7.16.18

The weeks have flown by recently. From Etna to the Oregon border to Shelter Cover where I finally got enough WiFi and free time to write. Sitting in a great red plastic chair by the lakeshore listening to a retiree chastise her husband who’s trying his best to dock their little outrigger. Country music blends with banter from tourists, other hikers, and birds. A perfect cloud cover and calm waters but most noticeably: no mosquitos. We’ve been at it since Ashland with a nearo (near-zero miles day) in Crater Lake pushing 25-27 mile days since the border, measuring food and water, stopping at small resorts along the various Oregon lakes to pick up food and take advantage of the free camping provided by most of them. As we near the 2,000 mile marker it feels like I’ve finally got enough distance and perspective to enjoy some hindsight and organize my own energy a bit. For four months it’s been go! go! go! Feeling the body adjust to the initial strain wondering ‘how on earth do people do 20 miles every day?’ to the time spent trudging through endless snow in wet socks for weeks on end, changing trajectory and moving up through the Northern California section dotted with tiny towns, big American breakfasts, and the friendliest people imaginable in the great ‘State of Jefferson’. There’s finally moments where I  feel like I’ve got some serious miles under my belt and that the trail has knocked any remaining hubris or unrealistic expectations I’ve had out of the picture. When I began hiking I’d say ridiculous things like “this is how I hike, this is what I’ll do every day, this is what I need to maintain a comfort zone etc’. I think most of that was gone by the time we exited the Sierras but the longer I spend time on the trail the more the comfort zone moves and becomes irrelevant. There’s no reason to assume any day will be similar to the last outside of the fact that I’ll walk twenty or so miles down the trail. Any number of things happen in any order from squirrels stealing your food to amber dusk light illumination the last two miles of a stretch in a way that I’ve never experienced before. Twenty miles in any direction will usually put you in a different climate, geological strata, elevation, ecosystem, and temperature and each destination affords separate challenges and benefits to the thru-hiker. Immediate comforts are the first to go: backpacks tug on shoulders, sun burns, joints and muscles don’t understand what you’re doing to them and you become intimately aware of how your body prioritizes healing. On the other hand you’re easily in the best shape of your life and suddenly...after four months of adapting these ‘needs’ to the reality of the trail you can finally sit in a plastic chair at Shelter Cove somewhere in the middle of Oregon and take a deep breath. 

Hanne and I spoke while I wrote this blog...what have we actually learned out here? Maybe how life gets distilled down to the basic elements day after day you’re intimately acquainted with the core elements of your own personality. When we started the PCT we both wanted to control every aspect of the experience but as the months wear on it became more important to understand the actual limits of this idea. Instead of ‘I need to control this experience’ it became ‘how much can I actually control?’  then ‘how much of the little than I can control do I actually need to control?’ Food. Walking. Small tactical decisions from town to town. A good place in the forest for lunch. Cheapest options. When we wake up and hit the trail (usually) but these are more like day to day guidelines that can’t be interpreted too strictly. It just doesn’t work. In each stop we sit down for half an hour and decide the best general guidelines for the next stretch. How far is it? How much food do we need? How many days will it take? What info do we currently have on weather, fire, mosquitos, etc. Outside of that the best strategy is to get up early enough to walk 20 or so miles and then walk 20 or so miles. Of course every day things happen well outside of our control and comfort zone. What Hanne and I discussed was basically the psychology of pushing through when you realize your comfort zone is probably compromised indefinitely. When you don’t have a choice but to keep moving. What do you do when there’s no immediate solution and plans a, b, and c are equally punishing? You just walk. You adapt. You might suffer but you stay on the trail. 

