Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire
From snow to desert. From hypothermia to triple digit heat. From southbound to northbound. So much has changed, and the trail has thrown new challenges at us every step of the way.
Rattlesnakes, leg gashes, wrong turns, tendinitis, lightning-sparked wildfires… and yet, I remain deeply in love with the trail, with each moment, each vista, each new friend and starlit sky. As I sit reflecting on the last two weeks, I overflow with gratitude for every unexpected twist and turn of this incredible journey.
Day 15
Sierra City to Summit Lake
17 miles
After hopping off the snow-covered trail in Glacier Peaks Wilderness, we spend a few much needed days relaxing and regrouping at home. The uncharacteristically snowy conditions have pushed us off trail twice now, and we want to be sure we have time to finish the whole 2,680 miles.
We extensively study the snow patterns along the trail and decide to flip* down to Sierra City, hike north back to our stopping point, then return to Sierra City and finish the hike south to Mexico.
After a quick flight into Reno, an overnight hotel stay and a drive up highway 49, our feet again touch PCT trail. My heart sings at the feeling.
While sorting gear at the trailhead, an angry, drawn out, distinctly feline shriek echoes nearby. Welcome back to Jumangi Land, I think to myself as a small chill runs down my spine.
We climb 2000 ft over 6 miles of sun-exposed trail, too grateful to be out of the snow to really mind. No blowdowns, no overgrown brush, no navigating… just walking. How novel.
Partway up, the landscape opens onto a rocky, high desert vista. Little lizards dart across the rocky ground ahead of our footsteps, disappearing into the dry brush alongside the trail. A large snake coils up in surprise under a bush as we pass; I skirt it gingerly, relieved not to hear a rattle but wary nonetheless.
We stop for lunch at the top of the climb. A young couple drives up the dirt road behind us. Upon hearing we are PCT hikers, they excitedly offer a bit of glorious trail magic**… an entire cantaloupe and a ripe avocado. We thank them profusely as we pack the fruit away for dinner and continue on our way.
As we water up at the next spring, Ducky walks ahead and accidentally pokes a well camouflaged, trailside rattlesnake with his trekking pole. His retreating cry and the accompanying rattle alert Nav and I to the situation.
We try to move carefully past in a wide arc, but it lunges suddenly out toward us, hissing and rattling in a classic striking pose that shows off its massive 4+ foot length. We jump back and away, Nav bashing his shin hard on a rock along the way. Blood flows steadily from a deep gash and runs freely down his leg. Thankfully, the snake doesn’t strike. We retreat to clean Nav’s wound as it slithers menacingly into the brush, rattling the whole way.
The wound ideally needs stitches, and I silently curse myself for not bringing surgical staples. We thoroughly clean the gash and apply triple antibiotic ointment before closing it with butterfly bandages, followed by a large bandaid and a compression sock. It’s the best we can do out here for now.
With the wound addressed, it’s time to carry on. We toss sticks and rocks ahead of us for a little ways to ensure the snake has truly left the area.
Hell of a first rattlesnake encounter, I think to myself.
Less than a mile later, we come upon a clearing overlooking Tamarack Lakes. Weekend backpackers and day hikers pass in both directions, and we chat with a small group of them as we admire the view. They hear about the snake encounter and offer us extra first aid supplies, which we happily accept to replenish our stock.
A mile down the trail, we turn toward Tamarack Lake following a PCT marker and hike downhill for awhile. My GPS app tells us we’re off the PCT, which confuses us given the signs.
Frustrated, we trudge back up the long hill following a road to where the GPS points, trusting the navigation unit. When we reach the trail, we see no PCT markers but carry on anyway.
Having lost precious time between the turnaround and the snake incident, we plan to stop at Summit Lake for the night (a couple miles earlier than our originally planned camp).
Within a mile of the lake, we realize that the GPS has taken us along an alternate trail for the last several miles. Despite my frustration at the unnecessary navigation and backtracking, I’m at least relieved the alternate meets back up with the PCT proper around our planned camp.
We find a breezy, flat campsite near the lake with plenty of places to hang our hammocks, then turn our attention to food. The sweet, juicy cantaloupe tastes like the sweetest elixir, calming the rattled, frustrated attitudes brought on by this afternoon’s chaos. We mix the perfectly ripe avocado into our beans and rice dinners, relishing every bite.
As the mosquitoes make their evening debut, we shuffle off to bed. Swaying gently in my hammock, I can’t help thinking, When will we finally have a shenanigan-free day where we just hike….?
*Flip (or flip flop) is trail lingo for skipping down to a different section of trail with a plan to return later and complete the skipped section.
**Trail magic is an act of goodwill or a serendipitous, almost mystical moment experienced on trail. Trail magic is strongly related to the PCT truism, “The trail provides.” Trail magic also encompasses acts of kindness offered to hikers. People who provide trail magic are called trail angels.
