During our hike, we'll be writing a monthly column about our hike for Vermont Sports Today. Pick up a free copy at your favorite outdoor shop to see us in print.
May 2004
Lexi, my wife, just quit her respectable job, our Montpelier apartment is ankle deep in camping equipment and supplies, we have granola particles between our toes, and the dehydrator is droning on. It sure sounds like a domestic disaster, but its all part of our preparation for hiking the Pacific Crest Trail this year. 2,650 miles. Mexico to British Columbia. 100 degree heat in the Mojave Desert. Steep snowy passes in the Sierra. 70 miles of washed out trail in the Cascades. Hiking 20 miles a day. Cooking on an unlikely looking stove made out Guinness and Pepsi cans.
June 2004
Our Pacific Crest Trail Adventure started at 5:30am April 23, 2004. We and four other bleary eyed fellow travelers spilled out of a car driven by Bob Reiss, a PCT hiker friend-at-large (trail angel). We were greeted a stone's throw from the Mexican border in Campo, CA by a rather disinterested border patrol agent in a white Jeep. After sticking our hands through the otherwise impenetrable looking steel wall into Mexican soil, we took the requisite pictures next to the wooden border monument, donned our packs, and started walking to Canada.
July 2004
"From Snowbanks to the Desert"
August 2004
Winding past Tejon Ranch, the PCT hits the western edge of the Mojave Desert. It is 20 miles across the flat, parched, featureless valley floor to the foothills of the Tehachapi Mountains on the other side. There is no natural water, and it can get to 110 F in the shade, but there isn't any of that either. We were prepared to night hike, but it was 71 F, so we didn't bother.
September/October 2004
November 2004
by Lexi Shear
December 2004
by Lexi Shear
The End
When we tell folks this dramatically abbreviated version of our plan, we usually get encouragement. But sometimes we get a skeptical, 'You're doing WHAT with a Pepsi can?'. Lexi's Mom hasn't the foggiest idea of why this adventure is a good idea, and we sympathize with her. On the surface, long distance hiking is a little hard to fathom.
I grew up hiking on the Appalachian Trail with my family, and from an early age was in awe of the speedy, skinny, hairy thru-hikers with funny names like Snowberry and Tuba Man. Reading Eric Ryback's book about his solo PCT hike in the 1970's made a lasting impression on me, and I've been dreaming about this hike ever since.
Lexi came to hiking relatively late, when, on a whim, she signed up for a month long wilderness trip in Alaska with the National Outdoor Leadership School. During that time, the mountains captured her imagination, and have not let it go.
Together, we have had 'PCT' on the list of life goals stuck to our refrigerator door. Every time I've reached for the milk over the past 7 years, I've been reminded that the trail is out there waiting for me. One can only tolerate that for so long before one is compelled to rip the list up and give in to ordinary life, or take on the challenge.
The first part of the adventure has been simply planning it. The window of opportunity for hiking the entire trail in one year is about five months. Lingering spring snow in California's Sierra Nevada range can mean you're really just skiing. Early fall blizzards in the Washington's North Cascades can suddenly turn a reasonable summer hike into a winter camping expedition. To avoid these hazards, you have to hike about 20 miles a day. Walking that distance with a heavy pack, day in and day out, isn't sustainable. Something is bound to give out.
To get our packs as light as possible, we've been weighing practically everything we own on a digital postal scale (bought just for this purpose.) Capilene t-shirt: 4.7 ounces, LED light: 0.3 ounces, miniature knife: 0.8 ounces, underwear: 1.3 ounces, trail running shoes: 23.9 ounces, titanium pot: 4.1 ounces. In an effort to have wind pants as light as possible (2.1 ounces), Lexi made her own. They turned out daringly stylish, the gray super-lightweight nylon she used is a wee bit translucent!
The best way to reduce your load is to focus on the big three: packs, tent, and sleeping bag. Since most of the time the weather is dry (as a result it is common to hike 30 miles between water sources in Southern California), down sleeping bags are the norm. Because I'm a product designer and an accurately labeled 'better mousetrap' guy, after looking at lots of lightweight backpacks and shelters, I designed and made our own.