Just after Etna we made our way over a few more passes and came along the Klamath River in the early morning, walking along a barren half-paved road that passed farms and fields; rusting Ford F-2s and the old ‘XX’ symbol of The State of Jefferson, over a great steel bridge built in 1967, along a busier road that lead into town, to the heart of Seiad Valley and footsteps of the Seiad Cafe. We sat down and ordered the breakfast we’d been waiting for. Eggs. Hash browns. Bacon. Toast. Large milk. Coffee. Short stack of pancakes to split between us. In the corner a stack of books about the PCT. National Geographic publications from the 1970s when people hiked in street shoes and cut-off jeans. Old analog photos before the trail gained any real popularity. The book followed a couple as they made their way slowly through the same conditions as us. They’d often sidetrack over to explore different summits in the area. Where were these people now? They were kids in their mid-twenties who did the whole trek before the northern and southern trails were officially met and established. Before cell phones, gps, and apps that most hikers now consider indispensable. We finished what must have been a good 1,200 calories and went next door to buy more food. Just enough to get us over the border and into Oregon. We sat under a big shade tree at a bench and sorted items for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and after another massive milkshake we headed back into the road and met the trail-spent the rest of the day heading up about 8 miles of some of the hottest steepest trail we’d yet encountered and back over into the cool side of the mountain into a grassy field that held a couple tiny ponds. We filtered our water there and pitched the tent and tried to sleep until high winds began howling all around us just like outside Tehachapi, shoving the tent to and fro and keeping us up all night. No sleep. At this point it wasn’t a huge deal. We slept in just a little and took off toward the border through fields off flowers and sloping plains that let us observe Mt Shasta from the north side now, still rising high above the horizon and over a week away from us. In the morning we took a side road that met a dense trail through the forest and over some train tracks leading to Callahan’s Lodge on the far north side of Ashland. Finally in Oregon. The land changed immediately. Greener. Passes less pronounced and sloping along one another into the blue-green distance. We were famished as usual after 3 days of trail food and went straight for the breakfast. Callahan’s was family-owned and operated and had a special ‘hiker-package’ that included a space for camping, free breakfast, free bottomless spaghetti dinner, laundry, and shower. We checked in and inquired about transportation into Ashland to resupply. We’d been going for over a week now and supplies were dwindling. A woman who’d been hiking in the area and stayed at the lodge overheard us and offered to take us to the Safeway down the highway so we left our packs in the event room just right of the lobby and climbed into her minivan with her two kids. We answered a lot of questions about thru-hiking on the way - she wanted to take her family on the PCT someday. We always tell people ‘You can do it. Anyone can. Just get out there and start walking.’ We spent a good hour picking out food for the next stretch and took a bus to the local Fedex to send a couple packages up the trail where resupplying was more challenging. We called a cab because Uber and Lyft we’re officially banned in Ashland and hitching on the highway wasn’t allowed. A fellow showed up a bit later and drove toward the exit only to find that it’d been cordoned off by police cars. A fire on the California / Oregon border had jumped the I-5 and forced that part of it to close due to visibility issues. We backtracked and ran up parallel to the highway on 66 trying to take a side road into Callahan’s but just as we got there it was being blocked as well. A brush fire was out of control and growing by the minute. This was all the info we could get. As for us, there was no way back to the lodge. All roads were closed and our driver offered to take us back to the cheapest hotel back by the exit. At that point I assumed there was still a way to sneak back in but as we read the news it became apparent. We were stuck for the night with all of our gear miles south in a building that could be evacuated at any time. We stood in the parking lot between the motel and a gas station while a family of ranchers spoke quietly to each other. Their horse trailers lined up side by side. Some were on the phone. Another girl was crying. A little while later we learned that their ranch had been one of the first casualties of the fire, killing 17 of their horses as well. Everyone that had to exit the I-5 was standing around, a bit stunned, just waiting for news, but it was soon apparent the fire was out of control and would get worse before it got better. We checked into the motel with nothing but our grocery bags and phones and got some Mexican food across the street. Everyone at the restaurant had been sidelined by the fire as well and we craned our necks toward the windows to see how bad the smoke was getting.

