to my liking. I purchased them a size larger than what I usually wear because many miles and much heat provoke a good deal of swelling.
Using the Campmor website, I invested in a bug head net and pants to protect me from those crazy making freaks of nature. I also purchased a discounted down jacket which had received positive reviews and weighs 12 oz. And with that, I do believe I have most everything I need.
This past week I have been experimenting with pop can stoves. Fortunately a Montana ranch has a plethora of denatured alcohol in the form of HEET, a gas line de-freezer. As the kids were up at my house, a couple of them got involved in the stove building and comparing procedure. One morning one of the boys grilled his hamburger on the oven while another of them and myself each used our own made stoves to compare speed of cooking. While I had meticulously punched many tiny holes around the lip of my stove, the other boy had ruthlessly gouged chunks out of his. I figured this would make for less efficient fuel use, however, the difference was not enough for me to gloat over. Besides, his burger finished cooking before mine, leaving me a little miffed.
I continue with my indoor exercise practices for 'building core strength' although I am able to punctuate it more and more with outdoor romps and rambles. I have yet to make it any distance out of this area but I do hope for at least one overnighter before I head out of this great state. Thus far, my body is retaining her winter layers, although I can feel the muscles developing underneath. I am sure, as with most of my other hikes, I don't begin to shed weight until I am sctually out on the trail, and once that happens, it goes quickly. I am quite excited by the prospect. All this to say, things are coming along and coming together.
In response to my Auntie’s queries from last week, yes, my main contact will be my parents. I will do my best to keep a regular blog as I make it along the trail, although the apparent closing down of the Pocketmail people will not make that as easy as I had hoped. Most likely I will find a way to write from the trail and will have to mail those to either my parents or one of my friends back home who will then post it to the internet. This will keep my journal a few safe weeks behind actual progress providing a buffer of safety in case someone out there is just so taken with my words that they come looking for my wonderful self. =P
As far as contacting me on the trail, I will be carrying my cell phone for emergencies and when I hit town. I will leave my parents with a list of post offices and my approximate arrival date. That way, if any of you lovelies want to send a letter or package of yummies, it can be accommodated. I will let you know once I have that together and can probably email the list if requested.
Now it is past my bed time so I will conclude with this word of wisdom:
Poop.

Why

2010-03-12T07:29:00.000-08:00

A chilly, Spring-like night descends over Big Sky Country. The sound of a passing train rolls across the snow-covered hills, garbles through the naked branches of the coolie trees and through my not-so-weather-proof windows. The transistors on the power lines crackle and hum and I contemplate whether to make a mug of hot cocoa. The sheep's tiny brains and impending due dates mean they must be kept in the corral through the nights. Each morning I wander through the herd and, as I move about the periphery of the fence the mass of them shuffle to the opposite wall. Big bellies and pink, swollen vulvas say that babies are coming soon; but not quite yet.
The cows are still out in the fields. They mainly concentrate themselves around the spots where the bales get rolled out. There are three spots where we do this and the girls are usually spread amoungst them. When afternoon feeding time is nigh they swagger their belly-ful selves to the hay pen and wait at the gate, to follow the truck to that day's chosen feeding spot. About a week ago one of the senior ladies declared that she thought they would all be fed down in the coolie, unfortunately she forgot to send a copy of the memo to the humans and so we fed up on the hill and then spent the next hour trying to coax them up.
Farm life holds steady, everyone is enjoying the sun and, for the first time this year, we are contending with mud. In fact, a lake is forming in front of my house; it makes for fun driving. I took two bags of our ewe's wool in to the Seed Show today to be judged and placed. It was funny to experience the concentration of old farmer men in their Carhartt overalls. They shuffled into small gatherings, murmuring about how they weathered the winter and summer prospects over cups of cheap coffee. The consensus is that this melt and warm is just fine so long as it don't melt too fast and cause flooding like in '93, '89, and '83. My favorites are the really old farm fellows. They are always amicable, slow to start speaking and hard to stop once they are going. They are also the most fun to car-wave at.