Day 16
Summit Lake to Stafford Mountain
17 miles
Our camp, it transpires, is within throwing distance of the PCT corridor.
“Damn, it feels good to be back on the actual trail,” I exclaim as we hike excitedly north. We spent so many miles in Washington searching for it beneath snow; it felt like a cruel twist to be similarly hunting for it here.
Between our high spirits and a flat(ish) trail profile, the first eight miles fly by. We stop for lunch at A-Tree Spring, relaxing and resting our legs a bit. The last nine miles planned for today have more elevation change, and my feet start screaming.
When we came down to California, I switched from my heavy boots to my lightweight, zero drop trail running shoes. These got me all the way through the Sierras last year, and I’ve done much of my spring training in them this year.
I have a new, custom orthotic that did moderately well in the training hikes but has proven to be pure misery out here. I have a good-sized pinch blister on my left medial heel that throbs now with every step. I try to duct tape the orthotic and my heel with minimal luck.
On the way up a 1000ft climb, we come across a sign that eloquently summarizes our current feels.
By the time we have descended 1000ft back down the other side, I‘m hobbling. We pause near a water source and check a map. It’s only 2:30pm (too early to stop hiking) and the next camp is just under five miles away. I‘ll have to grit it out.
As we continue on, I focus on entering my deeper seat of consciousness – a Buddhist philosophy I‘ve been practicing lately, especially when I begin to feel pain, anxiety or depression.
The basic idea:
This is the root of self. You are not your thoughts; you are aware of your thoughts. You are not your emotions; you feel your emotions. You are not your body; you look at it in the mirror and experience this world through its eyes and ears. You are the conscious being who is aware that you are aware of all these inner and outer things… Awareness transcends what it is aware of.
The Untethered Soul
I attempt the perspective of a curious observer. “I am aware of a feeling of pain in my feet and ankles,” I comment consciously to myself. At first, it feels futile and redundant to create an inner monologue about the pain that has me hobbling.
But I persist.
I consciously observe the pain again, noticing how it seems to radiate up my ankles and into my knees. I become aware of other things in increments… the constellation of itchy mosquito bites dotting my skin, the flex in my strong leg muscles, the rub of my pack against my hips and shoulders, the feel of sun against my skin, the glorious caress of the gentle, cooling breeze.
The ache in my feet intensifies, bringing me more fully back into myself. I repeat my initial statement of observation and casually bear witness to my own pain. After a time, I begin to feel as though I‘m floating, tethered to the trail by my physical body far below.
My awareness expands through and beyond myself. I see the vividly green moss growing on passing trees, hear the trickle of a nearby stream, notice the way a particularly angled footstep intensifies my blister, watch a lizard scurry across the trail, sense hunger building in my gut. I feel each observation equally, my pain now only another part of everything around me.
Nav starts worrying aloud about whether we can actually finish all 2,680 miles, and I stop him gently.
“You can’t constantly think that way. You have to be here too, right here, and let the rest come. Too much focus on where we’re headed detracts from where we are now.”
He voices his agreement, and we fall back into a meditative silence.
I think to myself, I have to be focused here. What good would it do to obsess over what’s to come? We have a plan, we‘re hiking as far as we can each day, still acclimating our bodies to the feat.
There may be pain in this moment, but there is so much more too. This moment is my life. It’s part of my journey. I have to be here with the pain and the itchy mosquito bites and the sun of impending evening warming my skin as it sets the surrounding foliage aglow.
With only two miles left in the hiking day, we again begin to ascend. The ache singing through my feet and joints crescendos to a shrill cry. It becomes harder to maintain my observer’s perspective. The pain keeps plummeting me back into myself, and I allow myself to simply be with my pain.
By the time we reach camp, it feels like I’m hobbling on bruised and bloodied stumps where my feet used to be. We set up camp quickly, eat an early dinner and turn in for the night.
Day 17
Stafford Mountain to Fowler Peak
16 miles
I wake up with my ankles stiff but my feet no longer throbbing. We camped dry* here last night, so we wait to cook breakfast until our first spring a few miles away.
The spring is 0.3 miles down a side trail, but it’s well worth the round trip to replenish our water supply. Ducky and I split a mashed potato breakfast with bacon bits and guzzle cold creek water.
My ankle and foot pain returns and has me hobbling in the first miles today, so I pause at a summit with reception to order ankles braces and high top shoes. They will arrive at our next stop (Belden) within the next few days.
We hit the second spring around lunch time and find it bone dry. We each have a liter and a half of water remaining with no promise of a water source until evening, so we carefully conserve water as we walk on.
