Day 15
August 19th, 2019
Muir Trail Ranch to Bear Creek
14 miles
Well, where do I even begin.
Today has been as close to a bad day as I’ve had out here so far.
This morning, it feels like someone has clenched my gut in their fist and twisted it. I take OTC medication and force down some breakfast. Thinking through the list of possible causes, I realize there’s a chance I’ll need antibiotics to fully kick this. Since the nearest urgent care is a hike and massively long, expensive shuttle ride away, I get creative.
Using my In Reach communicator, I text one of my closest friends from vet school. She promises to priority ship the needed script to my next stop (Mono Hot Springs). Now, I just need to get there.
With that done, there is nothing left to do but lace up my shoes and hike.
My pack weighs in at 27 pounds today (sans water weight), a much more manageable weight than my last resupply. It helps that I shipped my microspikes home; I shouldn’t need them further north.
In our first 5 miles of hiking, we climb almost 3000 feet over Seldon Pass. Each step feels like a sharp punch to my aching gut. I plug in my Rap/R&B playlist to keep me moving.
Play on playette.
I will make it over this pass, no diggity no doubt.
Strictly biz, she don’t play around
Cover much ground, got game by the pound.
The mosquitoes return in full force, joined now by persistent biting flies that can withstand the wind and match our hiking pace. A group of birds caws angrily from overheard branches as we pass, and I can’t help but feel nature is screaming at me. In the face of my current condition, my tolerance for the discomforts of the wilderness have dipped dramatically.
My ankles and knees complain constantly, but I don’t abate their suffering with NSAIDS; I don’t want to risk compounding my GI pain.
Hold my hand to the flame, I’m just a sucker for pain.
I move slowly and stop often, but finally I make it to the top. My gritted teeth and agonized expression are unabashedly wild, but I don’t care. Going down the other side of the pass hurts less on my gut but more on my joints, so I take it slow and keep just putting one foot in front of the other.
I’m meaner than my demons,
I’m bigger than these bones.
A little ways below the top of the pass, I experience a godsend. The couple who hiked into MTR with us, Dave and Sharon, meander out from a rocky side trail for a hearty hello. I so enjoyed talking with them yesterday and am overjoyed when they decide to hike a ways with us again today.
We hike and talk together for hours, never running out of fascinating stories to exchange or topics to discuss… the medical profession, veterinary wellness issues, canyoneering, minimalism, phobias… I soak up their perspective and their stories. Dave has a blog focused on sharing their adventures and the stories of people they meet. I highly recommend checking it out (https://www.seizingthecarp.com). Talking with another writer makes my soul sing.
I barely feel my aches and pains as we talk. We finally part ways when they stop to make camp for the night, and suddenly my aching body screams even louder than before.
HP and I finally make camp near a stream up trail a ways. The mosquitoes, ants, yellow jackets and flies don’t relent as we pitch our tents, filter water and make dinner. I find myself full after a few bites of ramen alfredo but force down almost half before finally giving up.
Cleaning my dish after dinner, I slip and fall in the stream, completely soaking my lower half. After that, I’m pretty much over everything for the day. I climb into the safe haven of my single-walled home and total our miles on the trail so far.
We have hiked 160.1 miles since starting out 15 days ago, including our two zero days.
Today, I am letting myself feel what I need to feel about my situation. Tomorrow, I will commit to focusing on opportunities for gratitude as we hike down a side trail to check out Vermillion Valley Resort. We are still a couple days ahead of schedule, so we have time to slow down and focus on a bit of much needed R&R.
I turn Audible to sleep mode and hear Dumbledore say as I drift off to sleep:
And now, Harry, let us step out into the night to pursue that flighty temptress, Adventure.
Day 16
August 20th, 2019
Bear Creek to Vermillion Valley Resort (VVR)
9 miles
I wake at 5:30 AM with the sun just barely peeking over the horizon.
Today is beautiful. I am grateful for this experience.
I speak these words consciously to myself as I slowly wake from a restful night of sleep. My stomach doesn’t hurt as much today, and I feel invigorated by the prospect of a few rest days.
We break camp and start hiking by 6:30 AM, before the bugs awake in earnest, making it to VVR well before lunch time.