I am 34 days out from hitting San Diego where I will be staying with Scout and Sandy Mann. They recently sent out a color-coordinated itinerary of hikers' arrival and trail dates and sure enough, there I am. My Excel row is green; I approve.
Throughout the winter I have been developing a Yoga/Pilates/Bethany-likes-stretching routine which I am consolidating into a five minute routine which I can continue to practice on the trail. The exercise helps to center me and will also help prevent some common hiker injuries along the way. Provided the weather keeps in her current trend I should be able to get in a couple practice hikes up here to play with my gear, try out the stove, and get myself into the hiker head-space.
I have my initial Excel spread sheet of mileage, resupply points, etc. planned out. I will have to update the latter part of this once I figure out when it will be prudent to head into the high Sierras, but for now the tentative date is June 15. My current planning project is to complete the list of gear I will need. Some items, such as fuel and food, I will not purchase until I am in California but others, like socks, water containers, and anti-bug juice I will be able to make in Chicago and Kansas City.
Now, the matter at hand is to explain why I am doing this. The Tobasco Donkeys song (which anyone who has been to Philmont will likely sing along with [I don't think I have ever made it through the song without having to raise my voice in homage]) does a good job of approximating an explanation. The song is titled `I Don't Mind' and if you have a few minutes you should Youtube it so the music can really get to you.

I Don't Mind Tobasco Donkeys

I am looking, I am searching, I have found near the ground my soul and myself beneath this trail. There's no other place I'd rather be, can't you see me out here walking in the rain and hail. The purpose of life it seems to me is not to take yourself too seriously. I wouldn't want to be an old man sitting in an office building someplace far away with worry on my face. Well you can take my car, my stereo, my little money; leave me with nothing but my trail family. Take my dress up clothes, my cheap cologne, my college loans, I don't mind. Well if that tax man comes looking, I'm at ten thousand feet cooking up some oatmeal, or some rice and beans.
I worship the Spirit who doesn't just look down, he looks up and through and all around; find Him in the rocks and trees. `Cause there's no reason to pray when you wake up every day to the sunrise over `Cito peak. So find some ground, lace up your boots, start walking and you will find reason, enough reason to believe. Well you can drop your worries at the parking lot, or way down in the city where the sun burns hot, although civilization is a nice place to visit, I wouldn't want to live there.
Oh just one final paragraph of advice, don't burn yourselves out, be as I am. It's not enough to fight for the land, it's even more important to enjoy it while you can, while it's still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around, ramble out yonder, explore the woods, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep that yet sweet, and lucid air. Sit quite for a while, contemplate the precious stillness, that mystery, and awesome space. Enjoy yourself; keep your brain in your head and your head attached to your body, your body active and alive.