By mid afternoon, I can barely walk. I collapse at the top of a climb, clutching my ankles and taking measured breaths through gritted teeth. “Something’s very wrong…” I whisper desperately. My ankles are in complete misery, and my pace slows considerably after this. We stop often, beginning now to come up with backup plans to hop off and hitchhike ahead to Belden if my condition worsens.
The third spring we come to is also dried up, much to our chagrin. We’re dangerously low on water. We rest my ankles for a few minutes then push on toward a lake paralleling the trail. To reach it, we bushwhack a quarter mile off trail.
The lake is shallow and full of sediment, so filtering becomes a two-step process to avoid clogging our water filters, but we are just happy to see water at all. Each time I dip my filter beneath the murky surface, a handful of curious little fish swim up close to inspect.
We decide against camping here due to all the widow makers** in the area. Instead, we rest, enjoy an early dinner and hike on with a fully replenished water supply.
Two miles down trail, we stealth camp*** in the trees and climb into bed as the night emerges in earnest.
*Dry camping refers to camping without a water source.
**Widow makers are dead trees, especially large ones, that have not yet fallen. Camping near dead trees (or dead tree branches) is very risky, even in windless conditions.
***Stealth camping refers to camping off trail at an unestablished campsite.
Day 18
Fowler Peak to Lookout Rock
16.5 miles
I wake before sunrise and do my morning ankle stretches before breaking camp. The pain has become a constant hum in each ankle and foot, varying in volume depending on the distance and elevation traversed. Something is very wrong, I just don’t yet know what exactly.
We descend to a large river six miles from camp and set our packs down under a shaded spot on the north bank. Over the next couple hours, we luxuriate in the ample water supply, bathing, soaking our feet, doing laundry, eating a late breakfast and replenishing our water reserves.
We see one person camping by the river with his dog. He has a fire going and seems quite at home with a large tent and cooler. He comes over to say hello and offers us breakfast burritos filled with egg, bacon and potato, which we excitedly inhale alongside our oatmeal.
The man tells us that he is doing a section hike to Buck’s Lake and back over two weeks, spending a couple nights at each camp before moving on. Amazingly, he has packed an entire cooler filled with food and ice, along with fishing gear, a full camping setup and empty glass whiskey bottles with charcoal for purifying his water. As we munch on the burritos, he tells us stories from his days working on fishing boats up in Alaska and catching Dungeness crabs off piers in Oregon.
Refreshed and clean, we pack away our gear and continue up the trail. On the way, we meet two NOBO PCT hikers (007 and Pittsburgh) who started in Campo a few months ago; they are almost halfway through their trek. We all plan to camp at Lookout Rock ten miles and 3000 vertical feet away.
It’s a long slog, and my ankles scream with progressive intensity as I ascend. Two miles from the top, I rip out the insoles and walk on the bare shoe; it’s marginally less agonizing. I literally hobble into camp. Belden is a mere 27 miles away, and I desperately want to walk rather than hitchhiking. But I also don’t want to let my stubborn determination overcome my better sense. If I injure myself badly out here, my hike will be over. I decide to sleep on it and see how I feel in the morning.
Lookout Rock is by far the most scenic camp we’ve had on the PCT this year. Pittsburg and 007 camp here as well, along with two SOBO section hikers from Utah. We all enjoy dinner together, swapping trail stories. We hit 200 miles today, and one of the section hikers tosses us snickers bars from his stash to celebrate.
Tonight, we stay up to watch the sunset, and it is absolutely stunning. I’m too exhausted to stay up for stargazing, so I climb into the tent (there are no places to hang the hammock at this campsite).
As has been the case with most of the California summits so far, we have a cell signal. I send quick texts to a couple friends, briefly update social media and peek at the Still Hiking PCT 2020 FB page. Somebody posted tonight asking about how to treat achilles tendinitis while on trail, and I let out a soft gasp.
My ankle pain has been mainly at the insertion of my achilles tendon (the base of my heel). I have localized swelling there, and uphill (which stretches this tendon) seems to aggravate it the most. I read through the comments and do a bit of my own online research.
Yes, we will have to hitch to Belden. I need at least a few days off of my ankles, maybe more. This injury can apparently be a hike ender, even potentially leading to tendon rupture if it’s not addressed. I try not to think about the possibilities as I drift into an anxious sleep.
Day 19
Lookout Rock to Buck’s Lake alternate road
8.5 mi
The rising sun greets us in spectacular fashion through our tent mesh, lighting up the surrounding peaks in a fiery display.
Ducky and I watch from the comfort of our sleeping bags, finally getting out of bed only once the sun has fully risen over the eastern mountains. Other hikers wake around us, quietly breaking camp and setting off in their various directions. Ducky brews us fresh coffee with his coffee press, along with mashed potatoes and bacon bits. We sit out on a rock and enjoy the vista over breakfast.
After breakfast, I turn my attention to my stiff, painful ankles. Now that I know the nature of the problem, we collectively formulate a plan to address it.
