NBA Playoff Proposal

During the long hibernation that is the NFL's offseason, remotes across the country migrate from CBS and FOX to TNT and ABC. Chris Collinsworth's refined southern drawl gives way to Jeff Van Gundy's nasal New York accent. Peyton cedes the throne to another athlete known immediately by his first name, LeBron.There is no denying it. The NBA is the second most popular professional league in a sports-mad country and the second most popular sport in the world.

But, it could be better. The games feature more timeouts than action, more instant replay than fast break, more piped-in music and stale chants of defense than feverish nail-biting and then the explosion of joy or eerie silence as ball passes through twine.

To encourage heartier competition in both the regular season and playoffs, why not revamp the current Playoffs?

 A new playoff system, laid out below, would improve the regular season by placing more importance on a team's record. Other than home court advantage there is no benefit in being a number one seed over an eight seed. Recognizing this, smart coaches like Greg Popovich rest their players on select games over the regular season. As long as a team is assured of a playoff berth, the rest is of little import. The pursuit of a 60 plus-win season is motivated more by the quest for greatness than by any practical incentive. And as memorable as those great seasons are, they count for little in the playoffs, except as proof of a team's superior merit. 

In order to promote a more competitive, cutthroat, ruthless regular season, the highest seeds need more than a home court advantage. They need rest, they need security, they need security blankets to keep them warm while they watch the lower seeds battle for the right to them. Much like the NFL, where the top two conference teams rest while the next four fight for the right to play them, I propose a playoff that transitions from March Madness to the later rounds of the NBA Playoffs. But words can only say so much and illustrations can speak more precisely than I could hope.

This system has many advantages. By using 12 seeds, it eliminates much of the urge for tanking. Even a 13 or 14th ranked team has a shot at the playoffs, and only the truly awful would commit to tanking early in the season like the 76ers and Knicks have done this year.

At the same time, it rewards the teams with good records. In order to avoid the first four rounds, a team would have to finish either first or second in their conference. The battle for those two spots would encourage intense competition throughout the regular season for those favorable seedings. The only potential drawback to this system is the extended recess for the top teams before they start their seven game Conference Semifinals series. But, many teams would welcome this chance to heal players and rehearse their game plan, like teams do in the two weeks before the Superbowl or the Champions League Final.

And while were at it, let's cut the number of timeouts in half, reduce the season to 72 games (30 against the opposite conference, 42 against in-conference rivals), extend the all-star break to seven days (as per LeBron's wishes) and eliminate divisions.

Pacific Crest Trail

      I started off the Pacific Crest Trail hot. Like a bat out of hell. Like a ten year old sprinting the first 100 meters of a road race. And it was hot. About 90 degrees in the SoCal sun. I charged through the first 20 miles in 7 hours carrying a pack heavy with a week's worth of food. I passed a lot of people, most of whom woke up that morning with the goal of hiking to Canada. Some of them, myself included, went to sleep that night second-guessing our lofty ambitions.

     The trail starts near the Mexican-American border, about 30 feet away from a corrugated metal fence that marked the boundary. I wondered how it would look if the fence were made of adobe instead of metal sheets fitted together. I envisioned a Great Wall of the Southwest. There was a border patrol cop near the trailhead. I asked him if anyone ever tried escaping from the US into Mexico. He scoffed and shook his head no. My friend Kaison drove me to the start. He seemed eager to join me, but he reluctantly got back into his mini-van, a fashionable ride for the recent college grad, and rolled back to San Diego where he works at an educational start-up founded by Williams students; Learn2Earn.

The Border

The Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) starts at a fence and ends in a park. On that first day, I began my walk away from that lonely fence in the desert towards that park in the distant northern forest. I heard many helicopters while I was near the border, either searching for illegal immigrants or stranded backpackers. A lot of the hikers in that first section were not in great shape and struggled with the heat and terrain. Most try to hike 20 miles the first day to reach Lake Morena, where there is a campground with water and hot showers. But, many did not make it there. There was a water cache filled with gallons of Arrowhead water, stocked by benevolent "trail angels," located about 5 miles before Morena in the hot Hauser canyon. Many weary hikers stopped here to spend the night. These water caches are vital in the opening desert sections where water is scarce.