For those of you who know your outdoor literature, you probably noticed that they borrowed rather heavily from Edward Abbey in the last paragraph. So I guess I am giving it to you third hand and, while my college professors would never accept such a tenuous citation, I'm going to let it stand because, unlike Peter Bingen, who penned the song, I have no college debt; nor do I have to worry about becoming an old man someplace far away. Notwithstanding, I am going to try to wrap my own words around this same concept.
In simplest terms, I hike because it puts me in context. I am hopelessly aware of my place in this world and every step is a celebration of my part in the bigger picture. No more, no less. Existentialism without the crisis. It keeps me sane and happy. I learn what my body can do and hiking allows me to push and stretch those limits. Every day is a celebration and an exercise.
I often cite the beginning of my outdoor fixation being when I was wee and Dad would take the family (or sometimes just me) hiking. The clear mountain air, the smells, sounds, and sights furrowed a deep chord. When we lived in Chile, Dad would run the mountains; he carried a mirror with him and promised to flash a signal down once he reached the tops. I remember watching hard out the window, imagining where he was and what he was seeing. I don't actually recall seeing the light flashes but the trips in my imagination were vivid.
Now I am a woman. I have worked hard to make it abundantly clear to myself and my family that I am my own woman and that I'm gonna do what I wanna do. The prospect of thru-hiking one of the Triple Crown has been with me since high school. Dad and I briefly considered hiking the Appalachian Trail upon my graduation but that has yet to move out of the dream phase. Throughout college, love of the outdoors, and hiking in particular has been a big part of my personality. Those friends I love best have meandered out for trips with me. Andy and I hiked Colorado. Anne and I hiked Wales. Matt and I have hiked and wandered through many states and countries. All my Phil-friends who put in trail time with me. You come to know and appreciate both yourself and others in a clearer light.
I received Backpacker Magazine through much of my college life and spent a good deal of time perusing the pages of trails and gear. I often spoke of the long hikes which I would one day endeavor. Senior year I lived in a house off campus with two friends (one of them being Anne) and my Backpacker magazine adorned rooms ranging from the throne-room to the living room. At some point I must have aired the idea of hiking the PCT because Anne promptly and emphatically called dibs on hiking the John Muir Trail (a 200 mile segment of the PCT) with me. I consented without truly filing it because the whole project just seemed so far away.
While I was living in Mallorca I kept in contact with a smattering of pals from throughout my life. One of these was a boy with whom I had worked in Alaska. One day he informed me that he and a few others were planning on hiking the PCT in 2010. While I celebrate the call of the wild in all my friends, I must admit that the first sensation which jolted through me was jealousy. Here I had been dreaming of hiking such a trail for years and had done nothing about it and this turd-brain just decided he was going to hike it and was going to do so before I did. It was a jolt, I was chagrinned at my own lack of follow through. Some days later he asked if I was excited about the PCT hike, I told him that I was, as much as I could be excited about someone else living out my dream. He retaliated with telling me that the reason he had presented it was that I might join in. I was immediately elated. I did some research and the dream turned into a decision. Not a rock solid one, but something I was seriously considering.
The idea jounced around in my heart and soul for some months. In that span of time the fellow who had presented the idea withdrew his intention of hiking so I was left to decide whether this was something I was willing to undertake on my own.Duh. Around this time I received a letter from one of my hiking gurus, Andy Borek, encouraging me to go on the trail if and only if the desire truly came from within myself and was in my own interest. He lauded solo hiking over starting with a group (which I have gone on to learn is a well acknowledged truth amoungst thru-hikers). I considered his words and decided that yes; absolutely.
I ordered the Data Book from the Pacific Crest Trail Association while working on the Glacier and was quickly overwhelmed and lost in the short-hand and formulas which I needed to figure out mileage and snow levels. However, the sensation of anticipation and excitement stayed strong. Every time we took days off from the glacier and went hiking in the mountains around Skagway I would catch myself dreaming of being on The Trail. Those ethereal moments when it was about so much more than just myself and my surroundings. Where one energy ran through my feet, and the ground and up the trees and bloomed into the heavens above; those instances where God was not only near but in and all around me. Those were the times when I HAD to laugh out loud and skip and clap and giggle and cry. There is where I am most real, certain of my own existence and pertinence.
These past few months have seen the dawning of this hike as a reality. The day I ordered the Trail Guides, reading others' trail journals, investing in Yogi's Handbook, purchasing gear and tickets. Each step bringing me closer to making this a reality. The day I finally owned up and dared to air my intention to my whole family and their subsequent acceptance that I might actually do this thing.
Now, I sit here surrounded by gear and guide books and to do lists and this is about so much more than the trail. It is about proving to myself that I not only dare to dream but am willing and able to actualize those dreams. The hours of planning and plotting, networking, and consulting. Knowing that I will stand on the Mexican/American border and begin moving north. Imagining the transformation my mind and body will undergo. The people and instances I will encounter and grow from. I have no way of knowing now whether I will finish the trail on my first try, certainly there are an infinity of factors which may arise, but I have to know that I gave it my best; truly.
A few months ago I was journaling about it all and for the first time I gave rise to my own doubts and fears. I realized that I had been repressing these for fear that they should stop me. But they haven't because once I cast them into the withering light of honest consideration, I see and appreciate them for what they are and I press forward, undeterred.
In the most practical terms, I am hiking the PCT now because I am young, healthy, and have incredibly few responsibilities. The economy is bad, I am ambivalent and the trail is certain and inviting. And so I go. The first section of the first chapter in Yogi's guide is titled "They'll never understand" and in this section she states, "You're stepping out, ignoring what society says you're SUPPOSED to do, and that scares them [non-hikers]. Seriously, they will never understand us. All you can ask is that they understnad that this is important to you and that you want their support."
So, folks, this is me telling you this is very important to me and I need your support. Please, any questions you have, shoot them my way. But most of all, what I'm going to need are your prayers (and maybe some care packages with snacks and letters along the way).