Our next big decision was how to get food along the way. Some thru-hikers buy all their food ahead of time and have a reliable friend mail it to them c/o General Delivery, Small town, USA. The hazard is that those refried beans that tasted so good on day one may begin to seem more like dog-food after 5 months. In addition, the cost of mailing 99¢ pasta from Vermont to California adds up very quickly. We plan to buy most of our food in towns along the way. We are putting ourselves at the mercy of random grocery stores, so we'll occasionally be faced with a dinner of Pop Tarts and Snicker's bars. But at least we'll have variety!
The last challenge was to get out of work. I do freelance furniture design, art instruction, and modelmaking, so making the time for a big expedition wasn't too hard. My employee self pleaded the case to my boss self, who succumbed and let me take some time off. Lexi worked a more regular job as an ecologist for a local conservation organization, but was feeling a little done with it, gave six weeks notice, and quit.
So why on earth would anyone want to actually do this? (As one person I know said 'if you want to get to Canada, you should just fly'.) For us, it's about living a dream that we've shared for a long time. We want to immerse ourselves in the wilderness so that it becomes our home; to leave behind the complications of modern life and embrace the simplicity of living off the contents of our packs; and to enjoy the surprises that the trail has to offer. We'll keep you posted as we go! If you want to see pictures and more information about out trip, you can check out our website: www.studiozoic.com/adventures/2004/pct.
That first day, we were hardly alone. We were joined by 40-50 other hikers who were all heading 20 miles north to Lake Morena Stake Park Campground, the site of the ADZPCTKO (Annual Day Zero PCT Kick Off). This year, over 400 thru hikers, hikers from past and/or future years, gear reps, trail angels, groupies, and professional vagabonds overran the campground.
We spent the entire next day meeting other hikers, some of whom we'll probably never see again, and some whom we've seen everyday since. It is common for PCT thru-hikers to be a wee bit obsessive about their gear, so there was a lot of comparing the various tents/tarps/hammocks/shelter contraptions, seeing the homemade alcohol stoves in action, and weighing the expensive titanium pots.
This peculiar behavior culminated in the gear contest in which the handy unveiled their winter's work before the crowd. Folks reliably shouted out, "How much does it weigh?" or "is that the 1.1 ounce or the 1.3 ounce nylon?" The contest winner was Sycamore, for his custom machined aluminum frame sun canopy. Second place went to a guy who advocated leaving your warm jacket at home, and just using a string to tie your sleeping bag around yourself. As you can see, everyone here was a little whacko.
Our last kick-off mission was to get the latest information about the water sources and water caches we'll be relying on for the next 300 desert miles. Since it can be 20 miles between reliable water sources, it is important to get current information. Meadow Ed and AsAbat talked and handed out the neat chart that has dictated our itinerary and water carrying needs.
The most notorious dry stretch of trail is around Scissors Crossing. In preparation, we each carried 6 liters of water and started hiking at 6am to cover distance before the worst of the mid-day heat.
The trail contoured its way out of the Laguna Mountains through the chaparral of manzanita, chemise, sage brush, and beaver tail cacti. As we descended, the landscape became drier, warmer, and more desolate. Towards mid-day the power of the sun became hard to tolerate and we hiked from shady spot to shady spot. The last haven before crossing the flat valley floor was a moderate sized outcrop. Eight of us huddled there barefoot, cooling our feet and drawing down our water supplies.
After some hesitation, Dave and I headed out into the broiler. The sun beat down relentlessly every inch of the 3 mile straightaway. We wore full sun protection garb: wide brimmed silly looking hats (mine was a curtain that hangs down to protect the back of my neck), long sleeved white shirts, long pants for Dave and loads of sunscreen for me.
We hiked as quickly as we dared; we desperately wanted the water and shade on the far side, but were wary of getting heat stroke in the record 104 degree heat. The desert sand was so hot it felt like walking on coals. My head throbbed, but we sang silly songs and grunted through it.
Near the far side, we could see cars parked at the least pleasant road crossing known to man. It seemed that someone was there. When we arrived, completely baked, not only was someone there, but they were pressing an ice cold soda into my hand. Yet another trail angel had come to keep us smiling.
We gorged on water, also courtesy of the trail angels, and settled down for a much needed siesta under the shade of several large cottonwood trees. We decided to head out again at 6pm, when the temperature had moderated. We wanted to get a head start on the next stretch: a 24 mile waterless section which our guidebook described as "relentless", "brutal", and "a short eternity".
