I pass this important milestone bouncing along in a pickup truck taking the detour road to get around the fire.
One may ponder “Exactly how long is the PCT? ” Or occasionally, same question in an alternate form “When will the #$%&* thing ever end?” Good questions. No simple answers.
According to the PCTA.org website, the trail is officially 2660 miles. According to Halfmile’s maps, which is the reference I use, Monument 78 is just a few steps longer. Monument 78 is the demarcation of the US / Canadian Border. You still have to walk another 7 miles into Canada to be anywhere.
But what is the trail? Halfmile’s maps where created by using GPS data from hikers. You can see where the GPS track often differs significantly from the published dotted line the PCTA thinks is the trail. Any that was from data several years old. The trail is slightly modified each year to go around blow downs, rock slides, wash outs, etc. Stream crossing move up and down with the path of least resistance.
And this does not count off trail hiking for normal activities such as finding campsites, getting water, moving 200 feet away from a stream for sanitation reasons, etc. What about the mileage in and out of towns and resupply?
Side trips? Almost everyone does Whitney, detours to experience Crater Lake, and drops to the Columbia River via the Eagle Creek Trail. Lost and backtracking? – part of the normal experience to some degree. What about the detour around the endangered species sensitive area? (How many extra miles would you walk to help save a yellow frog?)
And who cares about mileage anyway? It’s about the journey, not the destination, right? Bullshit. I care about mileage. I wake up and think about mileage, go to bed thinking about mileage, and eat my meals partly by the sun, partly by mileage.
So, 1660? There was a state of mind in the Army known as being Short. Meaning, you only had a short time left until your ETS (Estimated Time of Separation). Probably a similar trend of thinking in prison. Which lead to a whole language, and Short jokes.
How Short am I? Well, I’m so Short:
I can play Tarzan on your shoe strings
I have to look up to see down
I could drown in a drop of water
So, when I pass across that 1660 mark, I have less than 1,000 miles left to go. One more step and I can say:
“How Short am I? I’m so Short I’m a Triple Digit Midget.”
I know in a flash I’m going to like this town. Anytime the Population is a smaller number than the Elevation, I’m home.
Home of the Seiad Valley Café, home of the trail famous Seiad Valley Café Pancake Challenge. I’ve read many accounts of this challenge, but never one written by a champion. All brave challengers, but never a champion. All you have to do is eat 5, one pound pancakes in two hours and they are free. Whatever the trail equivalent of Urban Legend is has it that several hikers have succeeded, but they are rare individuals indeed.
Café is closed today, as is most of the town. Which is not saying much, as the town consists of the café, RV park (where the hikers stay) and the fire house. The reason: its Seiad Valley Days. Complete with parade (two fire trucks, one old car and not much else), speech by Fire Chief, and then the social event of the year.
It’s all a fund raiser for the volunteer fire department and takes place in and around the firehouse. Which aside from the café, pretty much defines downtown. To make the scene more ironic, the hills outside the town are on fire.
I do my resupply, laundry and shower at the RV park, then head downtown for the festivities.
I learned before leaving Etna that a section of the PCT was closed last week due to the fire. The thinking at the time
was that they wanted to use that ridge line as a backup fire line in case the fire grew out of control. Which it did. From the firehouse parking lot you can see the trail, and it’s on fire.
I’m talking to the Chief about my ideas for the ultimate fire fighting helicopter. Or in my mind, a hybrid gyrocopter. I learn about fire fighting techniques. Fires on steep slopes, burning uphill versus downhill, containment strategies, etc. I’ve got lots of time to think on the trail, so this just allows me to refine my already wonderful ideas.
It’s a small town with a volunteer fire department. I tell the chief of my, volunteerism in for the Blauvelt Volunteer Fire Department, of Indian tanks and 10 cent beers. It was four decades ago, but it is a connection. And it is a day that becomes defined by connections.
“Oh, you’re from New York? You should meet so-and-so. He’s from NY”. So-and-so is from NYC, and clearly not too thrilled to be dragged out of the shade just to meet a fellow NY’er. One does not move to a town with a population of 130 because he is a social animal. But we chat. He’s actually from Staten Island. (For those geographically challenged, that it one of the five NYC boroughs.) “My cousin lives on Staten Island. The last time I was there ….NYC marathon…. pee’d in all five boroughs in one day…” He worked in the City. I had a friend who work there… and I mention his name. And it clicks. A connection.
One of my brother’s best friends was named Gerry. They played Tappan Zee High School football together. (I was too skinny and uncoordinated for football. I ran track, but not very well.) Gerry was always part of the crowd, in and out of our house. My Seiad Buddy knew Gerry by name, and his wife worked with him personally. Small world.