In the morning I woke early to check the news. The highway was back open for the moment and we had a window of time to get back to Callahan’s. I called the same cab company and we got out within 30 minutes. As we approached, the sky darkened and the smell of burning forest surrounded the exit. We got back inside and checked the status of the fire. Still only 5% contained and double in size from the previous day but no immediate order to evacuate the lodge. The owner overheard our story and offered us an upgrade to an indoor room at no extra charge and an extra free hiker breakfast. We were stunned and thankful and took everything down the hall to sort into laundry and later, to sleep in a real bed for the first time since S. Lake Tahoe almost a month before. Long showers, beard trims, all the little things we’d forgotten or put on hold since getting back on the trail we’re finally taken care of. Little patches applied to bags and sleeping pads, packs turned inside out and cleaned, items carefully rearranged for optimal space. 

The next morning we checked the news again. Now the fire had crossed the Oregon border just a few miles south and an 11 mile section of the PCT was officially closed. Our only option was to walk the paved parallel road we’d tried to use the night before and hope for a hitch to the 66  were we could get back on the trail around Green Springs. Unfortunately the stretch was remote with only private residences scattered here and there and we got within 2 miles of the 66 before we caught a ride to the junction. This road was a bit busier and soon enough an official Trail Angel with another hiker in the front seat picked us up. She’d heard about the fire and knew we were headed around the closed section so she drove us up and over a pass until taking a left toward Hyatt Lake and Green Springs. Her three year old son was confused as to just why I was a musician after Hanne told him I play guitar (just like his stuffed animal did). I had a hard time explaining this, eventually conceding that I didn’t know exactly why myself. This satisfied him and he changed the subject to fish. 

That evening we camped by a lake and got showers again (just for the dirty feet) and watched the smoke change the colors of the sunset. I had something going on in my sinuses but it wasn’t that bad. By the end of the day it looked like the winds had shifted a little and the sky was getting clearer. 

The next stretch would lead us 100 miles to Crater Lake. Although the terrain had broadened out a bit, much of the trail was littered with burned pines and charred ash mixed with dirt on the forest floor. While it wasn’t exactly scenic we made good time averaging around 25 miles each day until we came upon the National Park and headed into a small free campground set aside for hikers. Summer season was in full swing and like most of the campgrounds and state/national parks are overflowing with RVs-gigantic houses on wheels that provide every comfort imaginable with satellite TVs, extendable awnings and rooms, and ensure a safe distance from nature no matter how close you get to it. Granted, these are by and large retirees and there’s no real judgements. We talk to plenty of them and many are familiar with the trail. I’ve yet to have a negative experience with what we call ‘glampers’. Some have posted up at parks for entire months complete with tartans and regalia on full display. Many are here for the fish. Some tow outriggers behind them, and some couples have little more than a shell attached to the back of their pickups but wherever we go from park to park and lake to lake they’re part of the summer scenery. I remember camping as a child only meant we loaded a tent, sleeping bags, and food into the back of our Chevy S-10 and headed somewhere north. My sisters and I sat in the back and hunched on our feet when the truck bed became too hot to sit on. We’d wind up through Utah and camp at Zion and Arches, then further north into Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. At night my mom would read books to us and we never imagined anything was lacking from the experience. Give a young boy a stick to roast something on and he won’t complain much. I still feel this way but the season has gotten too dry and all the fires have me spooked. Ironically, my trail name is Campfire because I was typically the one making fires for our group back in March when the crests were still mighty cold. Now I can’t even zip my sleeping bag. It’s just too hot and the risk is too great. Pine needles are nothing but tinder when it gets too dry so I’m happy with the Jet Boil and my ramen noodles.

In the morning we grabbed the resupply we sent from Ashland, took showers, and did a small load of laundry before hitching up to the Rim trail which had to be used because of a fire closing a portion of the PCT a few miles out around the crater. I don’t know why the Rim Trail isn’t the official PCT trail because the view over Crater Lake is unreal. A massive collapsed caldera six miles across with a cinder cone sticking out of the water...and water so blue and pure I was doing double takes the whole time, trying to get as many pictures as good. Of course pictures never capture most of what we see and experience out here. Sometimes written descriptions are even better than photos because you can let your imagination fill in the blanks. 