I cut up one of my bandanas and fold two pieces, creating makeshift 1/4” heel lifts to place beneath my insoles. The insoles themselves have created a blister on my left heel that seems to double in size every day. As it‘s now affecting my gait and will likely rupture on its own soon either way, I decide to address it.
I heat my pocketknife with my lighter, rub hand sanitizer over the affected skin, and take care of the problem. Instant relief. A bandaid with triple antibiotic ointment keeps it protected as I put on my shoe and get ready to hike.
We walk eight miles to Buck’s Lake Alternate Road with hopes of hitching to Quincy then to Belden where my resupply and new shoes will arrive.
I’ve never hitchhiked before, and it’s an awkward experience for me. The few cars that pass either determinately look away or give me a little wave as they roll by. We start walking (gimping, in my case) toward Quincy with thumbs in the air and masks in place.
With my one trekking pole out and my sad little limp, I feel a bit like Tiny Tim from Christmas Carol. God bless us, everyone, I think with a smile as a car finally takes pity and pulls over to pick us up.
A couple with a frosty-snouted golden retriever emerges from the car and asks where we’re headed. They take us as far as Quincy, their hometown, pointing out places we can eat and stay in town. On the drive there, they ask about our journey, and we swap stories of previous hikes in the High Sierras.
They drop us in the center of town, and we make a beeline for the brewery patio (#priorities). Ducky and I inhale chicken tenders and a huge order of bacon cheeseburger loaded fries, along with two cold beers apiece. Nav gets his own loaded fries and beer. Because we‘re PCT hikers, we get $1 off our first beer.
After finishing our food, we head over to a nearby gas station in search of dessert. Walking out of the gas station store, a woman asks if we are PCT hikers. We reply yes, and she asks if we need a ride to Belden. She’s a hiker herself and wants to pay forward all the kindness she has received in the past. She and her daughter drop us at Belden on their way to San Francisco for a girls trip. She hiked the Camino de Santiago a couple years ago, and she tells us on the way to Belden all about her trip and her family’s travels with world-schooling.
We reach Belden, which is the quintessential “one horse town” with less than 30 residents. The main building houses the bar, restaurant, patio and store on the first floor with motel rooms on the second floor. A few trailers and small houses lie scattered around the property, along with a swimming area and small wooden stage down at the river. Our resupply boxes are here, but my shoes haven’t arrived yet. We rent a room and settle in to wait while my ankles heal.
Days 20-24
Zero days in Beldon
It takes nearly five days for my shoes to arrive, due to the remote location and the outbreak.
During that time, I repeatedly RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevate) treat my ankles. We enjoy meeting and chatting with NOBO hikers passing through each day. Pittsburgh and 007 spend a zero day here before heading out, so we get to enjoy more time with them.
We meet a couple thru hiking together (Pangolin and Presumptive Positive), and I love hearing about how they’ve grown as partners through hiking. Ducky and I have already connected in new ways out here, and seeing them makes me even more excited for the rest of this journey.
We also meet Lego, Stix, Break Time, Saunter, and so many others. A man called Cleveland tells us he lost his best friend this past year to a heart attack; the man was fifty one years old when he died. “They keep saying the trail will be here next year,” he says sadly, “but I might not be. Nothing is promised.” I think of all my own family and friends of all ages who have suffered crippling disease, battled cancer, had their lives turned upside down unexpectedly. I can’t help but agree with Cleveland. Nothing is promised, and I don’t want to wait until I’m sixty to start living. Like so many others out here, I reject the classic societal formula.
Being here feels like Groundhog Day, just the same routine over and over and over. Wake up, make coffee and breakfast, sit around on the porch until store opens at 11, ask about shoes, find out they haven’t arrived yet, drink beer, eat lunch on patio, meet incoming thru hikers, swim, ask about shoes, find out they didn’t arrive with the afternoon UPS delivery either, drink more beer, eat dinner on the patio, meet more thru hikers, rest, repeat. RICE my ankles throughout the day.
To offset pack weight for my ankles, I mail home close to five pounds of gear, including my hammock, bear canister and extra clothing. I also cut my 3/4 length foam mat into a small sit pad and discard the rest.
By the fifth day, my gait looks less like a hiker hobble. We have more than caught up on calories in beer, burgers, chicken tenders and tater tots, not to mention all the snacks and soda from the store.
My shoes finally arrive in the early afternoon. They’re a high top version of my current, worn out Altra trail runners, and my ankles relish the support even in the first few steps. The pronation (feet rolling inward) in my step isn’t as pronounced either. Within an hour of the box arriving, we set off to tackle the beast of a hill we’ve been staring at for the past five days. Fourteen miles, 5000 feet elevation gain, sun exposure, poison oak everywhere. And it more than lives up to its name.