S.B.’s brother Pat worked for the same unit, Fire Rescue One. Gerry and Pat rode the Tower down together. In the aftermath, S.B. worked the pile. He went to Gerry’s funeral, one of 51 for him that year. Seiad Valley, population 130, three thousand miles and more than a decade away, and it’s all connected.
So now I’m temporarily adopted as one of the brothers. As the other hikers congregate at the RV park, I’m sitting with the locals and can’t pay for a beer. And we tell stories. I tell them about Napoleon and the Pyramid. Some guy tells us about last night, getting the high lift out (a piece of construction equipment with an elevated work platform) and sitting up 35 feet in the air with a case a beer and a bottle of blackberry brandy, just watching the fire inch it’s way toward town. One guy, driving home from some sort of benefit for a guy hurt in a car accident, tells of driving his Jeep off on a 45 foot embankment and landing upside down on top of a tree that has fallen across the river. Once he realizes he’s not dead, he lowers himself into the water, swims to shore, makes his way home, only to have his wife punch him in the jaw when he steps in the door.
As is my want, sooner or later I steer to conversation to politics. Old business: The State of Jefferson. Five counties in Northern California and Southern Oregon, banded together by the joint experience of their taxes funding urban challenges not there own, and getting exactly zero representation in return. The symbol on the tee shirt and bumper stickers: XX, representing Double Crossed, for the Statehood promised in the 1940’s that never materialized. One this one, I sympathize. New business: Some “outside” environmental group who is trying to turn about a bazillion acres of local land into a national monument. On one hand, it means preservation and restoring habitat. On the other hand, it’s all about land use rights and restrictions. Just to keep the conversation flowing, I take the position of Devil’s Advocate. Sometimes easily confused with Designated Asshole, this allows me liven then conversation and encourage the free flowing of thought and alcohol. Just one more way I can contribute to society.
The main topic of conversation is of course about the fire. Which is coming closer as the day wears on. More specifically, how it is being mismanaged, what they should have done when, what they did wrong, etc. When your drinking in a fire station, it’s not too hard to find someone with an expert opinion. Or two. Somebody had a chance to call in the Hot Shots the first night but turned them down. They should have just let it burn out naturally, but once they messed with it it got out of hand. It’s not the original lightening strike that is the problem, but the back fires that have gotten out of control.
Overhead, there are first three, then four helicopters constantly in circulation. There is a pick up pond set up by the river where they can mix fire retardant with river water. It’s only about 3 minutes flight time from river to flame front. When they add the fourth chopper, they begin getting stacked up waiting for the pickup. That’s how close the fire is.
I form my own opinion for the state of the clearly losing battle. And that is because they won’t fly at night. Granted, it’s hard to see, and close to ground work in the mountains is not without risk. But at night the air is cool and the flames die down. Most importantly, the ground cools so the thermal contrast between flame front and unburned fuel would be the greatest. With the flames dying down, turbulence is reduced, so you could fly closer to the ground, increasing accuracy. Forty years ago I spent quite a bit of time flying in the same vintage Chinook choppers they are using here, and believe me, we were no strangers to the night. In our line of work, darkness was our friend. Surely infrared detection and navigation tools have advanced in forty years. Put me in coach, I’ll show you how it’s done.
Besides the fire, life goes on. Back in the fire house there is fund raising auction. One of the more interesting items is a gold coin. As I heard the story, this local couple were planting fruit trees on their property. Wife is directing, husband digging holes. On the last tree, it takes three holes to place the tree properly. In the course of digging the hole, a mason jar is unearthed. It contains 41, one ounce solid gold coins. 1890’s, San Francisco mint. One gets donated to the fire house auction and goes for $2,700. It’s history is what is cool.
I stay long enough to enjoy the dinner. It’s $14 for either steak or chicken, unless you can smile they way I can, and then it’s steak AND chicken. We come up with a plan, and the gal who works at the café drives four of us hikers around the fire to where the trail is open again. It’s about an hour ride to get 15 miles, and we chip in ten bucks each, a major bargain. Along the way our guide points out seams of sulphur in the rocks, and the pool where a local found a big nugget of gold, just lying there at the base of a waterfall.
First we go back to the RV park to pick up the last hiker, Storytime. As he jumps into the bed of the pickup, someone yells out to him “That is the best bear story I’ve ever heard”. I haven’t learned the story yet, but when I do I’ll report back.
Some scenes from Seiad Valley Days:
This is pretty much the whole parade. It doesn’t take a wide angle lens to get it all in in one shot.
A horse so skinny it could be mistaken for a thru-hiker.
