Off and On and On!

After an incredibly relaxing stay in Independence I found it hard to convince myself to climb the towering pass behind the motel and jump back into the fray, but the trail has a way of pulling you back. I dreaded and craved the trail, with all it's siren beauty. The climb back up reminded me of why I was here...

My friend I had made coming off Mt. Whitney was setting off the same day with her husband to climb back over Kearsarge and I saw an opportunity to have some company (and a little help) through the toughest of the upcoming passes. I agreed to meet them halfway up Kearsarge and go together from there. Though I wanted to do 15-17 mile days I agreed to join their casual pace of 10 miles a day since I felt it was a smart thing to do over the intimidating terrain. We camped together and when I woke up the next morning they were long gone. I spent most of the day hiking slowly in anticipation of a relaxed day, a day that at 10 miles would put us just short of Glen Pass. I made it to Glen Pass quickly,then took a chance they were up on the climb and sure enough I ran into them about a half mile from the top.

I had spent most of the Sierras worrying about Glen Pass, a pass that was known to be one of the roughest climbs and steepest, snowiest descents that we had to tackle. I had built it up in my mind to Everest proportions and by the time I arrived at the base I was sure I was going to die somewhere on that climb. But, to my surprise, the climb was steep but easy and the snow was nonexistent on the southern face. I reached Allie and Clint close to the top and after a brief break we began down the north face, which I was happy to see had very little snow. A couple times Clint helped me over icy patches but I was quickly able to descend with no issues. I'm finding the passes that scared me the most were the least technical of the trail.

Allie and Clint were happy traveling at a slow pace, enjoying each other's company, but traveling solo I decided it was best to split from them and hurry along as PCT thru-hikers tend to do. The mosquitos helped keep me at a quick pace and I continued the walk through the postcard-like scenery. As is standard in the Sierras I climbed continuously up, then straight down in repeating cycles. Plainly put: Pinchot Pass kicked my ass. I spent almost an entire day climbing and still found myself on the south side of the summit as the sun was setting. I could have made it over but I didn't know what the north face held in store for me and if there is one thing I have learned on this trail it is to NEVER assume anything. So I set up camp amongst the marmots at the base of the switchbacks that led up the last half mile to Pinchot Pass.

I skipped up Pinchot the next morning and worked my way down, very satisfied that I had been the first one to cross the pass that day. The descent was mostly free of snow and I made great time heading toward Mather Pass. It was a frustrating day filled with river crossings, which scared me after breaking the two toes 10 days earlier on a swollen crossing. By the time I made it close to Mather I was too tired to be scared and pitched camp ready to tackle it the following day. The big, scary Mather Pass turned out to be one of the easiest passes in all the Sierras and I cruised over it with ease. All the fears I had harbored for hundreds of miles were proving silly and unwarranted. Had the snow been deep, or there at all, these passes would be a much different story, but the icu patches that remained were either guttered and easy to walk through or they were easy to avoid with a little rock scrambling. I was also surprised, same as I had been on Mt. Whitney, that I was able to quickly climb the passes with little fatigue on my strengthened legs. I was starting to feel more like a hiker in moments like those.

I was continuously being tested physically and mentally. As we neared the 1000 mile mark I was starting to solidify opinions on my fellow hikers. Awesome people, but a different breed.. I was noticing that the hikers around me all seemed stronger, faster and less interested in the scenery than in making miles. Throughout the Sierras I had watched as PCT thru-hikers had walked quickly past waterfalls and vistas, usually with headphones in and tunnel vision. I was starting to realize I was a different type of hiker. But more on this later, back to the Sierras..

The passes came and went with similar imposing beauty and the toughness of the trail began to take a toll on my knees and ankles. The majority of the PCT that passes through the High Sierra was not created from scratch but rather pieced together from existing trails, and most of these trails consist of endless miles of (meticulously crafted but strenuous) granite staircases and loose, rocky terrain. Sometimes in the Sierras you have to remind yourself to look up because you have to concentrate so much on picking out your footsteps as you walk. It's almost guaranteed if you keep walking and glance up for even a second, you will trip on something. I proved this theory many, many times.