On we went into the San Felipe Hills. After a 1000 foot ascent through exotic flowering cacti, we made a comfortable, if unlikely camp in a sandy alcove in the end of a canyon gully.
We started the next infamous day at 5:30am, and for 20 shadeless miles wound in and out of every nook and corner. The trail builders seemed to think that gaining or losing any elevation would be unacceptable, so the trail contoured torturously around every wash and gully to cover a distance that was twice as long as necessary. There is no Hell Brook Trail here! After seemingly endless switchbacks, twists, and turns, we arrived exhausted at Barrel Springs, coolly nestled in a Live Oak Woodland.
We finished our first hiking section at Warner Springs, a lush resort built around natural sulphur hot springs. We soaked our aching muscles and much abused feet in both the hot and cold pools. Some hikers took off their sunhats to sunbathe; we just kept hiding in the shade.
After over a week of desert hiking, we finally reached the San Jacinto Mountains. There were lots of firsts: first snowbank, first brush with altitude, and first mountain spring with real water, as opposed to the bottled "mountain spring" water we've often found at water caches. The mountains were a refreshing change, but the trail became much more arduous, winding steeply along the ridge and clinging to a narrow tread improbably dynamited out of sheer rock.
Halfway through our traverse of the San Jacintos we descended the Devil's Slide Trail to the small resort town of Idyllwild. Reaching the trailhead at 8 am, we found no day hikers willing to call it a day, so resigned ourselves to the three-mile road walk into town. After only five minutes, we were surprised by a holler from a blue van, which did a quick U-turn and pulled up along side us. Patty gave us a complete driving tour of town en route to the State Park Campground. For $2 we got the right to take a shower and sleep on a piece of ground too hilly to park an RV. We then did laundry, wearing only our semi-translucent lightweight raingear (this seems to be the only function of raingear here).
At the grocery store we bought food to carry to Big Bear City, five days north. Delicacies such as instant mashed potatoes, alphabet noodles with pesto in a tube, broccoli and cheese soup mix, and Mother's macaroons made it into our pack. Lastly, we stopped at the hardware store to buy denatured alcohol for our stove and JB Weld to do a quick fix on our homemade trekking poles.
Refreshed and resupplied, we were ready for our next challenge: the ascent of 10,804 -foot Mount San Jacinto. Although the mountain is not directly on the trail, we are inveterate peak-baggers, so we opted for the slightly longer alternate route. We ascended steadily over increasingly large patches of snow. Rounding Marion Mountain, we really began to feel the elevation. We dropped our packs and panted hard up to the summit, where a stiff breeze made it chilly. Unfortunately, smog from Los Angeles and smoke from nearby wildfires obscured the supposedly fabulous views.
From the summit, we continued on a lesser-used trail back to the PCT. The lack of use and the large amount of snow made the trail hard to follow. For the first time in our journey, we had to look hard at our maps to figure out where to go.
Rejoining the PCT at a raging stream at 5 p.m., we had to answer the daily question, "Where to camp?" It was 16 miles and 7,000 feet down to our next water source, and we really didn't want to do all that descent in one knee-demolishing day. So we continued, each loaded with two gallons of water.
The trail wound down Fuller Ridge for five miles, switchbacking up and around endless crumbling granite spires and sandy gullies. The north slopes had many small, but steep, snow patches. On we hiked, both day-light and our energy fading.
Our camp site at the end of the ridge was smooth and flat, but the wind was relentless. We arranged logs and rocks as a windbreak for our little alcohol stove. The tent flapped all night. Even after such a hard day we slept poorly.
We arose at dawn and were soon chewing our breakfast granola bars while walking. This was both to stay warm in the chilly mountain air and to cover distance before the desert sun rose to full power. We walked down for a long, long time. The Jeffrey pines disappeared and the sagebrush and chaparral reappeared. The temperature climbed, and near the bottom we huddled in the shade of a large boulder.
At last we reached the desert floor to find a solitary spigot in the middle of the sand apparently made possible by the "Desert Water Agency," a paradoxical governmental entity. We thirstily drank and refilled our water bottles, but having no shade, we continued on.
For five miles, we made our way across the desert of San Gorgonio Pass. The unstable sand and numerous dirt-bike tracks made for difficult walking. This was made worse by the unceasing industrial-strength head wind, which was being put to good use in the surrounding wind farms. Our first shelter from the sun for 15 miles was the I-10 underpass. In this dusty and noisy spot we took a much needed break and gathered our strength for the remaining mile to our destination: the Pink Motel, an unlikely hiker hostel and shelter from the broiling sun.