Chicken Poop Bingo. Buy a square in advance. When the squares are sold, they put a chicken on the top of the cage. When the chicken fulfills it’s destiny, we have a winner!
A Vietnam era Chinook carrying water in a sling. If the load lands on target you can see the steam shoot up several hundred feet in the air.
Getting debriefed by fire crew about trail closures, access and air quality. Much more smoke in the valleys due to a temperature inversion. Once we get to elevation the air will be cleaner. The trail up from Etna was pretty smokey, and I worried about the effects of breathing so deeply for so many hours per day. Nothing elsd to do but drive on.
Racing Lawn Mowers. Out of a population of 130 people, 6 have racing lawnmowers. As a percentage, that’s more than Portland has nude bicyclists. I check them out and comment to one of my new friends, “these are serious”, to which she rejoins “they are crazy serious”.
All start out with a 22 hp Briggs and Stratton engine. That’s starting with an engine that is at least twice as big as stock, and then they start pouring the money in. Some are in the 50 – 60 hp range. Big money.
Throttle is mounted to the steering wheel because you can’t control it with your foot, too much bouncing.
I’ve got some video as well, but haven’t mastered posting that yet.
Standing in the parking lot watching the hills burn. Guy with the biggest glass of beer is the Fire Chief.
Halfway through the serving table and I’m running out of plate. I can solve this.
Trying to bum a ride.
We get a ride to just the other side of the trail closure.
Smoke laying in the valley. My constant companion for the next few days.
My next stop is Ashland, where I read in the paper that Seiad Valley is being evacuated. S.B. and all my friends, I hope you’re safe.
Oregon is close. I can feel it. I’ve
gone from the Trinity Alps and Russian Forest into the Marble Mountains. Generally white, I mistook the first sight of white marble to be left over snow patches. Black Marble Mountain finds it’s home here, not far from Marble Valley.
First day out of Etna I make maybe 8 miles, and see not a single soul. Next day I hike until dark, and never see another person. I camp by an abandoned cabin, and only after dark does a guy named Storytime arrive, hiking by headlamp.
The first thing he asks is about the eyes. The deer I can see have yellow eyes (reflected flashlight). “No – over there in the meadow. Something large, with green eyes”. They go unidentified at the time, but several days later in another conversation someone was telling me about a night time bear encounter, and green eyes were mentioned.
I’m camped under some giant trees. The shade is so dense that there is no vegetation under them, just cones, needle debris and the ever present ants. While I’m in the bag making dinner, 3 deer show up. They are obviously aware of me and wary, but work their way to within a few feet of my camp, eating something off of the ground. Storytime camps a little way off, next to a large downed tree.
Next morning he complains about the deer keeping him up all night. They were kicking the old rotten log right next to his tent. The best we can figure is that they were doing that to get the ants out. Deer eat ants!
Feeling in general a little stronger, I’m making pretty good mileage. The last 7 miles of this carry is a road walk with no place to camp. Best case is to get to the last campground and deal with the road to town in the morning. At about 18 miles or so, I come upon some Trail Magic. Warm soda in a cooler. It’s about 5pm, and my choices are Pepsi or Mountain Dew. 38mg caffeine versus 54. Or Zero. I take the Pepsi and move on.
At about 6:30 I come to the next to last water crossing and decision point. Camp here, or go all the way until the last bridge? No way I can do that before dark, but it’s too early to call it quits for the day. Perhaps it was that 38mg, but I push on.
It slowly turns to dusk, then dark. Just a sliver of a moon, but so low in the sky it rarely reaches the trail. In and out of forested areas, these are the Dark Woods of fantasy novel fame. Dark is OK, but in the dusk things start to look spooky. All along the trail are twisted and broken Demons, Orks, Trolls, Devils and other tree parts. Bushes look like bears, sticks like snakes, rocks like rats. Just as scary is the exposure, the occasional sheer drop off the side of the trail as it twists and turns in and out of water courses. A trip over a root or rock could spell disaster.
I’m determined to continue on, and at a good pace at that. The dense trees occasionally plunge me into near total darkness, but for the most part I’m adapting well. I develop a pole planting style that sweeps the trail ahead of me before planting. Remember learning about the rods and cones in your eyes? Clearly this is the night for the rods to finally be the hero. Everything turns to grayscale. Oddly, the trail is transformed.
Along the sides of the trail, rocks and vegetation look alike, black lumps. The trail tread itself if mostly finely ground marble, which is a bright gray. Highly contrasting it is the two black lines that border it. Between the vegetation and the path, on either side, is a continuous line of dirt chewed up by the constant poking of trekking poles. A bright gray tread where the boots hit, outlined by black border stripes where the poles strike. In all but the darkest sections the trail stands out beautifully at night.