41 Days...

2010-03-05T10:25:00.000-08:00

...and counting.
Winter begins to pull her chilly shawl tightly around herself, withdrawing, leaving the rest of us to encounter sunny skies and warmer temperatures. Most everyone up here is sure this is just a cruel tease but I must admit that this past week of sunshiney 'practice spring' has brought great joy to my heart. I have been in to the big city of Havre over the past several weekends and as I walk between friends' houses I leap across rivers of dirty, icy water. I must decide which snow bank is most likely to actually support my weight and which is waiting to suck me in up to my calf and fill my shoes with ice. Which one will I slip on and which will make a good perch for the next jump. When should I just walk half a block up the street and cross there. All the while I know this is nothing compared to what I will soon be facing, and quite frankly, I can't wait.
With some experience in such matters I must admit that these interim periods put me in an odd headspace. My 'observer' Aquarius truly comes out. Life happens around me and I am entertained by it, but the sense of investment slips away. The back half of my brain is overwhelmed by the ephemeral nature of life. Fortunately these thoughts are no longer the fatalistic ruminations which they used to be; they no longer hold such power or negative energy. I understand that it is just a phase, my way of dealing with change. Besides, my heart and half my brain are already on the trail.
Most exciting, I have my "Big Three" (sleeping bag, tent, and backpack). My bag is a Women's Adrenaline Golite, it weighs 1 lb 12 oz. It is only a half zip so I do worry about my feet getting too warm but it was the only bag of its class which I could find for a reasonable price. My tent is a Big Agnes model, on loan from a Philmont buddy. Fortunately the boy actually knows what to look for in a tent so she is super light, free standing and the rain fly is completely detachable for those starry, buggy nights. I have not weighed it or looked up the model yet but I would say she probably comes in at around 2 lbs. My backpack is an Osprey, model Ariel 65. I have yet to have the hip belt molded to me (I will probably do so at the REI when I swing through Chicago) because I was iffy about committing right away but, after surviving a few rough little adventures with me, I must pledge allegiance. I did receive the sleeping bag and tent in the mail on the same day. When the post office called for me to come pick them up I was so excited that I had to do the Driver's Seat dance all the way into town. It was all I could do to restrain myself from ripping them open right there but I made myself wait. I jumped into the car and tried to put it in reverse but instead my left turn signal came on. It took me a few moments to figure out what was going on! I did make it home safely and promptly set everything up in my living room and spent the night in it right there. The weather may finally be getting warm enough that I can take it all out and we can all get to know each other a little better.
I also went ahead and purchased a Marmot DriClime wind jacket. I have read nothing but glowing reviews of this particular piece of gear and the XL which I ordered fits perfectly. So, huzzah!!! Another piece I have been researching is called the PocketMail. Again, many hikers have spoken very highly of it and, as I was tootling about on the Internet, looking for a deal, I called one of their distributors. The friendly gal told me she thought they may have gone under, which both alarmed me and made me thankful I looked into it before taking others' word on the matter. I have emailed the company and we will see what they say. If I can find another, similar device I may go ahead an invest in it for the ease of communication with friends and family and a light way to keep a journal (paper gets heavy, especially when wet).
Aside from that, I am still working on putting together the just right kind of stove, looking into a tough and reasonably priced little camera, and my final 'big ticket item' will be a down jacket of some sort. I have considered ordering shoes online but I have pretty particular feet and I will really only trust something I have at least tried on; therefore I am going to have to wait until I make a trip into Great Falls or possibly until Chicago or Kansas City. While the policy with boots is to get them ahead of time and break them in (or else suffer and DIE) lightweight runners are a different matter altogether.
As per request by Papa Morris I am working on a piece to explain exactly why I am undertaking this adventure. When and if I get the right words put together I will post it. I do apologize for the recent irregularity of my writing. Life just comes in bouts sometimes.

big dreams, big plans

2010-01-30T11:10:00.000-08:00

Where have I been for this past month or so? Well, where have you been all my life?
Suffice it to say the sunburn on my back from snorkeling has finally faded away and the burn around where my skiing goggles were has died down enough that I am pretty much back to my white, be-freckled self. Since returning to Montana a week or two ago we have weathered a blowing snow storm, persistent winds, and then yesterday, a veritable heat wave with temperatures up to the teens! Today everything is sitting peacefully. The clouds have moved in but were considerate enough to open up a few strips to let the sunrise lighted sky peek through before closing back over to make a gray, quiet day. The snow packed on the roads is happily hardening into sheets of ice and the flags lining the main street of town are hanging still and limp.