Though my symptoms have mercifully abated for now, my appetite remains concerningly low. Despite this, I enjoy the hell out of a beer, a cider, chicken tenders, fries and apple pie. HP is all too happy to help finish whatever I can’t eat.
VVR will give a free beer to thru hikers and let them camp for free. Gratitude goes down especially easy with free pilsner and delicious apple pie. We chat with other hikers and relax the afternoon away.
When dinner time rolls around, I have no appetite. I look on longingly as hikers all around me enjoy huge plates of burgers, steaks, pulled pork tacos and pies. I wish fervently that I had any desire to eat; I don’t, so I order nothing.
HP and I are excited to find that our new trails friends, Dave and Sharon, decided to spend a night in VVR. We all sit together with other hikers on the back patio of the cafe chatting until hiker midnight (9 PM). Although the conversation is stimulating and the company refreshing, I find myself overwhelmed by this semi-return to civilization. I barely talk all night, feeling progressively out of sorts.
When I retreat to my tent for the night, I hear hikers all around me coughing, talking in hushed voices and zipping up their tents. Distant sounds of laughter around a campfire and a humming generator join the refrain. I feel self conscious about every movement of my sleeping pad, all sounds magnified tenfold throughout the camp. After the solace of the wilderness, this setting feels like a shock to my system.
And, as I settle into my sleeping bag with the kitchens closed and sleeping hikers all around, my appetite finally returns. Ah well, a big breakfast should fix that in the morning. For tonight, I muffle the hunger and human noise with the sounds of my Harry Potter audiobook and eventually drift off to sleep.
Day 17
VVR to Mono Hot Springs
7 miles
August 21st, 2019
Every once in awhile, you meet someone that you instantly know you will never forget.
I meet someone like that today.
I wake to the sounds of hikers emerging from their tents. The great migration to the cafe. I roll over and sleep in until 7:30 AM before finally getting up to forage for coffee, managing to eat half of a giant breakfast burrito as well.
Since I’m dangerously behind on calories at this point, I continue drinking as many additional calories as I can – coffee with heavy creamer, Mountain Dew, beer… its the only thing I have a reliable ability to consume right now.
HP and I enjoy the company of our newfound friends from last night. I marvel at the diversity of backgrounds represented here. In the past few days, we have met a retired pastor, a human radiology technician, a journalist, a bartender, a first mate who sails cargo ships all over the world… People from all backgrounds and areas of the globe, all hiking philosophies, all personalities.
One thing we all have in common? The wilderness calls to us, pulls us, beckons us out beyond the reach of civilization. Over and over again, I hear hikers say they don’t want to wait until “someday” to really, truly live. So here they, here we all, are. Hiking ten, twenty, two hundred, two thousand plus miles. Whatever we can, whatever we must. Because there are no guarantees in life, and this is too important for any of us sitting here, in this cafe, to brush aside.
We say our goodbyes as many hikers load up on the ferry that will shuttle them back to the trail, then we break camp ourselves. Today, we will hike down the road to Mono Hot Springs to spend a couple more days before finally returning to the trail ourselves.
We roll into Mono after a steep downhill walk along a sunny, cement road. The first order of business? Two beers. The second? Lunch (I once again only manage to eat half of mine).
On my way to my table at the restaurant, an older woman looks me up and down, not bothering to conceal her expression of open shock and judgment. She gives me a pitying look and says, “You look like you’ve been out there awhile…”
I smile my biggest, most genuine smile and reply simply, “I sure have.” I walk on past without another word, not feeling an ounce of shame.
Once we finish eating, I walk over to the store to pick up my much anticipated new shoes and medication. I marvel at the havok 170 miles of wilderness has wrought on my trail runners.
Once these important tasks are taken care of, HP and I finally head up to check out our tent cabin.
The cabin is essentially a big tent with five beds (mattresses, no sheets) and a small lightbulb in the center. We plop down our gear and head straight to the bathhouse for a shower and a soak. When hiking, no amount of showering really gets all the dust off. I soap up over and over again before finally giving up. Clean is relative out here.
With that done, I wander out to find HP soaking in the hot tub with an older man I saw earlier today near the store. I sit on the edge of the tub, slip my feet into the water and join the conversation.