I skipped around a little at the end of the Sierras but I made sure to make up the miles because dammit I wanted to feel the accomplishment at the 1000 mile mark. I slackpacked around the valley floor in Yosemite to make up for the miles I skipped entering the valley. At the time, it mattered. By the time I charged out of Tuolumne Meadows I was all caught up, even if my footsteps had been non-consecutive.

I pushed hard out of Yosemite and did a 23 mile day to hit the 1000 mile mark. I cried when I got there. It was hard earned and I felt damn good! My excitement faded as I set up camp all alone and settled in for the night of odd noises and terror that only dark forests full of predators can produce. But no matter what, at this point I had accomplished something massive and I was very proud.

Sonora Pass was the next pass to kick my ass and after baking on a long, sweaty, exposed section of trail I was ready to collapse. And as luck would have it, there was a very special trail angel named Owl who had set up a perfect place to collapse at the end of the trail where it met the road. With cookies and fruit, and sodas and beer, I sat with other hikers well into the night having a very social night, a night like I had incorrectly imagined the trail would be full of. It was great.

I slept there and woke up the next day to similar surroundings of hikers, food and relaxation. We were joined by a mother-son duo, James and Linda, and given more food and drinks than we could possibly consume. Hiker heaven! James had been attempting a speed record and had averaged between 42-44 miles a day!! He had been forced to quit when he had issues with his shoes, but had decided to turn the failed hike into a roadtrip with his mom, Linda, who had been supporting his hike. They treated us well and I was quickly taken in by Linda and James and at the end of the day I left to camp with them back down at the campground at Kennedy Meadows.

I woke up with my new friends who planned to take me to Bridgeport on their way out of town, and we chatted all morning over coffee and Belvita bars. Once we started driving James and Linda surprised me by saying they would take me all the way to Reno and stay the night! I was in awe. I had been having so much fun I wasn't ready for it to end, so I was very happy with their decision! I directed us, of course, to the Sands Regency hotel (my annual Burning Man spot) and we had a great Vietnamese meal. It was good to be around good people, and a great dog.

I mistakenly thought that 3 days off my feet would make them feel better but I quickly learned when I jumped back on the trail that the injuries I had were going to be hanging around for a while. In addition to my shot ankle, I had pulled a tendon on the top of my right foot and it was proving difficult to hike around the pain. There didn't appear to be any specific movement that made it hurt, and limping didn't take any pressure off it or alleviate the pain. I hiked on from south of Lake Tahoe up towards Truckee and when the pain became too much I decided to stop being stubborn and bail. I was 30 miles from Donner Pass or 27 miles (over terrain I knew I could handle) back to the trail head near the Tahoe Rim Trail exit. So I turned back and hiked out. I made it to Truckee then took a $16 train to Reno to save on the hotels ($75 a night cheaper than Truckee!). After several short-lived attempts at other CA sections I made a decision. A short ride with some hikers, after much thought on my options, landed me in Ashland, OR, to start the trail fresh on mellow terrain.

Ashland, OR and Asheville, NC are sister cities in so many ways. Same laid back hippie vibe, relaxed people and abundant art and that small town university feel. I stayed with Mitra, a girl who had posted her angel status on Facebook, and spent 2 nights enjoying the company of her and her lovely roommates. It reminded me of houses I shared in Asheville. They even put Penny Lane on the stereo when I walked in! I cooked a big spaghetti dinner for everyone, drank some local beer and curled up on the couch to sleep it off. I'll miss those folks!

So after a few beautiful days with those new friends, couchsurfing and sharing meals in Ashland, I hit the trail again.

The trail in Oregon is very different than what I left behind in California.. Smooth trail winding through thick trees and underbrush, shallow climbs and descents and unfortunately, humidity. I found some wild thimbleberries (so I think- I ate about 50 to be sure). The thunderstorms remained the same, still scaring me senseless almost every day!