The trail meandered through the outskirts of the shabby town of West Palm Springs. Numerous overgrown streets leading nowhere were the only remains of several failed housing developments. We soon found a "Welcome PCT Hikers" sign. Its close proximity of a "No Trespassing" sign as well as the surrounding junkyard made us hesitant to approach the trailer we saw on the hill. We passed countless rusted out cars, an antique bathtub, a plastic barrel of broken tiles, old pick-ups advertising an extermination business, and heaps of unidentifiable scrap metal. Still unsure that we were in the right place, we approached cautiously, and were relieved to finally see the familiar faces of fellow hikers. The inside of the trailer held as disreputable and filthy a collection of things as were outside, but the shade, the company and the cold soda from the propane powered refrigerator combined to make it one of the most unlikely places I was happy to visit.
This section is more of a rite of passage than a genuine trail. You would simply never go for a day hike here. We hiked eastward for miles next to the open California Aqueduct. At its intersection with the covered Los Angeles Aqueduct we turned north and kept marching. As we walked by sagebrush and Joshua trees, we could constantly hear water flowing beneath our feet. It was relentlessly flat and straight. I suppose that a true introvert wouldn't mind doing this boring part solo, but we hiked with Radar and Beer Snob to have at least some amusement.
A few days later we arrived at Kennedy Meadows, the gateway to the High Sierra. Starting in the early spring, and during every difficult desert crossing, our mantra has been, "Just make it to Kennedy Meadows". We had imagined an idyllic Vermont scene with dairy cows and lush grass, but it turned out to be yet another dry sagebrush flat. From the General Store we picked up our bear canisters and ice axes, although they didn't seem particularly relevant yet. For an entire day we lounged on the store's porch, periodically going inside for more ice cream, chips, or beer.
It had been traditional for hikers to loiter at the store during the day, and at dinnertime, to get a pickup truck ride to the Grumpy Bear Restaurant. However, sometime in the last year someone from the store shot someone from the restaurant (or the other way around), they went to court, someone at the store tipped off the state regulators and got the restaurant's liquor license yanked, and the 50 or so permanent residents of the town quickly separated into the proverbial Hatfields and McCoys.
Despite the friction, we thought it friendly to spread around our tourist dollars, and arranged for the Grumpy Bear to pick us up. The biggest and hairiest local guy insisted on making the feud a public issue, proclaiming that hikers were welcome to hang out on the store's porch, just as long as they didn't go to the Grumpy Bear. At that very moment, the truck pulled up, and we slinked out past a crowd of evil looks.
After three long days from Kennedy Meadows, we finally arrived at Crabtree Meadow: the basecamp for our 17 mile side trip up 14,484' Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states. In search of solitude, we rose early and began our ascent at 5:30AM, while our fellow hikers were still asleep.
Our first obstacle was the creek crossing just out of camp. We had 2 options: a log coated with ice an inch thick, or frigid knee deep water. We opted to take off our shoes and plunge in. We crossed as quickly as our rapidly numbing feet allowed. On the far side, our feet stuck momentarily to the frozen ground. After donning shoes and socks, it took a while of brisk walking to rewarm our toes.
The trail wound slowly up through crystalline alpine lakes and steep talus. Our west-facing route was still in shadow, so the steep snow slopes we had to cross were as hard as concrete. Delicately, we balanced on the solid foot prints made the prior afternoon. The last mile of trail threaded through granite spires and knife-edged ridges and finished up a broad slope. Walking the last few feet felt like sprinting up a steep hill with a full pack. We had the summit to ourselves as we explored the summit shelter, adorned with numerous lightening rods, made use of the open air privy, the highest in the country, and took a high altitude snooze.
Flush with our success on Mt. Whitney, we continued north on the PCT towards Forester Pass, at 13,180' the highest point on the trail. We climbed into a stunning alpine basin, surrounded by craggy peaks and steep, high, snowy passes. We weren't sure which pass was ours, and each one looked more unlikely than the last. We followed the trail from cairn to cairn across large snow patches and ice cold streams. Soon it became clear that we were headed towards a seemingly impassable granite wall. Only when we were frustratingly close did switchbacks materialize, blasted out of the solid rock.