I make it to the last bridge without using the flashlight. Somewhere along the way, when I should have resorted to the headlamp for safety reasons, the idea of doing by eyes only sort of settled in. Delayed using the lamp at first because there is no gas gauge on battery life, and no replacements. Once the light goes on, night vision is lost, so I kept delaying. At some point, the challenge of doing it completely in the dark became the default.
Made it the whole way, ending up with over 25 miles for the day. Not quite the record, but not bad for an old guy with sore feet. Next day was an easy walk / hitch into town, Seiad Valley.
Some scenes from the trail:
This is the type of Allis Chalmer tractor on which I first learned to drive. Like me, now an antique.
I’ve become more adventurous in meal creation. Something inspired me to photograph this one, but I can’t remember why.
It was called Paradise Lake on the map so I had to stop.
According to the notes:
…Buckhorn spring, small unmarked spring 150 W of the PCT in a meadow NW of the large three-forked tree… I’m pretty sure this is the tree.
This area has been recently burnt.
Goal for the night hike was to make it to the campground just beyond this bridge. Camped right on it, over the Seiad River. At night I could hear the rocks slowly tumbling down river. Sounded like giant footsteps.
Days off in Shasta really helped. Blisters still limit each days progress but I’m up to 20 miles a day.
I hitch out of Shasta after dark and make my way back to the trail. I camp in the State Park and puncture my air mattress on the incredibly sharp pine needles there.
I do get caught in the rain once. Low and dark clouds are rolling by, seeming so close you can almost touch them. With a little lightening thrown in for drama. I camp as usual, but get my rain gear ready for quick retrieval and pack up what I can.
When the first big drops hit I move into my mentally rehearsed but never practiced plan. First thing is to protect the down bag. Second is to get into the rain gear. Third is to lay : like an idiot because I don’t have a tent.
Rain comes and goes in waves, but never too heavy. I try to sleep through it but can’t. I’m well enough protected so am in no danger, just not comfortable. This goes on until about midnight, then the rain increases. No matter what I do I get the occasional splash in the face or ankles. A drop hitting my rain hood sounds like a minor explosion.
I give up and run for the shelter of the nearest tree. It’s a steep and barren slope so there aren’t many options. I set under a sparse tree and try to sleep sitting up. That doesn’t work. It’s looking like it’s going to be a long and miserable night, when as if somebody flipped a switch the stars return. This allows me to get the bag out and stretch out the best I can, which isn’t much, with my feet uphill. Now it’s going to be a shorter but still miserable night.
Early the next morning I’m lying there making breakfast when I hear a couple talking a long way off. Pretty loud, I hear them approach for quite awhile. When “they” come into view, I see it is just one guy. Dressed head to toe in Army camo gear, complete with matching rucksack. He’s got retired officer written all over him.
When he gets close enough I ask if he is talking to himself or to ghosts. The look on his face tells the obvious answer, and he replies: “In a place like this, probably both”. I thank him for his service and he ambles on.
I pass him a couple of hours later but the ghosts are gone. I feel bad if I helped chase them away. I conjure up my own ghosts from time to time. Say some things that should have been said long ago, but they never reply. It’s a shame, because we really do have a lot of stories to catch up on.
A new species is sighted: the bow hunter. I see several deer each day. Some close enough to hit with a rock. One night I’m awoken by the sound of my pot and cover getting rattled. By the time I get my head up all I can see is dust where something large, fast and silent was making a hasty retreat. Too bad my visitor didn’t stay longer, because I hadn’t yet cleaned the previous night’s macaroni and cheese.
The next to last day I go 1.5 miles further than my planned 20 so I can exit at a reasonable time. On the trail an hour earlier than normal the last morning and things are looking good. Until I realize I’m not holding my poles. I know it’s a good way back to where I last took a break, and I decide to drop my pack. Of questionable judgment considering the amount of bear activity. 57 minutes to my poles and back, about 2.5 miles total. Probably pushes my exit back 2 hours but I still make it before dark.
Some scenes from the trail:
My camp under the tree.
Much improved feet. The days off were a good investment.
Listener. She is 74 years old and expects to go the whole way at 15 miles per day. When I last see her she is sitting creek side sniffing unlabelled bags of food she’s gleaned from the hiker boxes. She believes she’s mixing a chocolate milk drink with some whey powder. Works for her.
Rocks change again. Back to the granites and this swirly version. These formations mean much slower and more painful travel.
Another 100 miles come and gone.
Lakes like this were a dime a dozen back in the Sierras. Now rare enough to warrant a photo.
A chocolate bar explodes in the bottom of my pack. I didn’t know they could do that. All the loose bits and pieces of gear get chocolate coated.
