How to Sweep a Girl Off Her Feet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.