Then I reinjured the tendon in the top of my right foot. Its an impossible injury to ignore and also impossible to prevent reinjuring since you can't avoid using it. I made it to Fish Lake and, knowi,g this would take a few days, hitched all the way back to Callahans where I knew I'd be treated well. I bummed around a few days contemplating my next move. Was the trip over? If so, where would I go? My room in Seattle is sublet until October 1, and I don't have my job lined up til then. I took a couple days to think.

I met an incredible couple at the lodge and was treated to a delicious, sloppy meal of bbq ribs, mojitos and great conversation. What cool people! We laughed and cussed our asses off all night!

I stayed one more night, mainly because the company was so good (and the all you can eat [one half plate] hiker special spaghetti). The crowd came and went in waves as the hikers dropped in to grab their free beers.

With my feet still in a bad state I started contemplating my realistic options. I could fly home and get my car and road trip the rest of summer. I could fly to Atlanta to my parents place to rest. I could try and go back to Seattle early.. I found reasonably cheap flights from nearby Medford and made the decision to fly back to Seattle and get my car. An hour later as I sat on a bus to Medford I changed my mind. Even if it meant hiking 5 miles a day I was going to hang out and enjoy the trail while hiking slowly. It was the most relaxing, convenient and cheapest option, and I was definitely not ready to leave the trail.

Several hours (and one lucky ride with Travis the forest ranger) later I was grinning and pitching my tent by Fish Lake, back on the mighty Pacific Crest Trail, watching the sun set. Funny how things work out. I just can't bring myself to leave the trail yet.

Coyote Parties and Really High Places

I'm too scattered and relaxed to give a full, eloquent update so I will break it into highlights and fill in the gaps with photos. Its been a hell of a few weeks! This is a long update that I'll polish up later (probably after I finish the hike) but for now I hope it catches you all up a bit!

The Basics.

When I left off last time I was just about to head back on to the trail from my injury. I spent a little over two weeks laying around daydreaming about being on the trail and as soon as I was able to, I hit the ground running (actually walking very slowly, but you get it)..

The first few days back hiking were terrifying. I was sure that I was going to reinjure my ankle and with each step I analyzed every feeling in my feet and tried to remember what WebMD had told me: I was sure I had everything I had read about. But as the miles passed my pessimism faded and I began to grow stronger physically and mentally. My ankle did just fine!

I made it over a hundred miles to about mile 475 before my ankle hurt, but that was because I was carrying 4 liters of water (an extra 10 pounds) down a steep incline. After a rest it was back to normal.

I've still been camping alone which has been pretty uneventful but one situation had me rattled and amazed. Around mile 450 I decided to camp at the top of a long ascent, nestled in the saddle of two bald summits just outside of Agua Dulce. It was a pretty easy spot to set up on since the low branches of the tree had swept a space for me with the wind. I set up the tent and then headed back up to the top of the closest summit to have dinner and watch the sun set. I ran into some friends and watched as the sky wirked it's way through the entire warm color spectrum before me. It was one of the prettiest sunsets I've ever seen. The boys took off and I returned to my tent, euphoric from the beauty I had witnessed. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the rainfly secured outside and started to drift off. Then I heard an unmistakable noise rush past my tent: the trot of a dog, or more accurately, a coyote. I sat still hoping it had just ran past and that was that. A few seconds later I heard it again. I ruffled my bag and cleared my throat loudly which is how I let animals know what's inside the tent. This didn't seem to affect the Coyote as it made a third pass. Them there was the distinct sound of another coyote trotting past on one side while the other coyote could still be heard nearby. Two coyotes. Then another, and another. Before I knew it there were more rustling leaves than I could interpret and I knew there was a pack of coyotes surrounding the tent. I grabbed the inside of the tent ceiling and shook violently and yelled erratically which caused a big commotion and drive the coyotes away leaving me in silence. I sat very still. I retracted my hiking poles down to manageable spear lengths and waited. Silence. Then, slowly, one by one I could hear the coyotes coming back. I repeated the shake/scream a few times but it quickly lost its effectiveness. I sat inside (falsely feeling protected by the thin walls of the tent) with a spear in one hand and my tiny knife in the other. The coyote walked around the tent sniffing, and a few times I could see them stick their noses under the edges of the vestibules on the rainfly as they sniffed loudly. I sat perfectly still. I was slightly comforted in the fact there had been no growling or barking, and their actions seemed very curious but non-threatening. After a couple minutes of this sniffing around the pack jogged off loudly down the mountain. I sat there holding my spear for a few more minutes Just in case they came back, but they never did. It took a long time to fall asleep that night but once I did I slept until 8am the next morning, 3 hours later than usual. What a night!