We were able to walk around the rim for half of the day, taking it slow and stoping for snacks while we leap-frogged with our Czech friends that had suddenly appeared again after nearly three months. The last time we’d seen them was Bishop after Kearsage Pass. They’d had some adventures of their own in the Sierras and we were happy that everyone was still on the trail and doing well. The trail that day was the longest stretch of flat easy hiking I could remember in ages. The only problem was the growing number of mosquitos. We were entering a section of the PCT so notorious for them that it had forced people to quit altogether in the past. We’d carried Deet and other Deet-free sprays since Sierra City but what we began to encounter over the next two days was more like something out of a horror film than a thru hike. Clouds of hundreds of these high-pitched vampires flew behind us at all times, taking advantage of any exposed skin, and swarming like Piranhas when we stopped for the briefest moment. After a day of this I decided to forget the Deet and attach the legs to my hiking shorts and wear my thin windbreaker at all times. I was missing my mosquito head-net and resorted to closing my eyes, curling my lips back, and giving my face a good spray of the Deet-free stuff I had. Everything but my mouth, nose, eyes, and hands was covered with some kind of synthetic fabric they couldn’t get their little straws through. It was hot. Ninety degrees plus. When Hanne and I stopped we just gave each other hopeless looks of resignation. The only option was to keep moving. 25 miles per day for three days. When we passed other hikers going south the conversation was only about mosquitos. ‘What’s it like on your end?’ ‘Bad. What about you?’ ‘Really bad.’ ‘Ok hang in there. Have a good hike.’ ‘Ok you too, bye.’ We could barely stop for conversation before the swarms took over. During lunch we pitched the tent quickly and dove inside with our food bags, then killed the 15 or so mosquitos than came in with us and took off our extra layers for some temporary relief. ‘I had no idea it was this bad.’ ‘Me neither...unbelievable.’

Late in the afternoon of the third day we found our way down to Shelter Cove on the shores of Lake Odell. It felt like some mythical realm of mercy. The moment we stepped onto the resort grounds the mosquitos stopped. Completely. Not one. We checked into their cheap hiker campsite to the side of the RV grounds and immediately ordered burgers and ‘the biggest coke you have’. Half of what I eat and drink out here I wouldn’t touch back in the ‘real world’ but after 25 miles I couldn’t care less. It’s all getting burned off in a few hours. When I approach towns I do exactly what my body tells me it wants. If it’s black licorice, cold milk, Fritos, or ten of those little oranges - I assume my body knows what it’s missing. 

We took a zero day at Shelter Cove. Hanna’s feet needed a rest. After 3 pairs of shoes we’re still trouble-shooting the pain. I needed a break as well. The pads of my feet to the tips of my toes start going numb after a few days and distances we covered weren’t giving them any relief. The shoes I bought in Tehachapi that had literally saved my hike we’re now a few months and over 1,000 miles broken in. The tread had begun to fall off and come unglued. It’s about time for another pair but I will swear by these ASICS Kahanas till the end of the trail. 

It’s 11:30 am at Shelter Cove and we’re waiting for our friend John who we haven’t seen since South Kennedy Meadows. He’s headed back down to finish a portion of the Sierras and will drive us back to the trail before he heads south. We called him and his wife ‘The Howdies’ for the longest time because every time we crossed paths in Southern California, John would say ‘Howdy Howdy!’ Eventually we became good friends and met here and there and they offered to help us out when we finally made it up to their niche of the woods around Silverton Oregon. 

I’ve bought another mosquito net and Hanne bought full mosquito pants. We’re heading back out for a four day stretch to Bend, outside the ever-shifting comfort zone again, and into what some hikers think is the worst mosquitos on the trail. Oh well. Now we know what to expect and we walk with a little more confidence. The comfort zone will change again in the Cascades and again when we re-approach the Sierras for the final stretches. What can you do? Adapt. And keep walking.