100 yards from the top, the clear rock trail ended abruptly in a steep snow chute. Just below the snow was 1000 feet of steep loose scree; falling was not an option. One by one, our group of 8 crossed the chute: plant the ice axe, kick in one foot, kick in the next foot, plant the ice axe... As each person reached dry ground on the far side, the group cheered.
The north side of the pass held a large snowy basin. Those of us from snowy climes slid gleefully down the moderate snow slope, while those less comfortable with the white stuff, made their way down a rocky ridge. The first protected spot below treeline was our camp for the night.
After more such fun on Glen Pass, Pinchot Pass, Mather Pass, Muir Pass, and Selden Pass, we descended quickly from an ominous afternoon thunderstorm to Lake Edison and the Vermilion Valley Resort. Abandoning all propriety, we immediately dove into a large bowl of vanilla ice cream and a fantastic strawberry pie.
Stanley, the resort cook, was proud of his pie, and eagerly told us about his past as a Jesuit, department store VP, philosophy PhD, and UC Berkeley professor. His excellent chicken Florentine was the best food we've had on the trail so far, and helped us to get up the remaining big climbs in the High Sierra.
Hiking north in June through the last of the Sierra, we were plagued by afternoon thunderstorms more typical of August. Each day we watched threatening clouds build all morning, and hiked quickly before the inevitable rumbles. Climbing the treeless slopes of a mountain called Elephant Back, our luck ran out. We continued up at a jog as the lightening moved in. As we crossed the crest, a heavy barrage of pea sized hail began. Trotting to the road crossing at Carson Pass, we dreamt of an outhouse to hide in, and were thrilled to find a friendly visitor's center with a covered porch and free donuts for hikers. Cozy in our sleeping bags, we cooked a hot dinner and lazily waited for clear skies.
Gradually the trail became easier and easier. Without steep passes to slow us down, it took no gargantuan effort to hike 25 miles a day. In striking distance of the town of Chester (the halfway point of the trail at mile 1330) we developed a sudden craving for french toast, and stepped it up a gear. Hiking consistently all day, and pushing on past dinner, we ticked off 30 miles. The next morning we rolled the 9 miles downhill, got a lucky hitch into Chester, and had our orders in at the Kopper Kettle restaurant, all before 10 AM. Sometimes we have noble motivations, but mostly its just food fantasies that keep us going.
Our journey through northern California took on an aura of sightseeing, except that we were walking from one tourist destination to the next, rather than driving. Our tourist life began in Lassen National Park. First stop: Terminal Geyser, where we watched sulfurous steam erupt from the ground amid bubbling and oozing pits of boiling mud. Next stop: Boiling Springs Lake. Water the color of mint ice cream bubbled in the basin. Rust red and sulfur yellow mud pits rimmed the lake shore accompanied surprisingly closely by shrubs and grass.
Old Station Resort was next on the itinerary. We had hoped to sample such delicacies as watermelon Gazpacho prepared by a famous New York chef who had been touted in our guidebook. Apparently, however, country life proved to be too tiresome for the big city chef, so we had to make due with more mundane fare: french fries, onion rings, and grilled cheese sandwiches, prepared by a local.
After Old Station, we made one last tourist stop: Subway Cave. The cave is an old lava tube, a tunnel formed by molten rock flowing under ground. Guided by our headlamps, we went from placard to placard learning various geological tidbits. Education aside, the real pleasure of the cave was its cool 45 degree air, which was a much appreciated respite on a 100+ degree day. Well cooled and full of fried food, we hit the trail again with some reluctance.
We walked north out of Lassen National Park towards the next volcanic mountain in the Cascade Range: Mt. Shasta. The trail was hot and dry and the tread alternated between extremely fine red dust, which infiltrated every crack and crevice of our bodies and gear, and sharp foot-torturing volcanic rocks. As we walked, Mt. Shasta's conical snow-covered form slowly grew more prominent.
The PCT swings west, passing the mountain at quite a distance. We had planned, however, to take a side trip to climb it. With the help of some extremely welcoming local folks, we rode into town, picked up our ice axes and crampons at the post office, rented helmets from a local outfitter, bought food for the next week, and arrived at the Mt. Shasta trailhead.