I breezed through Casa de Luna and Hikertown, two rather eccentric trail angel houses along the trail, again blown away by the genuine people I met, like Terri Anderson, who took me in as a dirt-covered, smelly hiker and spit me back out on the trail clean and refreshed and oh so well fed. The folks I am meeting along the way are making every mile of this trail more meaningful and worthwhile. It feels like family out here, dysfunction and all ;)

The miles passed slowly as I headed for the Sierras and I decided to skip the notoriously dry section from Tehachapi to Walker Pass since I was unable to carry enough water (10-12 liters which is 22-25 pounds!). Not being able to hit huge miles I would need more water than normal and I just couldn't carry that weight. I made the decision to skip and I made a deal with myself that if I finish the trail I will fly through and make up those miles at the end of the hike.

The Sierras, finally!

Since the earliest stages of planning I have been dreaming of the Sierras. In all the world I still consider Yosemite the prettiest place I've ever been and the thought of crossing hundreds of miles of this terrain was almost incomprehensible. I started north from Walker Pass and felt the desert fading away, plant by (motherfucking-spiny-stinging) plant. The heat faded a bit and the elevation gains and losses multiplied. As I wandered into Kennedy Meadows the excitement of leaving the desert and heading into the mountains was clear on everyone's sunburned faces.

The porch at Kennedy Meadows General Store was packed with hikers. As I walked up the road to the store the porch erupted in clapping and whistling, and it took a second for me to realize it was for me. This is the welcome that incoming hikers get as they make it to the store. What a nice way to arrive! There were several familiar faces and I made a few new friends as we all sat around packing and stuffing our bear canisters (which are required for the next leg) with as much calorie-rich food as possible. The tabletop scene was a mish-mash of Snickers bars and Idahoan instant mashed potatoes, ramen noodles, unlabeled baggies of homemade dehydrated food and an array of candy and treats. It's tough to fill one square foot with enough food for a hungry hiker to eat for 9 days, but somehow I did it. After a few beers, a few days and a few burgers I hit the road.

Hiking north I stopped at a campground a few miles up the road and camped with a few friends. The next morning, as per usual, the group was gone by the time I woke up and packed up and I headed off alone. The bear sightings had been steadily flowing in and multiplying, with videos and photos of the encounters proving we were now walking through forests in close proximity to these guys- whether we saw them or not. I saw tracks here and there but never encountered one (yet) but all the same I started to get a little more nervous about camping and hiking completely alone.