Really I have been rather uninteresting for the past week. Or rather, obnoxiously single minded, as I have been working diligently on laying out my PCT itinerary. Some weeks ago I took Warner Springs Monty's (a hiker from the PCT community) advice and ordered a preparation and town guide written by a woman whose trail name is Yogi. I was thrilled to find that she actually heralds from the Kansas City area and have been floored by what an incredible resource her guides have been for my planning. If you intend to hike the PCT or AT I would highly recommend you invest in her product. Reading it has switched up my plans considerably, as have the emails I have been exchanging with others who have already done this.
That being said, I have bought my plane ticket to San Diego! I did sit at the computer with my finger poised above the 'purchase' button for some moments and considered the implications of what I was about to do; then I got so giddy excited that I just punched the button and hurtled around the house dancing and squealing like a girl.
I will be leaving Montana early April and will be back in Kansas City after swinging through Chicago to visit Anna and REI. I will fly out early morning of April 14th and will be staying with two well known and trusted Trail Angels in San Diego for the night. The next morning they will drop me off at the trail head and I will begin to make my way up to my first weeks destination, Warner Springs. From there I will hitch back down to a park some 20 miles from the beginning of the trail and participate in the Annual Day Zero Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off (conveniently referred to as the ADZPCTKO. Catchy isn't it?). Here there will be other thru-hikers of the class of 2010, section hikers, veterans to make presentations on water caches in the desert, snow levels in the Sierra, gear talk, and just general socialization.
My decision to participate in this event is one of the smaller of the changes I have made to my plan. There have also been some changes around hiking partners and such. The biggest change is that instead of breaking it into chunks I am going to shoot for a straight hike. The reason for this is largely the matter of camaraderie. As this is a solo endeavour, everyone I have asked have emphasized the importance of the community on the trail. They all agree that this will help not only with safety, but also will up my odds of completing the trail. This will mean contending with snow and possibly some deep fords, but I will not be alone in doing so.
My current project is using the guide books to mentally walk the trail. I am estimating mileage, noting where there is and is not water, picking resupply points, and setting goals to reach specified points by certain dates. Truly the exercise is an important and helpful one as I will be able to send this itinerary to those people who are planning on coming out and hiking with me. Being as how this is the Internet and you could be just about anybody (even a telemarketer!) I will not be posting the itinerary here but if you are curious just shoot me a message and I would be happy to email you a copy once it is finished. Naturally it is just theoretical and the hike in practice will certainly vary by at least a few days if not a week or more, therefore I will probably revise it from the trail a couple of times so as to be more accurate for those who might meet me higher up on the trail.
When all is said and done, I spend about 3-6 hours a day working on this and about every hour and a half I just get too excited and have to run laps around the house or go outside and shout at the farm animals about how thrilled I am. In fact, these last few nights I have had a hard time sleeping because I just keep thinking about it and laughing. Yes, I may be toeing the line of insanity but I really couldn't care less.
Also, at the advice of Yogi, I am changing my resupply strategy. It is looking like I will be able to make the majority of my resupplies at towns along the trial and will only have to send out maybe 4 or 5 boxes. I will send those to myself from points along the trail, thus putting less of a burden on my parents and better knowing what foods and quantities I will need on the trail. I continue to look into foods' calories and weights as that will play a significant role in my backpack weight.
Aside from that, I can't think of much else to report.

until next time friends!

What does the Weatherman mean by "a winter mix"?

2009-12-05T14:16:00.000-08:00

Winter, it seems, is here to stay. It declared its occupation with a two day fit of flurries and overcast skies. A mattress of clouds obscured the sun through its few hours of weak eminence and the waxing, near full moon illuminated the sky, leaving little difference between day and night. That initial fit dropped a playful dusting of snow, just enough to fill the washboard rivets in the roads and to speckle the spots between shrubs in the fields. Then a sharp, crystal clear day sliced the temperatures below zero and we have not seen anything above 30 degrees since then.
Farm life is making the reverential and requisite adjustments. We gear up in heavy layers of insulated Carhartts, lined gloves, and heavy winter boots. I imagine we look rather turtle-ish, lumbering about, comically small heads poking out the collars, the only part of the body with much range of motion, and even that is stunted. Outlet plugs dangle out of the grill of the vehicles, rather like umbilical cords and serving much the same purpose. Even so, we have to let the cars warm up for 10-15 minutes before it is fair to ask them to move, thereby making me exactly 15 to 20 minutes late for just about everything and further extending Gay’s customary one hour lag. Also, the season demands that a girl blow dry her hair should she be silly enough to shower in the morning. This has nothing whatsoever to do with fashion, rather with combating ISS (Icicle Scalp Syndrome).
The ugly underbelly of the farm also turns its frigid face to us at this point in the season. The inoperative water heating units, which have snuck through a summer and fall without detection, are coming to attention. The kids are out thawing the underground lines which froze because the heating units decided to not work with this first real freeze.
The cows amble the fields, unfettered by their calves for the first time in nine odd months. Gay sold 100calves, (50 heifers at 541 lbs average and 50 steers at 562 lbs average) leaving us with a dozen or so dinks and two cripples who pace around the corral. They finally quit bleating for their mothers and the particularly insistent mommas abandoned their mournful posts outside the corral some days since. Yesterday we preg checked the cows; gotta earn their hay somehow! We pushed small clusters into the chute where the vet not so delicately made his arm disappear up to his forearm and shouted either “she’s good”, or “she’s dry” at which point the cow was doused with a bug killing chemical, given a shot, and released from the head trap to hustle over to her friends where they conferred as to the disgrace which they had just undergone.
As a show of solidarity I scheduled a Doctor’s visit on that same day. The doctor was incredibly knowledgeable and Montana style blunt. We discussed vitamins which I might need on the trail and she had her nurses pump me full of shots to protect me from dirty water, rusty nails, and other such threats. It really was comforting to be able to sit with her and hash out some of the finer topics which I had yet to tackle myself. By the end of it she informed me that she and her nurses had decided to quit their jobs and hike with me. As with most established adults she celebrated my adventure and bemoaned that she was now too “bound down” to indulge such escapades. I thanked her for helping me get mine on its feet and marched out with three Snoopy band-aids on my arms. Despite the freezing temperatures I went to the post office and grocery store with my sleeves rolled up, that others might be able to properly revere my obvious tough-itude (three shots in one sitting, and two at once no less!) but no one showed the proper awe so I went home and marveled at them myself. Not quite, but nearly as gratifying. The Tetanus shot made muscles that I didn’t know I had, ache.