The Trail Monument and Me

The first day is definitely the most dangerous of the whole trip. People don't know what they are getting themselves into. Even I, a seasoned backpacker, underestimated how hard 20 miles can be with a heavy pack and a hot desert sun.  A couple days after I hiked into Morena, a 19 year old died, only a mile away from Morena. Apparently, many hikers passed him, but he motioned for them to keep moving. He was dehydrated and called his dad--you'd be surprised at the places you get cell service--who called 911. They choppered in, but not in time to save his life. This happened right before kickoff, a big party in the Lake Morena campground timed to coincide with the start of many people's hikes. The next night, a freak rainstorm blew over many people's tents and drenched belongings both in Lake Morena and points further up the trail. It was an auspicious start to the 2014 PCT season.

SoCal Desert

The next day I hiked up from Morena to Mount Laguna where winds ripped through the big pines. My feet ached and I counted the miles which dragged along with my feet. Halfway up Mount Laguna, tired, sore, thirsty, I heaved my pack down on the trail, in between the cacti and low desert trees. I heard a rattle and looked down at a snake not five feet away from my feet. I backed up and walked a wide "C" around the rattler, before continuing my way to Mount Laguna. I set up camp at a time that I thought late, around 7 o'clock, having covered 22 slow miles, less than the 30-mile-a-day aspirations that I entertained from the comfort of my home. About thirty minutes later, an older guy strolled in, talkative, cheery, in contrast to my beleaguered self. He introduced himself as Rags.

Gnarly Blister eww!

 Perhaps the most immediate characteristic that distinguishes a thru-hiker from your normal backpacker, apart from the stench and mangy facial hair, is the name. Trail names are a time honored tradition on the PCT and other long trails that snake through America. At this point, on day 2, I didn't have one yet, and to be honest I was a bit circumspect about the whole thing. Some sounded a little forced to me. I could understand a truly awesome trail name that accurately nailed down a certain aspect of a thru-hiker's personality, but the ubiquity of the practice lessened the impact of each name. I didn't want to be forced into a name. I didn't feel the necessity to separate my trail self from my "civilian" self. But, for some people, their trail name becomes more meaningful than their real name. It is a name that while given to you by someone else, you can either use or discard. For some people their trail identity subsumes their real identity. 

Mount Laguna

Rags, who I came to know through miles of hiking together, was a recent retiree, a Vietnam Vet with grisly gunshot and shrapnel wounds in his lower leg. Despite this, he puts in impressive miles while maintaining a stolid disposition. After the first day, hiking up Hauser Canyon, he began spitting up blood and flew back to Seattle before restarting the trail a week later. He is a a student of the ultralight philosophy, going so far as to cut all the tags off his clothing. He, like many others in Southern California, travels without a tent, but has a room dedicated to outdoor equipment at home, so getting one is just a phone call away.

The next day, it became clear that thirty miles a day was an arm chair fantasy and twice I nearly broke down. I called my dad from a picnic area near an asphalt road, overwhelmed with the pain and enormity of my task which was just sinking in. The arrival of Rags boosted my spirits and I continued up a dirt road to a water tank where I lounged with other thru-hikers. 
     

The trail often hugged the mountainsides, weaving in and out of dried arroyos, those deserted creek beds that only flow during rainstorms. So, even if I could see the trail a mile away, it could take three miles of walking along the steep ridge walls to reach that point. Camping is also sparse on these steep slopes, and the trail angles downhill, which can cause knee pain and other problems. 
The trail stays true to its name. The Pacific Crest Trail, emphasis on the Crest, seeks the spiny peaks and highest ridges on its way from Mexico to Canada.

Eagle Rock

After the relentless ridge that was the San Felipe hills, I chilled for a while at Barrel Springs, a cistern filled with cold spring water and equally cold Cokes and Beers. I was careful to avoid the Poison Oak that lingered in the shade of the thirsty oaks. From here the trail took on a greener aspect, a departure from the red sand that characterized the first 100 miles. I walked on mellow hills and descended into the Serengeti-like flats near Warner Springs, where I spied a lone tree that stood out from the grassland like an Acacia Tree in Kenya. A bit farther along sandy trails loomed Eagle Rock, perched on the top of a rise. You don't have to look closely at the picture above to see an eagle, wings outstretched, protecting her nest eggs. The resemblance was so uncanny I wondered if Indians had chiseled away at the rock to create such a likeness.
       