Dangers of Hiking Alone

Olanche Pass was the first mountain pass that both kicked my ass and gave me the incredible views I had imagined. It took a lot longer to summit than I had planned and by the time I crested the summit (after two frustrating false summits) I was beat. I started the descent in the midst of the fluffy rain clouds I had been admiring. About a half mile from the top a light hail storm kicked up but it was light and I had seen that the clouds were moving fast so I just walked on through it. About 10 minutes later there was another mix of hail and freezing rain that caught me off guard with its sudden onset and intensity. I panicked. I hastened my descent and decided after about 10 minutes, with the temperature steadily dropping and the hail kicking up a gear that I needed to pitch my tent. I found a clearing under a giant pine tree and went to work. I was still in my shorts and a long sleeve sun shirt- clothes that had been appropriate 20 minutes prior but were now leaving me exposed. I continued pitching the tent and as I worked I could feel myself losing the dexterity in my hands. It took about 5 minutes to get the tent up and functional with everything moved inside. I immediately put my warmer clothes on then headed back out to go cook and eat a warm meal to try and bring my temp up. I wasn't shivering but I knew I needed to warm up, fast. I wolfed down some mashed potatoes and headed back to the tent once the bear can and cooking gear were stored nearby. I got into my sleeping bag and stayed very still. My temp didn't seem to change for a while. After 20 minutes of forcing myself to twitch and do sit-ups in an attempt to raise my temp I was still getting no response and I started to worry. My hands were achey and my legs and arms felt cool and slightly numb to the touch. My sleeping bag is a 15 degree bag so it should have warmed me right up but instead I felt just as cold as ever. I darted back out in the cold (which was now being blanketed with snow) and grabbed my stove. I boiled some water and poured it in my water bottles and slid them into my sleeping bag with me and I very slowly began to feel warmer. All-in-all it had taken a couple hours to bring my temp up to a normal-feeling temp and I was finally calming down.

You take for granted that people will be near you- they won't always be around on this trail. True, there are a lot of hikers out here but late in the day there's no guarantee someone will be walking past til the morning, and if there is a storm everyone is pretty much going to stay put. If you are alone then you are on your own, period. This was the first genuine scare of the trip and even though I don't think it ever got that serious I still had a wake-up call that shit can get very real, very fast out here!

Mt. Whitney

In 2008 I camped alone at the Whitney Portal west of Lone Pine and swore that one day I would climb Mt.Whitney. This was something I had waited 750 miles for and I was ecstatic. For the last few days I had seen Whitney rising above the peaks in the horizon. I watched the weather rolling over it on lunch breaks and guessed the route up as I stared at it anxiously as I hiked towards it. Before I knew it I had come to the turn-off trail and I was in range and poised to make my move.

I climbed the long ascent to Guitar Lake and set up camp in the meadow, ready to make the final climb in the morning. The hike up past lakes and streams and neon green fields, like most of the Sierras, was almost too pretty- it almost looked staged like a set to a movie where Disney princesses would roll around in flowers talking to their animal friends- in this case curious marmots and wide-eyed pikas. Guitar Lake was a (you guessed it) guitar-shaped lake with a little meadow at the base of Mt. Whitney. I set up my tent next to what I thought were two friends, who turned out to be a couple that snuggled and giggled together shortly after I set up camp which made my very close proximity very awkward given the vast amount of available space... I didn't realize they had coupled up! Oh well. I walked around admiring the surrounding views and even caught a golden trout with my bare hands out of boredom (note to self: add this to bucket list and then cross that motherfucker off!).

I woke up at 5 the next morning and started the climb. It's amazing how mental these tough climbs can be. When I am excited the miles melt away behind me and I charge up mountains. When I'm not in the mood or scared of a potentially hazardous pass it feels like every step is a chore and a mile feels impossibly long. On this day, however, I felt like I was running to the top of the world. Or the top of the contiguous US, anyways. At 14,505 feet Mt. Whitney is the tallest mountain in the lower 48. Another lofty goal.