I finally have the itinerary for the Pacific Crest Trail roughly plotted. The specifics will be dependent on weather but I will be starting in southern Cali late April. As I said, my buddy from High School and Philmont, Tyler Griffin, will accompany me for that first month. Side trips for restocking aside we should cover just under 500 miles in about a month. Figuring this as the sort of warm up leg we will average between 14 and 17 miles per day, with a few lay-overs if necessary. It seems that the largest challenge we will face will be maintaining our water supply. There will be some lengths where we go nearly 30 miles without an easy water access! And water weighs a lot! Hopefully though we will be able to compensate the weight with lighter clothing and packs, as the temperatures down there tend toward hot more than cold. However there will be some points of elevation so those must be considered as well. We are considering doing that piece of the trail without a tent, maybe just light tarps to wrap ourselves in our sleeping bags should it decide to rain. We will end that section around a town called Agua Dulce from where Tyler will (hopefully) head to Philmont for the rest of the summer and I will spend a few days in LA with a dear friend from college, Bryan Crawford.
My plan is to send some of my heavier gear for him to hold and, after resupplying, reassessing, and relaxing, take the train north to somewhere near the California/Oregon border. I will be passing through that area early June which should place me through there after the Spring showers and storms but before the area becomes inundated with other hikers. What the area WILL be inundated with at that time are mosquitoes. I am concerned about maintaining my sanity through such conditions but with cancer causing quantities of Deet and a few anti mosquito tips which I picked up from my friend Andy Borek, I think I can make it. A key factor at that point will be to have a tent to post up in and a vestibule large enough to cook in. All in all, Oregon should take me about 3 ½ weeks and then on up through Washington.
The weather will be cooler, the terrain rockier and more ups and downs, the mosquitoes just as prevalent, and higher chances of rain. I mean, it IS Washington after all. Either way, I am really excited, having recently spent a little time playing in the mountains and hiking on trails near where the PCT passes through. Also, several of my people are smattered across that state and, by the end of the 4-5 weeks which that length should take me, I plan to take a little time to visit my family and friends.
Assuming I am still alive and whole at that point I will catch the train south again and tackle the Sierra Nevada range going north to south through the months of August and September. The way I have laid the plan out I will conclude the whole thing on the John Muir Trail with my Dad. This is one of the most remote lengths of the trail, which will mean packing a lot of food weight so we will probably have to invest in those light weight hiker meals. This length is also reputed as being one of the most beautiful lengths of trail in America and I think it will make a good wrap up.
From what I have read it will be easiest to resupply at the beginning of the trail, with accessible towns every 50-80 miles. Through OR and WA there will be some longer stretches and I will certainly have to mail myself more drops but still quite doable.This entire planning phase has been so incredibly facilitated by the PCTA hiking guides which are so detailed and thorough that it almost feels like cheating.
The next area I plan to tackle as far as planning goes will be food. Of particular concern will be to maintain calorie intake. I know you will all be fascinated.

In conclusion, and on a completely different note, I am headed back in to Kansas City in 15 days. I am stupid excited to see my family and friends and to head down to Belize! After that I have slated a week to hang out with my best friend at her place outside of Denver and, if I can afford it, to do some skiing before heading back up here to survive the rest of winter and then help with the beginning of lambing and calving season. I do hope to see you soon and wish you safe and happy holidays.