The route up the mountain is 7 miles with 7,000 feet of elevation gain to the 14,162 foot summit. The route is mostly on snow and very prone to rockfall on warm afternoons, so we wanted to be off the upper section of the mountain before noon. We had also been warned by the outfitter that a crew of 30 Boy Scouts was planning to climb the same day. In hopes of avoiding rock fall and passing the Scouts, we left our trailhead camp at 2:30 AM.
Our ascent began in the eerie light of bobbing headlamps. Within several hours, we passed the Boy Scouts who seemed to be in greatly varying states from smiling to foot dragging to sprawling on the snow. We emerged from the slope known as the "Bowling Alley" (I didn't much like the idea of being a bowling pin) unscathed. Over 12,000 feet, I began to feel nauseous and dizzy from the altitude. After three weeks below 8,000 feet, my acclimation from the Sierra had worn off. Lexi appeared unaffected. She chatted easily with fellow climbers while I staggered along behind. We arrived at the summit at 9 AM to beautiful views and no sign of the mountain's mythical alien inhabitants.
The next big challenge, at least for me, was the pancake challenge in Seiad Valley. All you have to do is eat five pancakes (mutant 12" diameter 3/4" thick ones) in two hours. Despite that the restaurant is right on the trail, and countless hungry hikers go by, only nine people have ever succeeded.
I fasted for 24 hours, and staggered in with a bottle Burr Morse's maple syrup. A small horde of hikers and locals watched as I ate. The first two went down immediately, the third slowly, and the fourth reluctantly. In a serious food coma and totally out of saliva, I declared defeat and laid in the shade for the rest of the day, stomach gurgling.
Two days, 4500', and 33 miles later, we stepped over the umpteenth manzanita bush and reached the California-Oregon border. After 101 days and 1700 miles, we finished our first state. We took the requisite photos, drank celebratory rum, and actually managed to hike a couple more miles without falling off the trail. Now we're looking forward to the Cascades of Oregon and Washington. Although we have nearly 1000 miles left to hike, Canada is starting to feel very close.
Our journey through Oregon began with a flat, hot, dry, viewless trek through lodgepole pine forest. Some thru-hikers enjoyed this region because it allowed them to start hiking 30 to 35 miles a day. We're in no hurry, however, so doing extra miles didn't excite us. We found it just plain boring. For the first time on this trip, our thoughts began to stray towards home and visions of picking blueberries at Owl's Head Farm.
The monotony was broken abruptly by Crater Lake National Park. The view of the lake appeared suddenly as the trail burst out onto the open rim of the ancient, now flooded, volcanic crater. The lake spread out in front of us, 6 miles across and 1,000 feet below. It looked much bigger in reality than in any of the pictures that I'd ever seen. The water is virtually inaccessible because of the steep cliffs surrounding it, and it was startling to see such a large expanse of undisturbed water: no boats, no swimmers, barely even a ripple. We took obligatory sunset pictures and because there is no official camping area near the rim, camped surreptitiously under a picnic table.
Bolstered by the magnificence of Crater Lake, our morale improved. Several days later we entered more volcanic terrain, in the Three Sisters Wilderness. Geologic oddities abounded: a cliff formed by lava solidified in mid-flow; pieces of pumice lighter than water; miles of open lava rock like a gigantic barbeque; huge boulders of volcanic obsidian next to a glittering glass strewn trail.
Late one afternoon, four of us were cooking dinner on the edge of a crystal clear alpine pond with no visible inlet or outlet. As we sat, 9 horseback riders, apparently clients with a guide, approached. Their animals wallowed in the muddy shoreline. The crew disappeared into the trees, but from their voices, we could tell that they were not far away. One by one, in a spectacular display of tightie-whities, they emerged half naked from the forest and jumped into the water. To our disbelief, they pulled out bars of soap and started lathering up. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner bobbed on the pond's surface like rubber duckies at a gigantic pool party. Suds were everywhere.
For months we've been dependent on natural water sources, taking care not to pollute the ones we pass and carrying water by the gallon when there was no other choice. We were outraged. Too Obtuse, one of our fellow hikers, began a single-minded trek around the pond to confront these folks.
Before he had gotten far, a woman approached the bathers, "Excuse me, but I'm camped here with a group of Scouts. We're drinking out of this pond and would appreciate it if you could stop putting soap in our water source."
"Oh, a little soap won't hurt the water," the guide replied. Too Obtuse was still walking.