I do get some good news. I’m going over the maps trying to figure out the alternative route around a fire not to far ahead when I realize Oregon is only 100 miles away. I am going to be so happy to have California in my rear view mirror. That is if I had a rear view mirror. Can’t afford the weight.
It’s later in the year and the temperatures are much warmer. Also the trail is now at a much lower elevation. In general I am more often reminded: You’re not alone.
Bear sitings are cool so I’ve been mentioning them as we go along. I’ve recently met three different groups who said they saw bobcats. Bobcat sitings are pretty rare, even though there are lots of tracks. They were of two cubs or an adult. Possibly the same family as the stories were all over two days.
Besides the big critters, the little ones are note worthy as well. Up until now they has only been one type of butterfly, now there are at least four. There has always been ants, but for the first time either by their size or their boldness they have the capacity to wake me up at night. Another thing I see from time to time is just a big pile of feathers. Never a carcass, just the feathers.
One of my fears is a major bee sting event. I carry antihistamines in my first aid kit, as I somehow vaguely relate them to bee stings. Going down the trail in no problem, but bush whacking around a blow down or searching for a good spot to draw is a chance to uproot rotted logs and such. There are always bees around the water sources, but they are never a bother. Like ants, they come in a wide variety of models. I come across a log that has been cut long ago to clear the trail. The exposed end is uphill from the trail, with the remainder of the tree above that. It looks like the log has been acting as a giant wick. The exposed end is moist and the surface has some form of dark bubbly mold. And it is alive with bees, several different types. I move in for closer inspection. I’m afraid, I’m not afraid. I move in closer. I’m in the flight path now so bees are buzzing all around me. I move in closer. I’m afraid, I’m not afraid. I’m afraid. Enough of the Science Channel, I turn to leave. As I do I reposition my hands on my trekking poles and get bit in between two fingers. Can’t say that has happened before, but I can’t say I’m surprised.
At one spot another hiker tells me the location of a spring, but when he was just there there was a cow standing in the middle of it. I find it and the water is crystal clear. I decide to use my filter for the first (and only) time since before mile 702. While I am there I see a mouse swim underwater for the length of the pool, maybe 20 feet. I didn’t know mice could swim underwater. Another hiker shows up and I dutifully tell him about the cow and the mouse. He shrugs and dips right in and drinks.
Some scenes from the trail:
You’ll have to zoom in see it better ( I can’t crop from here), but this is a snake trying to eat a frog several times the size of it’s own head. Sometimes I wish I could order a pizza that big.
Small rattler. Haven’t seen any in a long while but they are starting to show up on the trail again.
Was not sure of what this was when I first encountered it, but the best I can figure it is a long tailed lizard with it’s neck doubled over being strangled by a snake that looks like a giant worm.
After I mixed in the electrolytes I discovered this little guy swimming around. Thought it was a baby fish at first but the tail features make it look more insect like. It has been hot hot hot for several days and I really need the salt. I drink half of the bottle, but feel bad about it. At the next creek I dumped the remaining half out, but the critter was not in it.
Momma raccoon exits from the street drain right across the open restaurant in downtown Shasta. Takes at least 10 minutes and that many tries to cross the busy main street.
Baby raccoon gets left behind.
Authentic Yeti siting as he cross a ridge against the rising sun. Proof that Yeti still walks the earth.
Shasta: 3 bars but 8 crystal shops. That is a clue.
Like Ashland is the home for aging hippies and Dead-Heads, Shasta is the Mecca for all sorts of spiritualist and assorted nut jobs. Chances are the town’s roots are in mining and logging like most of the surrounding towns, but somewhere along the way Shasta got transformed. It is a beautiful city with Mt Shasta dominating the skyline. I make the population to fall into some specific subcategories.
There are of course Normals. They run they shops, local businesses, etc. They are probably the cops, firefighters, civic leaders, auto mechanics, etc. as well. Distinguishing characteristics: Has a real job and can buy all their clothes in a mall.
Then there are the full time Spiritualists. These come is all types and flavors. Lots of Eastern religion types – Buddhist, Hindu, etc. but as a larger general category what was once called New Age. Those that believe in powers beyond my comprehension and in other world spirits. They run the spas, health food store, schools, run seminars, etc. Distinguishing characteristic: Make a buck off of the TT’s. Good example: The couple who built a giant pyramid out of plywood (with advice from Goddess XYZ) and charges people $35 an hour to sit in it and think better thoughts.