Day 24 (evening)
Beldon Town Resort to Williams cabin site
5.5 miles (nero* day)
We finally leave Belden at the hottest part of a 101 degree day with only a mild breeze to offset the heat.
As we cross the bridge and walk along the road to the trailhead, my ankles groan threateningly under the weight of my fully resupplied, watered up pack. I push my rising anxiety to the back of my mind as we approach the looming climb.
Sweat already beads my skin, soon carving little rivers down my face and arms. I skirt poison oak on both sides of the trail as we ascend, sometimes in obvious patches, sometimes lying hidden beneath overgrown shrubs. Somehow, I manage to avoid grazing it against my legs (as far as I can tell).
The cooling breeze comes and goes, bringing a feeling of pure magic whenever it caresses my overheated skin. Shade is scarce, the heat suffocating. We pass two hikers sitting in a rare shady spot a mile or so up the trail looking shaken and exhausted.
The younger of the two calls out to us as we approach, his quaking finger pointing away up the trail, “That hill is brutal… three miles of sun exposed trail with almost no shade. My friend blacked out up there.” We look to his friend in concern; he looks back and nods, seeming coherent and mostly recovered. After making sure they were okay and warning them about the poison oak, we keep moving.
We come upon Rattlesnake Spring (thankfully devoid of snakes at the moment) and happily drink the cooling water flowing across the trail. No rattlesnakes have appeared on our climb so far, but we remain on high alert. One hiker told us yesterday that she saw no less than eight snakes on her evening climb up this hill last year.
We find Lego, a NOBO hiker we met in Belden, setting up camp in the growing shadows of evening further up the hill. “Today’s a wash,” he tells us with a resigned shrug. He got dangerously overheated earlier and has spent the last few hours waiting out the sun. Now exhausted, he‘s decided to call it a night.
Less than a mile down the trail, we stop to set up our own camp in the fading daylight. After pitching the tent, I enjoy my favorite trail buffalo chicken macaroni dinner. My ankles ache only a little from the last few hours of climbing, and I silently rejoice in our decision to tackle part of the climb tonight. Hopefully, we will be able to reach the top before the heat sets in tomorrow.
After hanging the food bags, we climb into bed. The temperature outside has cooled to the mid sixties, almost too warm for my sleeping bag. I nestle in anyway and drift off to sleep.
*A nero is hiker jargon for a short (aka near zero) mileage day.
Day 25
Williams Cabin Site to tent site near High Point Junction
15 miles
Sometime during the night, Ducky hears a loud rustling right next to the tent. Alarmed, he grabs his headlamp and shines it out the mesh doors, lighting up the nearby darkness. A face emerges, frozen, caught in the act of indulging its bold curiosity.
A doe.
Relieved, Ducky shoos it off and goes back to sleep. A short time later, the telltale crunching of disturbed earth again sounds right outside my side of the tent. I rouse this time at the loud crunch of its retreating leap as Ducky again shoos the creature away.
This cycle continues… All. Night. Long. We don’t get much sleep and begrudgingly rise at first light to break camp and get the rest of this infamous climb over with in the cool morning hours.
The mosquitoes cloud us in persistent fashion, not yet deterred by the full heat of day. We can’t outrun them at our uphill pace, so I don my head net and trudge onward.
The worst of the climb is behind us by lunch. We take a siesta at Cold Spring in the late afternoon with the heat at its most suffocating. There, I ice my ankles in the metal water trough and massage them beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The long uphill has aggravated both Achilles tendons, and I cant help the despair that seeps into my bones.
We go two miles further before stopping for the evening. I carry now the crushing weight of disappointment, of impending loss. My pace slows and silent sobs shudder through me.
I barely utter a word as we set up camp, lost in my own grief. This camp boasts a strong cell signal, and I smile when a text from a close friend suddenly emerges out of the ether.
“I just love you, and am sending you the wildest hug today. Take a beautiful deep breath for me – wish I could be wild with you!”
She could have no way of knowing how much I needed to hear these words right now. I consider this text the highest form of trail magic I have yet encountered.
Still filled with quiet contemplation, I pull my pack into the tent and place it under my pad to elevate my throbbing ankles overnight. I figured out that the deer last night wanted to chew on my sweat salted pack straps, so this will also hopefully protect the pack from harm.
Before falling asleep, I try to describe my feelings to Ducky. “Imagine releasing a bird from its cage and setting it free beneath a massive, wild sky. Before being freed, though, its wings are clipped. That’s how I feel… like a bird set free with clipped wings.” He quietly consoles me, whispering words of encouragement and understanding as I fall into a dreamless sleep.