Here are a couple web sites which I have found really informative and helpful:

http://cwillett.imathas.com/pct/
http://www.andrewskurka.com/advice/index.php

CD Burning and Seasons Turning

2009-11-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

The year presses steadily and ruthlessly forward. The seasons cannot seem to decide what they want to have happen. Over a month ago we had a blanketing of snow, today it is 60 degrees and sunny. As I was leaving the post office a passed a cluster of oldies discussing the weather and commenting on these Chinook winds. One of my favorite things, as I travel the Hi-Line with the cattle or just for fun is finding that each town has some sort of little diner or cafe, and if you visit these places at the right time on the right day, you bear witness to the gatherings of the locals. It is fun to hear the things which concern them and which bear enough weight for discussion. I suppose I have inherited my propensity for eavesdropping from my mother.=)
In the great metropolis of Havre, some 28 minutes away, lives one of my friends from when I was first here, Liz. She recently had a birthday and I made her a CD. It was an old scratched CD and I took a match to the back of it and burned patterns into the casing and pasted some neat magazine clippings into the hole in the center. When she opened it she was initially excited, "you made me a burnt CD!" she exclaimed happily. Then she took it out and inspected it further. I must admit that I am sitting here in the library laughing as I recall the evolution of expressions on her face. Then she just looked at me with this blank, flat expression. Of course, I laugh now but in the moment I felt rather uncomfortable and sad that she did not like my art. Yes, I burned her a CD, no it was not what she had anticipated. Oh well, now I am compiling a collection of music to put to a disc and then plan to trade it for my artwork back from her. Some people just process differently, I suppose.
Driving in to town today I was escorted for a distance by a Bald Eagle. It drifted along beside the suburban for a moment before turning to look at me and then caught an updraft and was gone. I said, "thanks for coming by," and tilted my hat to its majesty and the good omen which it bore over my endeavours for the rest of the day.
Speaking of endeavours, I continue to prepare for the PCT. The most exciting news at the moment is that one of my high school buddies and Philmont ranger friends, Tyler Griffin, has decided to do the first month on the trail with me. He is well qualified as being burly and hairy enough to keep me safe from any Mexican coyotes who may be wandering the same California desert hills or coolies. He is also of a pleasantly temperate nature and should provide a good balance to my more...vehement temperament.
While my father does not believe Tyler can be counted on as reliable, I am endeavouring to turn that lack of faith to my advantage by goading Tyler with, "well my dad says..." and he is responding, as I hoped, with an even greater commitment to come.=)
I continue to work my way through the guide books, planning resupply points and considering terrain. The largest factor for which I cannot plan is the weather. It will be a matter of watching how the winter progresses throughout different areas of California so that I know whether to be prepared for an atmosphere in which it is more of a pressing challenge to find water, or to have to clamber through snow banks. Only time will tell.
As I finish up the first 700 miles or so of the trail, it will lead me high into the Sierra Nevadas. Along this stretch lies the John Muir Trail and certain lengths which are purported to be some of the most beautiful hiking in the continental US. However, as I would be arriving there in Early June, and the snow will still be thick at that elevation and the streams will be high and dangerous to cross, I have asked a friend who lives in LA to come pick me up. We will spend a few days enjoying his beautiful city and I will resupply and probably have to switch out some gear. He will then drive me further north, dropping em off at the northern lengths of the Sierras, where I will pick up and continue North bound, God willing, to the Canadian border. From there I will venture back down to the Nevadas and do those as the final segment of the trail, when the streams are less swollen and the snow is less prohibitive.
The planning is fun and tedious. I am often overcome by the need to just shut all the stupid books and go wander around outside, because that is really what I want to be doing. I know this is an important phase in such an undertaking, and I really do need to focus my attention and do my best but there is just nothing like getting out there and actually doing it.
Such a sentiment overtook me rather strongly a few days ago and I got into the suburban and went and picked Liz up. She showed me the way back into the Bear Paws. The girl has a passionate distaste for the cold and so was not often willing to wander too far from the car but we did make a few small forays across rickety, old wooden bridges and up to icy waterfalls. I threw icicles and tried to drop heavy rocks onto the pond but the ice was of that unsatisfying, slushy mixture and so the rock chucking was less pleasing than the icicle hurdling. Then we stopped at a campsite and I made a pleasant little fire and we munched on Smores and talked about whatever it is that women our age talk about. Now, two days later, I have washed myself and all my clothes but when I open my purse of shift something in the car, the smell of campfire wafts up and it never fails to make me smile.

Happy Holidays and warmest regards to you all.

Have a Nice Trip...see you next Fall

2009-10-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

It seems that Fall is in a real hurry to wrap up this year. About a week ago, leaves were noticeably turned. I enjoyed my daily forays into town to run errands or pick kids up from school. Then I come in today and it seems that God took a leaf blower and blasted every last one of them to the ground. I'm not complaining, I am just saying, it was rather abrupt. Although, still very fun to swerve and drive through the swirling banks of yellow and orange and brown piled up along the sides of the streets. Trunks line the lanes adorned with Halloween decorations, their branches creak overhead, newly exposed so the wood yet blushes.

I have been heralding in the new season by baking. On today's agenda: carrot pumpkin muffins, with a cup of shredded pineapple to taste. I have also been working on developing a peach tea, mainly because there is a massive box of peaches in the bottom of my refrigerator.