Early Morning Clouds

From Eagle Rock, I continued onto Idyllwild. Cold rain and fierce winds buffeted my tent in Warner Springs, but a cup of coffee and a meal of eggs, biscuits, and sausage warmed me up after a cold night. I charged over green mountains, the promise of Idyllwild and the trail famous Paradise Cafe burger fueling my ambition. An "easy" 18 miles into the trailer compound of Hiker Mike's, where I stayed the night, then 26 miles the next day, a marathon down from the windy hills to Paradise Cafe and a juicy burger. From here I hitched into Idyllwild. I stood on the side of Highway 74, thumb extended uncertainly, and my first attempt at hitching proved successful within minutes. The "Colonel," an authority on magneticss, and his wife drove me into Idyllwild, past the wildfire that ravaged the PCT a couple years ago and ruined the trail just north of the cafe. 

In Idyllwild, I secured a inn room, and reflected on my accomplishment, 152 miles in 7 days. I felt good, but my feet did not. The next day I took four trips to the grocery store, agonizing over each food choice. My next stop was Big Bear, 100 miles away. All that sweat and pain, and now I had to do it again! I stayed in my room, watched the NBA Playoffs and the Donald Sterling saga unfold. One 'zero'-- a day with no trail miles--turned into two. Uncertainty and despair swirled within. In retrospect, I should have spent more time in the campground, with some of the other hikers, but I felt like my mood would bring them down. 

They say yawning is contagious.

I woke up feeling better, and gathering my energy, charged up San Jacincto Peak, the second highest mountain in SoCal after San Gorgonio. Descending was not as fun. Over ten miles of switchbacks twisted down almost ten thousand vertical feet, but at least I was able to admire the flanks of the formidable peak as I threaded my way to Ziggy and the Bear's. Ziggy and the Bear are trail angels who host PCT hikers in their backyard and treat them to foot baths, free showers, and a Burger King run at 1:00. I power-walked across the valley floor to get there in time for fast food. Apparently, Ziggy and the Bear bought their house in Cabazon specifically because of its proximity to the trail, which makes sense because there isn't that much else to Cabazon. It is a small outpost huddled against the hillside, across from the interstate and dwarfed by tall spinning windmills.

San Jacincto Peak

I hiked into the night from Ziggy's. The trail skirted windmills and free-range pastures before curving around to Mission Creek, a cool stream that nourished large Cottonwoods and other plants along her banks; a green line carved in the desert valley floor. It was refreshing to encounter water after so many days without. Little Mission Creek was like the Mississippi to me, only more beautiful because of its refusal to submit to the arid desert. It cascaded down rocks in little waterfalls and pooled in sandy shallows perfect for foot baths. I took a nap, ate lunch, relaxed, ate dinner beside its banks. I found a nice walking stick, a charred branch from a burnt bush. It was remarkably sturdy despite its light weight and one end formed a perfect handle, especially when I wrapped my handkerchief around the notch. I developed a strange affinity for the thing and it was my companion for the next 100 miles.

My Sturdy Companion

I slowed my pace, just as others increased theirs, and I hiked along Mission Creek with many others, who like me, savored this oasis in the desert. Mission Creek took us to Big Bear Hostel, a laid-back house claimed by hikers for the PCT. An all-you-can eat Chinese Buffet and a large meal at a Sports Bar provided nourishment for my next section. I only spent one night in Big Bear, careful not to repeat the mistakes I made in Idyllwild.