Day 26
Tent site near High Point Junction to Soldier Creek
20 mi
Dawn fills me with quiet determination. As we start down the trail, I commit to a slow pace, a short stride, a steady mindset. I sat with my grief and frustration last night, allowing it to flow through and out of me, no holding back. But now is the time for garnering my strength, pushing forward, giving my entire being to this effort so that if my hike ends, I know it is not because I ever gave up.
I believe in my own strength.
I can achieve anything I set my mind to.
I play these words over and over with each baby step down the trail. A cheesy, well worn quote pops into my head, and I draw strength from its promise. Little by little, you’ll go far.
Strength may ultimately be found in letting go. That’s been a prevailing lesson of 2020 so far in my life anyway. Right now, though, right here on this winding stretch of semi-flat, forested trail, strength manifests as a willingness to let go of what may happen a week, a day, an hour from now and simply give everything to this moment, this story that I can only write one little step at a time.
As I walk, I do something I’ve scarcely done in recent years. I pray. Although, I don’t think of it as praying in the traditional sense. More like just talking, just saying how much this sucks, how desperately I want to stay here on this trail just walking and discovering all that this world before and within me has to offer.
I reflect on my own spiritual journey with its beautiful ups and tumultuous downs, and how this forest feels like my church. The mountains, my chapel. The mossy trees, my constant companions. I commune with everything around me as I just talk and talk and take that leap of faith necessary to believe that someone is actually listening.
The trail undulates up and down, meandering through a 23-mile stretch with no on-trail water. My slower pace allows me to swoon at gently swaying wildflowers as we pass. I marvel at the colorful variety.
By late afternoon, we have gone fourteen miles. My ankles ache dully, and I take it as a good sign that the pain isn’t sharp. Nav and I relax in the shade while Ducky goes on a short solo adventure up a side trail in pursuit of a hilarious goal.
Upon first hearing that this opportunity existed, Ducky proudly declared that he would be summiting Butt Mountain. And today, he does exactly that. One mile and 200 vertical feet each way is a small price to pay for the 360-degree view (and the bragging rights) he enjoys at the top.
While I wait for his return, sad that I couldn’t join him but happy for a chance to rest my ankles, I peruse the Guthook* comments about Butt Mountain.
“Finest butt I’ve ever seen.”
“I wanted to go up so badly, but my wife said NO WAY! So I touched it instead.”
“Nice.”
Ducky returns triumphant just over an hour later, and we continue onward toward a creek six miles down trail. On the way, we pass the PCT halfway marker. Nav and I bow respectfully to the monument, hoping we too will hit the 1,325 mile mark in our own hike soon.
It’s dark when we reach camp, so we quietly pitch the tents and climb into bed. I massage my sore ankles before drifting off to sleep.
*Guthook is the most popular navigation app among PCT hikers. Not only does it show you a map, elevation profile and distance to important markers (eg campsites, side trails, towns, water sources), but it allows hikers to comment on each marker. This trail beta can be a literal life saver in avoiding dried up water sources, and offers helpful and sometimes hilarious commentary on various trail features.
Day 27
Soldier Creek to North Fork Feather River
13 miles
We afford ourselves a slow start this morning, taking time to bathe and do laundry in the stream before setting out. We have planned two short days to rest my ankles in preparation for Lassen Volcanic National Park. Camping within the park is currently restricted (without bear canisters) due to habituated bears, so we will need to walk nineteen miles through the park the day after tomorrow.
Sweat beads my skin within a mile of camp. I’m not sure I’ll ever acclimate to hiking in this hot, dry environment. We reach Stover Spring and rest in the shade to cool off, chatting for awhile with section hikers camped there today.
We finish the day at North Fork Feather River. The last miles down to the river bring back the ankle pain, and I set a painstakingly slow pace. I reach camp feeling dejected and frustratingly out of sync with my hiking companions. They have been going at my slower pace, my lower mileage, sticking with me through all the zero days, the rest breaks, all of it without complaint. A nagging part of me feels guilty for slowing them down, a burden and hindrance to hiking this trail at their own, currently much faster pace. I consciously stop myself, remind myself to be grateful to them and not to be apologetic for listening to my body’s needs.
I soak my ankles multiple times in the cool river water and climb into bed.
Day 28
North Fork Feather River to Drakesbad
9.5 miles
We plan a nero today and get an early start to reach the Lassen park boundary before the day heats up. My pace feels more natural today, quicker and without any sharp pain. I allow myself to hope more than I have in days. Ducky and Nav slackpack into Lassen Volcanic National Park to see Terminal Geyser and soak their feet in a hot spring.
While they’re gone, I soak my own feet in the cool waters of Boundary Spring and deeply massage my Achilles tendons. Sunshine lights up the surrounding wildflowers spectacularly as they sway in the gentle breeze. The spring sings an endless, soothing melody that fills me with a peaceful kind of joy.
