Highs and Lows

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. It was the season of light, it was the season of darkness. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. We had everything before us, we had nothing before us.

The intro to A Tale of Two Cities turns out to be an accurate description of my experience on the Pacific Crest Trail, although I suppose it could be fairly applied to any other arduous adventure.

Pointing north on the top of Mount Whitney

The best of times were often followed quite immediately by the worst of times, and the worst of times often precipitated the best of times. In the high Sierras, around mile 870, I was low on food. That day, I hiked 35 miles over two snowy mountain passes, and worse, down two snowy mountain passes, my legs sinking knee-deep with each step. For this reason, it is best to tackle these snowfields either in the morning or late evening, when the sun is softer and the snow is harder. At 9 PM, in the darkness, I crossed Bear Creek, a grisly crossing as described by the guidebook, but this year was mercifully low on snow, and the water barely touched my knee. Still, the water was cold, and I was relieved to take off my socks and partially dry them next a small fire I constructed using old maps as kindling. I fell asleep around 10, the warmest I'd been in days, safe below 10,000 feet. There was no frost when I awoke in the morning, the water in my Nalgene bottle, harvested from the last snow-fed creek remained unfrozen. But, my watch showed a time of 11:00 AM, and though it was bright, I was sure I had not slept that long. I tried to check my phone, but it ran out of battery as soon as I turned it on.

Yosemite National Park looking back on the Sierras

I still planned on hiking another 36 miles to Red’s Meadow before getting resupplying. I had two Mountain House meals left and a tortilla. I figured I would eat lightly and arrive at Red’s the next morning, hungry, but not famished. Well, maybe famished, but at least assured of a hot meal within the near future. Unsure of the time, I started to hike, on stiff joints and cracked feet. I thought I had left Bear Creek behind, but I forgot the North Fork, and then another creek, small but swift, and I was unable to string enough rocks together for a dry crossing. The water was cold, I was uncomfortable. I moaned, an outburst resulting more from my emotional distress than any physical pain. I sat down next to the trail, ate my last tortilla and shut my eyes. A blue jay squawked at me from its perch on a pine tree. Annoying bird. I threw a rock in its direction, not aiming to connect, just to startle. It remained unconcerned. The birds out here rarely sang a melodious tune and the Stellar Blue Jay was the worst offender.

The trail in the High Sierras

There was nothing to do, except to walk some more, up along a ridge and then down an interminable series of switchbacks. I passed a couple makeshift signs along the way, each directing me to VVR, the Vermilion Valley Resort, which had just opened to hikers and promised a hot meal, a hot shower, and ample food for resupply. I continued on, still determined to stick to my original plan, which was to hike the entire stretch of the Sierras with no resupply; a distance over 200 miles, 220 if I counted my side trip up Mount Whitney. Plus, VVR was 6 miles off trail and I disdained the idea of hiking extra miles. I walked through a grove of birch trees with initials and hiker names carved into the bark, sometimes encircled by a heart. I crossed a bridge, thankfully, and the last sign encouraging me towards VVR. I continued on, through another stream and then up towards Silver Pass, the last obstacle between me and Red’s Meadow. I kept debating whether I should value the experience over the physical challenge and the two battled for supremacy in my mind. Of course, the physical challenge was part of the experience, but when I thought of the experience, I considered it to be more about the people and the cool places off trail in the backwoods of America.

Thousand Island Lake in the Ansel Adams Wilderness 

My mind was more exhausted than my body. My pace was as slow as the glaciers that once carved these valleys. I couldn't take it any more. I turned around, back downhill, towards VVR. My pace accelerated, a mountain stream skipping down the rocks. Food! Beer! Ice Cream! Little Debbie Snack Treats. A 400 calorie chocolate chip muffin. An IPA, on the house. A large chicken Alfredo pasta, a salad, and a blueberry pie with ice cream that I could not finish. NotAChance and Mac, two other hikers, happily took it off my plate. My mind cleared. I fixed my watch with a simple click of a button. I weighed myself, 147 the lightest I had been since I ran cross country in high school. Now, I was hiking cross country, so it was fitting that my weight corresponded with the streamlined days of my adolescence. 

Skinny Selfie

The next day, I hiked to Iva Bell Hot Springs, a short way off trail, in the company of some other hikers I had met along the way. My solitude had been shattered. I had no immediate need for food, and in some ways, I wished I had continued on, just to push the edge of that physical and mental limit to see what I might find out about myself when I looked back in.

The next day in Mammoth, after a morning soak in Iva Bell hot spring, I gorged myself, walking from restaurant to restaurant as I made my way back to the hostel. 

Mating ritual or fight to the death?

Many people would consider it foolish to hike 25-30 miles a day, every day, and often I felt the same, especially in Northern California, after the majestic snowy heights of the Sierras. Up here, the heat seemed trapped in the pine trees and only places of succor were the small springs that flowed out of the steep ridge sides. There were no lakes to jump in, only rivers that gouged deep gorges into the rugged forests.  My motivation had peaked with the altitude, and throughout Northern California I wondered if I really wanted to finish the trail. They call this feeling the Northern Californian Blues and I heard that about 20% of people quit in this stretch.

The half-way point in Northern California, just south of Lassen National Park

I made it to Castella, a small outpost with a post office and a gas station, next to Interstate 5 and the railroad. The temperature hovered north of 100 degrees. I sat down on a picnic table and watched women in short shorts fill up their gas tanks. Quite a vision after 70 days on trail. Soon, a whole bevy of other hikers joined me on the picnic table and I was able to hitch a ride along with them to a hotel in Dunsmuir. We watched the US lose to Belgium in the World Cup. One hiker, Milestone, got a little too drunk and puked outside the sports bar. They hitched back to the trail, while I stayed in town, reluctant to resume my trek. My mind wrestled with indecision, and with each day of inaction, I spent more money and moved farther away from the trail. I slept underneath a bridge and in a dismal one room train station next to a guy with a motorized scooter who liked to count the number of cars in each Southern Pacific freight train. I took an Amtrak up to Klamath Falls and watched the Fourth of July parade down a Main Street which was otherwise empty. I watched more World Cup Games and ate dinner twice at a brewery with amazingly attractive waitresses, but somehow I was assigned the least spectacular one both times. Maybe it was my patchwork beard. I read a book called the Tao of Pooh, and I tried to just be; an uncarved block, a thing with potential. I tried to recognize and understand my inner nature. Decisions would make themselves. I decided to fly back home, and then, already on the Amtrak Train up to Eugene Oregon, my inner nature felt uneasy, and I decided to hike some more.

Fourth of July in Klamath Falls, Oregon

After two days in Eugene, I took a train back down to Dunsmuir. I arrived at 2:00 AM, and because the only road connecting Dunsmuir to Castella was the highway, I walked down the railroad tracks in the dark. Along the way, I heard a noise that sounded like an unholy mixture between a ravenous stray dog and a scavenging bird. I took off my backpack, and like an actor in a horror movie, fumbled to unloosen my trekking poles before brandishing them at this unseen devil. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving. Just passing by.” I spoke in a voice that resonated from a depth unfamiliar to me.  I walked away briskly, into the moonless night. A freight train rumbled past, covering my exit. I took large steps from railroad tie to railroad tie until I reached a paved road that marked the boundary of Castella. On a dirt parking lot nearby, I unrolled my sleeping bag. The next day, I hiked.

The path (taken)