The man’s eyes twinkle, his grey hair falling in casual dreadlocks to meet his bushy beard. His weathered skin tells the story of a hundred thousand smiles etched in lines around his face. His frame is lean, sinewy, somehow both frail and infinitely strong. He is seventy with the spirit of an adventurous teenage boy.
He introduces himself as Doug and says he has lived here at Mono Hot Springs year-round for fifteen years. In the winter months, the snow level is too high for cars to make it up the road, closing the resort. During that time, he lives here alone in his cabin on the property.
Doug smiles as he tells us about his best friends, a pair of ravens that he has known for eight years now. They follow him on hikes, and he has seen them raise many future generations. We hear stories of bears curled up at his feet, free climbing and canyons of quartz. He only leaves his home in the summer months for two reasons: grocery runs to Fresno and Rolling Stones concerts. He owns as little as possible and eats ice cream every day.
Doug’s wife died of aplastic anemia at 41 years old, so he moved to the wilderness he had first discovered as a young boy cowboy camping in the Yosemite backcountry. His kids, grandkids and friends visit sometimes. He falls asleep every night overwhelmed by the good in his life, telling the universe it doesn’t have to keep being so damn good to him. And he wakes up every morning with more good than he can keep to himself, so he overflows with gratitude and joy and shares that good with everything and everyone around him – the ravens, the woods, the summer resort visitors. His smile lines echo his joy.
I will remember Doug to my dying day.
After a relaxing afternoon and a delicious pasta dinner at the resort restaurant, we turn in around hiker midnight (9 PM).
Day 17, middle of the night
I am woken suddenly by a high-pitched, insistent barking right outside our door. Thinking it must be a small dog owned by a neighboring visitor, I roll over and wait for someone to come claim it. No one ever comes.
Ten minutes pass. HP opens the door, shooing the dog away. Within two minutes, the barking returns in full force. Untold minutes pass. My turn.
I gently open the door and sit outside, calling softly. A small, black chihuahua darts away and peers back cautiously from beneath the cabin. Her frosted snout tells me she is older. Her frightened eyes and cowered posture tell me she is utterly terrified. My heart breaks. I’ve seen this story play out too many times in my field. With a sinking feeling, I hope against hope that she hasn’t been abandoned here in the wild woods.
I sit for awhile on the ground outside the tent, whispering words of kinship as she stands frozen a safe distance away. I stare up at the moonless night sky filled with stars and wait. She never comes closer.
Admitting defeat, I retreat back to the tent cabin and try to sleep. Predictably though, the little chihuahua returns to the door within a few minutes to resume her frantic barking. It dawns on me that her owners must have been staying in this cabin before we got here. Her barks aren’t meant for us. They’re meant for the owners who left her behind.
Now feeling responsible for this poor little soul, I head down to the office to see if there is an emergency line. Unable to get ahold of anyone, I head back up to the cabin, get back in bed and wait. Sure enough, the barks resume outside the door, now redoubled and joined by periodic scratching. Cautiously, HP and I open the door. The dog keeps barking for a few full minutes before finally darting into the cabin and right onto the end of my bed, now sitting silent and frozen.
I let her stay by my side and plan to have management call recent reservations and the nearest animal shelter in the morning so we can try to locate her rightful owners. She remains still and silent, and I eventually drift into a light sleep.
BANG!
At 4:30AM, our tent cabin door crashes open. A frantic silhouette rushes in, exclaiming, “Daisy?? Oh, my dog my dog my dog! I’m so sorry, my dog, gone!” She can barely form sentences, waves of panicked terror dominating her words and movements.
A part of me has been waiting, hoping against hope that this would happen. I feel odd relief at the sight of this stranger standing in my doorway, knowing there can be only one reason she’s here. I try to calm her down, tell her it’s okay, her dog is safe and right here beside me. She cries and scoops up the now happily grunting little chihuahua, hugging her close. Daisy had been in their sleeping child’s lap in the backseat earlier that day and jumped unnoticed from the open window. When they got home and realized what must have happened, they had turned around and driven multiple hours back again to search for her. She leaves still apologizing and holding her dog close to her heaving chest.
When I drift back to sleep this time, it is with tear-filled eyes. The world needs more happy endings like this one.