I fall into a state of mindful meditation, relishing a few hours of being alone in the woods. It’s just me, birds chirping in the distance, busy ants scurrying to and fro on important errands, a chipmunk eyeing me tentatively from a nearby tree. I feel for a moment like Thoreau, finding peace in solitude.
How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disc cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?… Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?
Walden, Thoreau
Nav and Ducky return from their slackpack* side trip, and we all retreat into our tents to temporarily escape the persistent biting flies, mosquitoes, ants and bees. Thunder begins to rumble, low and menacing, in the distance, growing slowly louder until it passes almost directly overhead. Throughout the passing storm, no rain falls and no lightning strikes in our area.
Two thru hikers pass by toward the spring and introduce themselves as Gorilla and Coyote. We chat with them for a few minutes before they continue on to water up at the spring.
Mom contacts us through InReach around 4pm, saying she found a great discount on a room in Drakesbad tonight (a third of the normal price for three people). This would shave four miles off the long walk through the park, a likely very wise option to consider given my still healing ankles. We decide to go for it.
As we prepare to leave, Gorilla and Coyote pass by again on their way back to the trail and ask if we can make a dinner reservation for them through our InReach device. We promise to do so and say that we’ll see them down there.
I keep a good pace, fueled by thoughts of cold beer and a lower mileage day. We pass a boiling lake and smell sulfur as we venture further into the volcanic park. The trail opens up to a meadow with a boardwalk leading to Drakesbad Guest Ranch. We make a beeline for beer once we’re checked in, and we join Gorilla and Coyote at a table in the corner of the patio.
As we talk and enjoy IPA on tap, two more NOBO hikers join us. By our second beer, a third hiker (Ames, who we met in Belden) appears fresh off trail, and our server jokingly exclaims, “You guys just keep popping up!”
We enjoy a three course meal including fresh garden salad, lamb shepherds pie and a chocolate torte with fresh fruit and whipped cream for dessert. The server kindly keeps bringing out even more food, saying they had extras in the kitchen. More beer magically appears before each of us, and the server tells us the chef loves PCT hikers and bought us a round of beer.
Before bed, Ducky and I steal away into the open field to glimpse an endless sea of stars under the new moon sky.
*Slackpacking is thru hiker lingo for hiking without a full backpack on.
Day 29
Drakesbad to Lassen boundary
16 miles
I wake to the sensation of my heels itching, and I decide to take this as a good sign my tendinitis is healing. We have a zero day planned so that my ankles can rest, and we meander downstairs for breakfast.
The generator broke overnight, so breakfast consists of yogurt, fruit and croissants. I melt happily into my first cup of coffee, relishing the feel of hugging a hot, steaming mug in my hands. It’s amazing the little things you miss when you spend time away from the creature comforts.
Smoke fills the air this morning. A wildfire is raging nearby, but the park rangers assure us the PCT corridor remains safe to travel.
Unfortunately, we find out after breakfast about a miscommunication on the room cost. We were promised a total cost of $220 for the night, but it was actually $220 per person per night. Upon their refusal of our polite yet firm request to honor their miscommunication, we decide to hike out rather than stay another night.
By noon, we leave to hike in the smoky noon 94 degree heat to the Lassen National Park boundary. The moment my foot first touches PCT trail, I feel like I’m finally home. Hikers talk often of having trouble rejoining civilization after a thru hike, of feeling like the trail is home, of post-trail depression. I felt it last year after the John Muir Trail, but I know already upon today’s first football that this will be an exceptionally hard trail to leave.
I set a quicker pace than intended in a subconscious effort to get through the park before sundown. By the twelfth mile, my ankles begin to flare up. I slow my pace and take frequent rest breaks, but the pain intensifies progressively nonetheless.
My trepidation returns. Will I need to take a train home at Burney? I fervently hope not as I meter my strides and try even harder to slow my pace. This roller coaster of second guessing my thru hike attempt with every ache and shooting ankle pain has been emotionally exhausting.
The park itself boasts a quiet kind of beauty. We walk through swaying trees, sunny lakes and gorgeous wildflowers with Lassen volcano peaking out from the distance. We walk through a burn zone from a 2012 fire for the last several miles, and I reflect on the necessity of wildfires for forest health and growth.
Lightning sparks change, I think to myself. I see the change all around me. Dead husks of trees, some standing, some fallen. New growth springing up from the ashy soil. As I move through this place, I also traverse the burn zones within myself.
New growth springs from the professional burnout I experienced over a year ago, a new trajectory, new seeds digging their roots deep into the ashy soil of my past experience while reaching budding tendrils higher and higher toward new possibilities, dreaming endlessly of all they might manifest if only they keep perpetually reaching. I vow to explore this more as I walk these many miles.
By the time we reach the park boundary, my ankle pain has hobbled my gait significantly. Thunder rumbles behind us but thankfully does not strike where we walk. We make camp less than a mile outside the boundary.