What really makes the town so colorful is what I’ll call the TT’s, or Transient Transcendentalists. These are the visitors who come for the water, come to attend the seminars and classes, take mental health vacations, etc. They drive the economy by buying the crystals and the hype. They come in two types, the well educated and well heeled, and those living the simple life (aka road trash). They can be distinguished by the outlandish costumery, beads, ropes, small pieces of sticks, etc. used for decorations, ceremonial purposes and piercings. These are the ones I study in detail.
The best place for people watching is the eating area of the health food store, and specifically watching people as they first address their meals. I cannot decode it, but there is a whole set of languages about how you bless your meal before you dig in. Some are quite demonstrative with waving of hands and small sticks, some are verbose, others look more like conventional praying but with a bigger smile.
I meet a person who takes me to the only birch tree in town. We touch it and are somehow grounded to the earth and connected to all other birch trees on Earth so that we can stabilize the foundations of our lives. I meet an authoress from Columbia, The Dawn Light Angel, who tells me of her life in and out of literary success and mental hospitals. At 76 years old, it’s quite a story and I am the richer for having heard it.
I stay here three days, letting my feet heal. I also do something unusual: wash my outer clothes in hot water. Normally I wash everything in cold water because of the wools, but now I have time to separate. In any other place in the world it would make little difference, but here it transforms me. For the first time in months I do not look like hiker trash. Without the hat and pack, my Lawrence of Arabia look transforms into Generic Guru. Having neither cut nor combed my hair is 5 months completes the look. What you might normally characterize as a “shit eating grin” looks more like an outer symbol of inner peace. Best of all is the stark lack of adornment. No piercings, ink, beads, twine nor small animal bones. The look says I am above all ofthat and do not desire any earthly recognition, just a beacon of simplicity. Helps that I am older than 90% of the population. Obviously a Master Guru of some sort. Truth is, besides in general not being a fashionista, I would not want to carry any extra weight.
So as I walk the streets of Shasta, interactions with the locals fall into two categories. The TT’s and Spiritualists take me as one of their own. I get visual recognition and usually a blessing of some form. These blessings have a ritual component, like the way you wave your hands over your heart. I can never decode and respond in kind, but a generic “Peace, Brother” serves all equally well.
From the Normals, I can see from 50 yards away that they think I am just “one of those”. They start the stare in space posture from a long way away, so by the time we pass in close proximity they are a million miles away. It’s like I don’t really exist. I am invisible in Shasta.
Here is a Normal I meet shopping. Confirms several of previous conclusions. One is: The more deaf a person is, the louder he speaks, and the more likely he is to strike up a conversation with any random stranger. Here he is waiting for some photos at the pharmacy. His grandsons were in town with their lady friends, so he took them to jump off of the local bridge. It’s about 30 feet, significant for grandson, let alone grandpa. He invites me to come out and try it. It’s illegal, so you have to go early in the morning. He says you know you’re in a good town when the Pastor jumps off the bridge right beside you. There is some form a photographer who happens to witness his jump, who sends him the rapid fire pictures. He is so amazed that the pictures go on a little record like a 45 that he shows me what is undoubtedly his first contact with a CD. Had to be 80 years old and still experiencing life for the first time.
Just look at that grin. He looks like he has been smiling like that his whole life. I’m invisible in Shasta to everyone except him.
My “rest day” in Burney was the shoe shopping experience chronicled earlier. Next day I am back on the trail, but not moving so fast. Still, I make about 18 miles a day and have a new blister maintenance program.
Since these blisters happen all at once, there is just one large section of skin hanging like a flap. For 5 days I do what I can do to preserve these flaps of dead skin. Normally I would just rip this layer off, it’s kind of fun. Now I am using them as my primary bandage. I use an anti-biotic only on the exposed open wounds (growing first larger then smaller every day). During the day I liberally (I’m a Liberal, that’s what I do) coat the flap with Vaseline and carefully position the inner sock so the flap is closed, protecting the open wound section. At night I clean them the best I can and coat the flaps with moisturizer cream to keep them flexible. Sometimes I use duct tape as an anti-friction interface. Using this method, I am able to keep the flaps operational for 80-something miles.
Now some of you gentle readers (my wife specifically) may not desire any more details or graphic photos of my foot care woes, but they do dominate my life. Other than that, life goes on.
I am clearly at the back of the pack now. If you’ve ever run a marathon, you know that no matter where you start, you will eventually end up with your pace group. I’m still falling back. Almost everyone I see overlaps for a day or two and then they out distance me. Mostly they are doing what I should be doing, 20 – 25 miles per day. I am slowing heading for last place. I did finish dead last once in a triathlon in Hong Kong, but that was because I got chemical burns in my eyes from the anit-fog stuff for the goggles. That’s another story, but finishing last, broken and wounded, is well within my repertoire. Got the same tee shirt as the winner did in Hong Kong, but no such memento for finishing the PCT.