Too Obtuse finally arrived. Much less polite than the Scout leader, he tried the logical approach: the effects of soap on the ecosystem, respect for fellow hikers, etc. He got nowhere. "I've been doing this for 30 years". "See, look", holding up a bar of Ivory, "It's 99.99% pure". "I've already peed in the water". "How else are we supposed to get clean"? The horse packers chorused.
Politeness and logic failed. Dave, boiling over in anger, started hurling obscenities across the lake, and the exchange was reduced to a screaming match. Frustrated and still steaming, we packed up and left. We spent the next two days discussing other tactics, from circling the lake with the Scouts singing Kumbayah, to inventing futuristic horse disabling weaponry.
Oddly enough, after hiking 2050 miles, our next destination was a party. PCT hikers from 2002 reunited at Olallie Lake, and hung around doing trail magic for this year's crew. We weren't sure if we were in a partying mood, but when offered burgers and brats hot off the grill, of course we sat down. The feeding continued through the next day's pancake breakfast, and showed no signs up letting up, but we didn't want to abuse our welcome, so we thanked the cooks, and headed on our way.
That night it rained, and rained hard. Although we had seam sealed our tarp/tent at home apparently we had missed a few key spots. Water leaked in at the ridgeline and formed great puddles inside. We didn't know it yet, but it was the beginning of a record breaking 5 day storm: 8 inches of rain, an inch of rain in 20 minutes, 40 degrees, driving wind, and rumors of a lost/dead/abducted weekend hiker. We seriously considered hiking the 38 miles straight through to Timberline Lodge, but after 24 we needed a hot meal, and stopped for the day. It was perfect hypothermia weather; we couldn't stop even for a snack. We ate on the go and pushed ourselves hard to keep warm.
At Timberline Lodge, gloriously overbuilt by the WPA in the 1930s, we got the tiniest bunkroom available, and set to spreading out all of our wet gear. It felt surreally decadent to be in such a posh place, but there was no way we could safely continue without being dry.
We began our hardest day on the trail in the lap of luxury, the breakfast buffet. We tried our best to ignore the hideous weather raging outside as we devoured Belgian waffles with whipped cream, piles of bacon and sausage, scrambled eggs, pastries that were little more than pure butter, and divine hot chocolate. Packed with fat, we walked into the cold rain with a mission: get to Cascade Locks and reseal the tent.
For the first hour, we had a hard time staying warm, and I was unsure whether it was prudent to continue. After descending a bit, it warmed up a bit and we persisted. Weekend hikers were bailing left and right. Then we arrived at the Sandy River. It was a complete disaster. Heavy rain had swollen the glacial creek, turning it into a raging torrent of murky mud that was visibly eroding it own banks, and powerful enough to push watermelon size rocks. The crunching and grinding noise of invisible rocks was extremely disturbing. We hunted upstream for a safer crossing. We hopped and waded a couple of branches before teaming up for a short deep section. The gravel we stood on slid downstream. Small rocks bashed our feet. With profound relief we regained the trail and continued north.
We walked without a break all day. The temperature slowly dropped, the wind never let up, and the rain kept falling in demoralizing waves. Eating food stashed in our pockets, we didn't stop for a single break, even to look at the maps. As night fell, we crossed open talus slopes blasted by the weather. Dave jogged, and couldn't stay warm. After 30 miles of delirium we set up camp at Indian Springs and changed into dry clothes immediately. It took two hours in his sleeping bag for Dave to warm up. We slept little as the wind lashed the tent.
In the morning, the situation had not changed one bit. We dressed to the hilt and charged into the fury, only 18 miles from Cascade Locks. Motivated by warmth and dryness, we dripped into the Best Western and got a room. When the rain let up a bit, we could see across the Columbia River to Washington. There's only 500 miles of trail left for us, and we certainly hope that they're a bit drier.
Much of our journey through Washington was cloudy and lived up to the saying "Washington is beautiful when you can see it." We were left to imagine chiseled mountain ranges behind the clouds and fog. It made us feel a bit gloomy. Nearing treeline in the Goat Rocks, the clouds parted and we suddenly had fabulous views, complete with actual mountain goats, stunted trees, U-shaped glacial valleys, and snow-dusted peaks. A black bear cub crossed the trail 100 feet in front of us and paused briefly before bouncing down the slope.