As we set up the tents, a series of bear grunts echo at intervals on a nearby hill. We yell and make lots of noise in hopes of encouraging the bear away from us. The grunts persist. We decide to stay anyway, as we are fast losing daylight and my ankles are in no shape to kick in the afterburners and hike further. Besides, there are likely to be bears all around us no matter where we camp in this area. Our routine needs to be the same no matter what.
We walk a generous distance down trail from camp and then cook, eat and then hang the food bags on a sturdy tree branch. Any item with any kind of smell is placed in the bags before hanging.
A fiery sunset lights up the sky, intensified by the nearby fire. We stay up to watch as the sun sinks behind distant hills and the stars peek out at us one by one. Beneath the Big Dipper, we spot the faint but distinct Neowise comet trailing down the horizon.
As we crawl into bed, the distant bear grunts finally subside.
Day 30
Lassen boundary to Old Station
10 miles
I wake to every nearby twig snag throughout the night, hyper vigilant. No bears visit our camp. Groggy from lack of sleep, I emerge bleary-eyed from the tent and make myself a coffee before breaking camp.
We walk amidst a world glowing pastel in the early morning light. I set a slow pace to pacify my stiff, aching ankles. By lunchtime, we reach Old Station, a small trail town with a gas station and JJ’s Cafe. I order a delicious burger with beer and fries, relishing every bite as I catch up on current events with the rare, free WiFi.
A thunderstorm rumbles overhead. And this time, it does let loose where we sit. For the first time since Washington, it rains. As I watch it fall from my dry vantage point on the cafe porch, I realize I’ve felt a kind of homesickness for rainfall, for the comforting smell of freshly cleansed earth, for the cooling moisture lingering in the air. I so thoroughly rejoice in it that I barely notice the accompanying lightning.
The storm sits over us for hours, so that we decide by early evening to camp behind the gas station instead of hiking on. It feels so silly to be setting up our tents here. So much about thru hiking is already so reminiscent of vagrant life, and this solidifies the connection in an almost comical way for us. We laugh and joke about living the #hobolife as we sip tall boys at a picnic table.
Before crawling into bed, I download new episodes of NPR and a few Spotify albums to keep me entertained (and informed) on the next stretch of trail.
Day 31
Old Station to Cache 22
16 mi
We enjoy an exceptionally late start this morning, not setting out until 8:30am. I set a steady pace with only minimal irritation to my ankles and plug into my newly downloaded podcast content.
After a leisurely lunch break at Lost Creek, we continue through the infamous triple digit heat of the arid Hat Rim trail. Low shrubs line the trail, and a small snake slithers through the brush as we pass.
In the mid afternoon heat, we come upon a fire lookout crew. They take pity on our sweat-soaked state and offer us ice cold water. I almost cry from joy at the simple yet glorious sight of condensation glistening on the water bottles, straight from an icy cooler. I almost cry at the feel of ice cold water down my esophagus and even get a brain freeze… how novel! Out here, I really do glory in the little things.
As we slam down our second bottle of water each, they ask if we would like bananas and apples. For a moment, I’m so shocked I forget to speak. Nav replies with a resounding “yes, please!” before my brain catches up. We are handed an entire bunch of bananas and a bag of apples. They insist we keep whatever we don’t eat, and we happily comply. Such incredible trail magic.
We make camp by a water cache called Cache 22. Ducky and I inhale homemade chili mac with Fritos and bacon bits and finish off the last of our remaining bourbon. Tomorrow will be a 16-mile hump into Burney Mountain Guest Ranch, where we plan to take a zero (or two) for my ankles. I have insoles and an Amazon order waiting for me, as well as a full resupply. Nav has new shoes waiting there too. We wear through shoes quickly out here, needing to replace each pair every 300-500 miles.
We hit 300 miles today (313 to be exact), which is a PR in total distance in one trip for all of us.
Day 32
Cache 22 to Burney Mountain Guest Ranch
16 miles
The hike into Burney proves no less sweltering than yesterday. By early afternoon, we start seeing creeks and a fish hatchery come into view. The surrounding trail becomes progressively greener as well.
A few miles from the ranch, my left ankle slows me down. Two rest breaks do nothing to calm the pain, which starts shooting sharply from the base of my heel up the band all the way into my calf muscle. Within a mile of the ranch, I can’t even put weight on that ankle. Ducky has to carry my pack as I hobble along in excruciating pain.
We reserve a cabin and I fall into the recliner couch, clutching my ankle and taking measured breaths. The pain doesn’t subside until I take a perkaset from Nav’s med kit. After downing a hearty burger and fries meal, I drift into a dreamless sleep trying to stave off feelings of hopelessness and bitter resignation. I am no quitter, and I do not want to leave the trail.