Some scenes from the trail:
More than half way, no sense in turning back now.
Mt. Shasta from my camp, about three days hiking away. Those clouds look ominous, as I am not carrying my tent anymore. If you go back through the past posts, I’ll bet there is hardly ever a shot with clouds since I left the snow storm season.
Camp visitor and breakfast mate. In these flowers behind him I saw the first humming birds of the trail.
Logging map posted on the trail. We hike through the forest. Logging happens in the forest. It was inevitable that sooner or later these activities were going to overlap. I like big machines, so it was kind of cool in a way.
Here is what the flap is protecting. At this point the healing process is well underway. The red Isle of Inflection Risk is shrinking and drying up.
Duct tape. Don’t leave home without it. First I cut a piece the shape of the ball of my foot. This I tape sticky side to sticky side to a much longer piece. The shinny side gets greased up (Vaseline sounds so much better than Petroleum Jelly) and covers the flap. The main trick is to attach it well enough to stay on while hiking, but not tight enough to restrict blood flow. Takes some practice.
An upside down rail road car in the middle of the woods. Not something you see every day. I love coming across stuff like this, trying to figure out How and Why.
Another 100 miles come and gone.
Happiness is seeing the earth roll by from the back of a pickup truck. Here I am on my way from where the trail crosses I-5 to Dunsmuir. My thoughts at the moment were probably about food. I get to the Dunsmuir Lodge where my resupply package is, only to find it is 3/4 of a mile to the nearest restaurant. I could have hiked another 5 miles if I had to to reach I-5, but no way am I going to take an extra step once I hit town. I raid the trail food from the resupply box for dinner and just crash.
My feet are slowly getting better, but I convince myself a few days rest is a good investment. The next day I bum a ride to Mt. Shasta (the city) to wait it out. Entering Mt. Shasta is more than just going to another town, it’s like going to another universe.
After the boys leave I Zero in the town of Burney. Only two goals: rest my feet and get new shoes.
Burney is a small town, even by small town standards. Redding is of some size, 50 miles away. I can hardly walk. Bus does not run on Sunday so I hitch. I leave about noon and it’s cooking. I slowly work my way to the edge of town and stop.
The only shade at my corner is from the traffic light. If I turn sideways and stand erect I can mostly superimpose myself on that shadow. Standing erect has never been one of my strong points, and I just wilt.
Yesterday we were stuck in the sun for over an hour with no water, trying to hitch into town from the state park. We might still be there, as desiccated as a cast off Cicadas skin if Riley and Spencer had not driven up in the opposite direction. We were out of phone contact and they arrived a day early. Were planning to camp there and locate us in the morning. Lucky.
I’m at the edge of town and the edge of my patience for about an hour when a young women in a small wagon pulls up. Already crammed in are three kids maybe 6 – 8 and various pieces of luggage. They shift things around to accommodate me and we’re off. Restores my faith.
The saying goes if you want something done, ask a busy man. Well, meet SuperMom. She’s taking some subset of the kids to camp and coordinating several other stops on her journey. She’s driving and teaching her son in the back seat with me how to use a cell phone. I help out by interpreting various screens. He leaves messages with various relatives around the state and I piece together their itinerary. Pick up at the airport and this relative goes there, etc. Husband is out hiking at the moment. All this going on and she makes time to help a stranger.
Not surprising, she knows more about gear shops in Redding than I do. She nixes my choice and drives me to the doorstep of her husband’s favorite shop. “Excellent service” she promises, and she’s right.
I try on everything even close and settle on a pair of Merrells. The key difference is going from a 14 normal to a 13 wide. What a difference. I get all new wool socks as well.
The checkout gal can see I’m hobbling, so with her manager’s permission gives me a ride in her own car across town back to the main road I have to hitch on. Now that’s service. If I remember correctly the shop is Redding Sports Ltd. on Hilltop Drive. I hope I got that right, you guys deserve a plug.
Back on the main road by 4:00, I hitch as the sun goes down. Hot, no water, and this mornings pain killers long out of my system, I can hardly stand. I do get a blessing and a big drink of water from a Jesus guy. It gets dark and traffic thins. I have to sit between cars, but getting up and down is just as bad.
Finally, after 4 1/2 hours, a ratty little pick up with one headlight picks me up. The front of the cab is filled with this guy’s worldly processions so I make a nest in the back with the groceries, tools and other pickup bed flotsam. I’m instructed to stay down so I just curl up into a ball. And freeze. 50 minutes or so, staring at the heavens and occasional street lamp. I see five shooting stars, and later learn the driver did not see any.