It was a great relief to find a moderately flat and protected camp spot in the midst of all this drama. While cooking and eating dinner, we watched the thin ceiling of clouds rise and fall, and shift from blue to red to purple to black.
Unfortunately, our campsite was protected on three sides only. In the middle of the night, the wind shifted and buffeted the vulnerable side of our tent with mighty gusts. Finally a stake pulled out, the trekking pole holding up the front of the tent went awry, and the tent came down. Desperate to save our home, we jumped out to assess the damage. Fortunately the tent was unripped. We re-rigged the tent low to the ground and tried to sleep through the erratic gusts.
In the morning, we crossed the Packwood Glacier (a permanent snowfield) on several inches of new wet snow. The crags of Old Snowy Mountain towered above us. Mount Rainier occasionally poked out of the swirling clouds, revealing its startling size. After several steep and icy snowfields, the trail made its way onto a knife-edged ridge with relentless ups and downs. Not since the Sierra have we been in such an exquisite (and challenging!) alpine environment.
From here, we descended to our next resupply at the convenience store at White Pass. A friend of another thru-hiker was there, and whisked the lot of us off to the next town for real food. Packwood, Washington, over Labor Day weekend, is home to an enormous flea market. The place was blanketed with stalls selling everything from confederate flags to antique bicycles and deep fried asparagus. We gawked at the crowds dazedly and joined the fray of Americana by consuming funnel cakes.
Back on the trail, several days later, we woke at 1:45 AM in heavy rain to find that we were camped in a small depression, and our tent had turned into a waterbed. Amazingly, the floor of the tent didn't leak a drop, but we were floating. As comfortable as it was, we found this unacceptable. Dave gallantly removed all his clothes (to keep them dry) and got out of the tent to do a bit of hydrological engineering with our trusty orange shovel.
North from Stevens Pass, the PCT used to traverse the western slopes of Glacier Peak. However, up to eight inches of rain in one day a year ago washed out every bridge for miles around, even huge steel and concrete road bridges. Heavy rain in the last week made us wary of fording the Napeequa River, so we opted to detour the affected area with a 50-mile road walk. Walking 20 miles east on the shoulder of Highway 2 was pretty boring, didn't feel entirely safe, and hurt in ways we never expected. The repetitive pavement pounding exacerbated every foot ache we've ever had and reduced us to long distance hobbling.
Road walking does have its advantages: at 5 o'clock we reached the 59er Diner. It was a gloriously authentic diner, complete with a genuine Wurlitzer jukebox, loads of Elvis paraphernalia, and a soda fountain drink called Swamp Water, which was a tasty mix of lime, half-n-half, cream soda, and mysterious green goo.
After a couple of days hiking on genuine trail, we headed into Stehekin, our last town stop. En route, we met the manager of the Stehekin Valley Ranch, who treated us to glorious golden slabs of "oven-baked" French toast covered in sugared walnuts. Next on the tour was the renowned Stehekin Valley Pastry Company. I'm not sure I've ever seen such an enticing display: piles of gigantic gooey sticky buns covered in nuts; flaky, berry laden scones; pies bursting with fruit; croissants filled with innumerable sweet and savory delicacies; cookies, cupcakes, bars, and Danishes in an astonishing array of shapes and sizes. We spent the rest of the day sorting out our maildrop, drying our gear, and basking in the sun on the shore of Lake Chelan.]
Our last few days on the trail were blessed with crystal clear blue skies, larches and bilberries glowing golden and scarlet, and endless views of the snow-capped Cascades. We often said little as we walked. I clung to the magic of the moment, trying to imprint the feeling of freedom, peace, and beauty on my brain so as to never forget it.
On September 28, we suddenly saw a laser straight clear cut 20 feet wide and stretching to the horizon, unbent by rocks or ridges: the border. At Border Monument 78 we celebrated our five-month journey with vintage port, and very reluctantly continued on to the end of the trail in Manning Provincial Park.
Back home, we climbed Mt. Hunger from Middlesex, a short local hike that is steep and scrambly by PCT standards. The physical effort was surprisingly minimal. The cool alpine air was comforting. It just seemed strange that instead of descending west to climb Mount Mansfield and hills beyond, we would simply be walking back down the way we came and going home.
This way of living - the freedom of each day, the physical challenge, the surprise of the unexpected, the constant beauty of the mountains - has come to feel normal. Now we have to learn all over again how to go about living a more ordinary life.