I was speaking with Gay the other day about the place I am in my life, this whole "early 20s" business. She extrapolated on, what I can only hope to fully comprehend in a few years, how I am in a period of transition.
Now, we all understand that we have varying layers of emotional sensation. Like currents. Some run deep and steady, some cavort about on the surface and then disappear forever. Well, Gay's explanation focused my sight (one of her uncanny gifts) bringing into relief one of the deeper currents which has been running in my consciousness through this "transitory" period. I recognize it from pre-pubescant and early teen years. I have been here before. It is interesting to observe a sensation from such a different perspective. I know I am a grown up because I can say, a decade sure makes a huge difference.

I am tempted to go on about the weather up here, but I am still just starting to work the words around it to try to convey it appropriately. Mainly my focus is the sky up here, the vast tracts of heaven, pressing so low and wide. I am learning about cloud identification.

In regards to the PCT: I have begun reading through the Pacific Crest Trail Association's three guide books. Learning what kind of terrain to expect and what kinds of resources are going to be available. I am beginning a list of the towns where I plan to stop and resupply. I am still working through Southern California and it seems my biggest challenge is going to be water supply (I know, big surprise). It seems that it really depends on how the seasons have treated the area. How much snow fall comes down this year and the likes, so I will be keeping an eye on that.

That is all from the High-lines today. Best to you all.

I'm Back

2009-09-29T14:13:00.001-07:00

Here I am again. Words, for me, are an exercise in self actualization. The huge added bonus of this medium being that I get to keep you guys updated as to my goings on.
So, another summer in Alaska has wrapped up. It was an experience which has now run its full course. I am still working through the amazing lessons with which it presented me and am very pleased to have found a place and situation in which I have all the space and time needed to process.
I am now living outside of Zurich Montana on Dancing Moon Ranch, the place of my fortification during the tumultuous teen years. Except that I am now, as Gay put it, "on her team."
I spent this past week managing the farm, feeding the animals, watching the kids, getting suburbans stuck in mud, worming lambs, chasing the loafish sheep dog, and baking peach cobblers/pies and banana nut bread.
The seasons made a rather abrupt switch this past weekend. The temperatures went from sunny and 80 to blustery and less than 60. We had our first freeze on Sunday night (of course that was the night I had decided to hang my laundry out to dry).
Today I am in the public library (of which I am now a proud card carrying member) after having come out of a substitute teachers' meeting. I was the only one of the group of women who did not have many years in Chinook under her belt and one of only two who did not have progeny in the local school system. Substituting will be a nice way to supplement my income and to give me something to do. My objectives up here are to try my hand at writing some short stories, spend a good deal of time volunteering, and to get some planning done. What am I planning you may ask?
A few days ago I received a box with the three guide books and my membership to the Pacific Crest Trail Association. I have begun to delve into the beginnings of planning this monumental hike. Naturally I am dubious as to any of a number of the many components of my ability to see this project through (logistically, physically) however I cannot but bow to its preeminence in my spirit. Therefore I begin to press forward.
After Alaska I spent a few weeks in the Seattle area with a dear friend from Philmont. Andy Borek and his lovely Leda opened their home to me and Andy and I spent three days on a traverse called the High Alpine Lake Route with another Philmont ranger, Skye. If you are interested, Skye posted some wonderful pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/skyeschell/AlpineLakesHighRoute#
It was beautiful weather, wonderful company, and...unique...terrain. It also invigorated me, tantalizing my spirit and recalling to her the drive to be outside. It assured me that hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is something I need to pursue.
One of the primary purposes of this blog will be to track my progress in the planning process.
Please, any input is invited.
I have begun by setting aside $4000 for the hike itself. While in Seattle I went to REI and 'invested' in a pair of leather hiking boots and a pack. I spent the first week breaking the boots in and, as I continue to wear them around the ranch, will decide whether this fit truly is the be-all end-all for my picky feet. If they work I will order a second pair and break them in as well so they are ready in case my first pair bite the literal and proverbial dust somewhere along the 2,650 mile trail. The plan is to leave the second pair with my parents, who have, unbeknownst to them, been bestowed with the great honor of being the command center while I am on the trail.
At this point I am reading through the guide books, deciding whether I want to try to do this as a single contiguous trek, or if I might do the lower desert reach, then hop up further north and do Oregon and Washington and drop back down to do the Sierra Nevadas and the John Muir trail last. As I have said, there is much planning ahead.
But, for now I have to go meet Gay and flag as she drives the Combine back out to the farm.
Gross, the kid next to me just picked his nose.