All I learned from my first glance at the driver was that he was Mexican, and the general state of his transport lead me to think agricultural worker. Turns out the guy is a professional, a surveyor of some sort. We chat for awhile. He is interested in my story, and takes a picture with a camera clearly worth more than his truck. Just goes to show you, you can’t judge a book by the pickup it drives, or something like that. I’m so thankful for the ride I give him $20 and extract a promise he’ll replace the headlight. Chris, are you out there?
Everything is closed by the time I get back to Burney. I haven’t eaten or been off my feet since breakfast. The only thing open is a gas station at the far end of town, where I assembly a Sunday night feast of beer and peanuts. Probably the most stressful Zero of the journey.
Back on the trail tomorrow with better shoes and worse feet.
There was some speculation going into this as who going to be faster. Would my months of trail specific training and altitude acclimatization over come a 40 year age difference?
As those of you who have ever had to do physical work for a living know (Billy, you can put your hand down now) it’s not about how good you are Monday morning, but how you are holding up Friday afternoon.
Well, they beat every shift of every day. The pace was much closer late in the afternoon, but overall they just plain out walked me. Had we averaged a few thousand feet higher (as the trail was just a few weeks ago) I would have had at least that advantage.
When we got to the road junction representing one last mile to root beer floats (our previously agreed upon final reward) they began to run.
They led the whole way except across the finish line. Our goal was the general store within the park, where my next resupply package and our ice cream lay waiting.
When within reach I sprinted the last few yards, touched the building first and declared myself the winner. I often find it easier to win a race when no one else knows your racing.
Now some of you may think that’s a pretty slender pedestal from which to proclaim one’s self King of the Trail. Consider this additional evidence if you will:
The BEFORE picture.
The AFTER picture.
Now ask yourself:
Who looks like their glad it’s over and they can go home?
And who looks like he’s ready to go another 1,000 miles? The King of the Trail, that’s who.
The plan when we started was to exit at Old Station and meet Riley. Only we’re early. Once we eat twice there’s not much else to do. My next planned carry is to Burney Falls State Park, 46 miles away. We decide we can do that and still make our rendezvous.
Two hikers are calling it quits at this point, both for injuries, so we gather some of their extra food. Add that to what little we had left over (the least desirable) and we’re still short. We add some junk food and extra water bottles.
Coming up is Hat Creek Rim. 19 or so waterless miles over exposed rock, along the edge of a canyon. It is at or near 100° every day now. But first we go spelunking.
Not a sign you see everyday.
We road walk to nearby Subway Cave, which is really a lava tube. Along the way the boys see their first rattle snake.
Here Bobby is trying to convince Mr. Snake he should come out of the bushes and have his picture taken.
Entrance and exit to the cave system. Otherwise its pretty dark. Much larger and more complex than Ape Cave, but not as long.
We take shelter in the shade of this abandoned observation tower. I want to stay for 3 hours and wait out the worst of the heat, but the boys are going crazy having to sit still. The first seeds mutiny are sown.
Overall the tone has changed a bit. These extra 46 miles were not part of the plan, and you can tell they just want to get it over with. Bob takes to leading more often, and the catch-up points become fewer and further apart. We are separate for most of the daylight hours. The focus on mileage is never so apparent as when we get to the “Do we camp here or keep going?” moments.
Go ahead, laugh if you want but it works!
We meet up again with Mother Goose at a water cache. We’re about 17 miles for the day at 4:00. A few miles ahead begins a 7 mile stretch of lava rock. We either cut our day short or cross it. Unlikely any place to camp in between. Mother Goose adds these words of wisdom: “I wouldn’t want to cross those rocks on 20 mile feet”. Which of course is exactly what we attempt to do, and it ends up costing me dearly. I should have called a halt for the day but did not want to show any weakness.
The boys have heavy, AT appropriate boots and I have trail shoes. They are starting to rip on the opposite side from where I cut them earlier, so my feet are starting to move around. At size 14 they were already big. The side blisters are an annoyance but not dehabilitating. With 7 or 8 hours of desert hiking before we start, it is the balls of my feet that take the beating.
Another milestone along the way. The boys started at 1235.
We hike until well after dark and it becomes dangerous to walk. The moon has not risen yet. When we come across this tableaux by flashlight I know this is the spot to camp. The fact that Mike is a little spooked males it even better.
We’re within a mile of exiting the lava field, having made good 25.9 for the day. A personal best all around.
Surrounded by rock, we camp right on the trail. The top soil is not much more than a thin layer of dust.
This is the first morning after. It will get worse before it gets better.
As the apex of this pipe’s path over a hill there was a small hole drilled, presumably as a vent. Made a convenient fountain.
Journey almost over, having hiked 7% of the PCT. Lives changed forever.
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