Foot Bath at Mission Creek

 The next day, I followed the hills that skirted Big Bear Lake to the headwaters of another stream, Deep Creek, which lived up to its name. It cleaved the rocks and gathered in dark pools before continuing down the valley. I hiked into the night, eager to reach 30 miles for the first time. But, despite my effort, I was only able to hike three miles over the last three hours, and at 11:00, I picked a spot near the trail and was nearly asleep before unfolding my sleeping pad. Not ten minutes later, I awoke out of a light sleep to a flurry of movement and a noise that registered somewhere between a scream and a roar. I looked over through the darkness to Apache, a fellow thru-hiker who had joined me in my late night push. 
"Dude, was that a mountain lion?" I asked.
"I think so" he replied. After a few minutes of tense silence, Apache put up his tent, a sturdy barrier between man and beast.
I was so tired, I didn't bother to follow suit. Instead I lingered in half-sleep with my walking stick in immediate arm's reach to my right, my small pocket knife near my head. I remained in this position, drifting in and out of sleep until early morning light filtered through the darkness and I relaxed into sleep. 
Apache is an interesting character. Last year, near the start, he nearly died. He wandered off trail and survived three days without water, subsisting on cactus flesh, before finding his way back to the trail where he passed out. Someone woke him and he recovered for two weeks at home before starting again. He blamed his hiking boots for his near death experience and now favors the open-air Teva sandal. Last year, he met Anish, the women who broke the PCT speed record. She hiked the trail in under 60 days, averaging 44 miles a day. Apache met her in Tuolumne Meadows in the High Sierras, and described her as shrunken and shriveled, a raisin in the sun. She survived on goo mixtures that she would squeeze into her mouth.
Apache hiked most of the trail last year only to fall 150 miles short of Manning Park and the Canadian border. Apparently he spent too much time in town along the way, and when the choice came to buy snowshoes or a ticket home, he opted for the latter. He hikes wearing a wide-brimmed bowler hat studded with feathers he has accumulated along the way, hence the badass name "Apache".

Deep Creek

     I hiked onto Deep Creek Hot Springs where I relaxed in the restorative waters and saw naked people of both sexes and every body type. There were a few woman, but even I, a 24 year-old manboy, was more concerned with the nourishing water than the female form. Maslow's pyramid proves especially true in the back country; food, water and comfort take priority over sexual desire.

I didn't follow suit and kept my shorts on when I joined the mix of thru-hikers and revelers in the springs. The water eased my sores. At this point, my body ached. My feet were sore and blistered and the areas around my shoulders were red from where backpack dug into flesh. It was an improperly sized pack, one salvaged from my basement, and along with digging into my shoulders, it cut into my hips, sending pins and needles down my lower back and butt. Wolf, a thru-hiker from Denmark, remarked on my red shoulders. I was a bit self-conscious, but I knew it was time for a new pack. Luckily, I was scheduled to meet my Uncle Henry in two days at Wrightwood. 

Mile Marker 300

I left Deep Creek and walked through desert past the dammed Silverwood Lake, which was beautiful despite its artificiality, and finally underneath the Golden Arches and into the sanctum of McDonalds. I spent $20 and ate more of Rags' food when he joined me. Next time, I'll stick to the dollar menu. We spent that night sandwiched between a highway and a railroad, not the most pristine of backcountry campgrounds. From there, 27 more miles up some more mountains, a 5,000 foot ascent narrated by Ira Glass of This American Life. I was careful to avoid the nefarious Poodle Dog Bush, a plant we had all been warned about down the trail. I walked underneath large conifers and through grassy ski runs, down to a forgotten highway with no cell service. 

Map of the PCT until Wrightwood

Luckily, a pickup dropped off another thru-hiker and I jumped in the back down to Wrightwood, a small mountain town two hours from LA. My Uncle Henry picked me up and shuttled me down to LA. In LA, I walked the Venice Boardwalk and picked up some gear, a new stove, the efficient, light JetBoil, an Osprey Pack, a huge upgrade, and two trekking poles. I spent three days in LA, and like my long stay in Idyllwild, I found it hard to get back on trail. I had stashed my walking stick earlier and I picked it up one last time before placing it carefully back among the bushes. Trekking poles stabbing the dirt, I marched into the fading light, half man, half machine. 360 miles down, only 2,300 to go. 

    

The Trail Continues On

Highs and Lows

Reflection

Second Leg: LA to the Sierras

Riders on the Storm

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)