By 7am I had climbed an impressive 2500 feet and I was poised to approach the summit. I had walked over a few patches of ice but nothing serious, and my lack of crampons or microspikes (mini crampons) didn't worry me. The Sierras, and California, were in such a massive drought and had such a lack of snow that I had been advised to leave the spikes and ice ax at home. So on I hiked. When I reached Trail Crest (the junction of the eastbound and westbound climbers where the trail joined for the final ascent) the conditions began to change. The late-season snows from Memorial Day had formed their own little snow packs and accumulations that left even the local rangers baffled, and it left me in a situation where I was starting to climb America's tallest mountain basically in inadequate sneakers. I crossed the first ice chute with shaky knees and trembling hands. I had to let my trekking poles dangle from my wrist straps as I gripped the rock with bare hands and picked my footsteps across an icy path that literally meant a 200-300 foot fall if I slipped. I could do this. If I went slowly I could definitely do it. Another 3 chutes passed and I realized I had moved about 300 feet in an hour. I started to panic when I realized this because the sky was starting to darken with an impending snowstorm and I still had 3/4 of a mile to go to the summit. I could see the shelter. I could see people taking photos and high-fiving each other on the summit. I think one guy was even naked.. But between me and these celebrations I could also see about an hour's worth of climbing. And then there would be the descent, which would take longer. With bleeding hangnails from gripping the rock and tears welling up in my eyes I made the most painful decision of the trip- I turned back. Less than a mile from the summit I turned back to start the descent. I made it back to the switchbacks before I started to cry, then I let it loose. Aside from the physical challenge of the attempt I had also attached a lot of sentimental value to the climb and even though I was the only one who knew these intentions I felt like I had really let someone down. I bawled. It was the most disappointing moment of the trip thus far. I scrambled down The mountain trying unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact with other hikers. The descent in snow would have been fine, but I still needed to get down to my base camp, break camp, and move to lower ground before the snow overcame me like a few nights prior..

I felt defeated and exhausted. I walked down to Crabtree Meadows and sunk into a camping spot among familiar faces. Jake, now known as 75 because he carries a 75 pound pack, was just packing up his gear to summit Whitney, in the snowstorm, at night. Everyone has their comfort level I guess, and some people it seems are missing that part of their brain that connects fear to reality.. In the end, it was still one of the prettiest days of my life and an incredible experience even if I didn't get to summit.

As I wandered through camp towards the ranger station to get the weather report (with puffy eyes and a poor-me look on my face) I came across a couple I had passed on the climb. I fought back tears as I told them I had failed in the climb. The ranger gave us the weather and we all headed back to our tents. As I passed the couple I was approached by the guy, Adam, with a Crown Royal bag. Yes, PLEASE! I thought. Perhaps because he pitied me, perhaps because he knew I'd die without them he pulled his microspikes out of the bag and asked if I wanted them. I got teary-eyed again. The upcoming passes had snow on them and were going to be tough on me, he said. So he gave me his spikes and I promised to mail them to him after the Sierras. Against better judgement, I cried again. So Much emotion in one day!

What a long day.

Independence

The next day I slept in and only made it about 4 miles before it started storming and I set up my tent. I had met a couple coming off Whitney that I immediately liked and I set up my tent near them to weather the storm. Luckily, the storms never turned into much and I was able to avoid heavy thunder/lightning, again. A JMT hiker set his tent up next to us and after a few hours I ventured out to pee and unwittingly dropped my pants and peed right in front of him. Yikes. Its almost a right of passage- everyone has been caught peeing or worse now and I felt like part of the gang.

After only a few miles of hiking I slept like a baby that night, through rain and snow and hail, still needing to come down from the emotional charge of Whitney... Whitney, you bitch, I will conquer you one day!

Waking up early the next day I took off for Independence. In order to resupply there it's a 17 mile detour up and over Kearsarge Pass- a total pain in the ass but as I found out- a beautiful one.

I started the day with the long climb up Forester Pass. Again, all by myself, the way I've done 95% of the hike. The gradual rocky meadows gave way to snow-patched fields of rocks and frozen lakes with little rrivers (some seen and some heard underfoot beneath the snow as they flowed under delicate ice bridges which I walked over as gently as possible) and eventually I came to the switchbacks and headed up. I climbed slowly and watched behind me as I saw other hikers gaining on me. I took my time in the hopes that others would catch me- knowing that if I made it to the top I'd likely feel safer scaling the ice cornice with others nearby. I meandered up the switchbacks, suddenly aware that I was not as scared of heights as I thought I was. I could look down over the side of the trail and see straight down hundreds of feet of jagged cliff. I was unfazed. The trail itself was generally at least 3 feet wide and felt safe.

By the time I made it to the top I only had to wait about 20 minutes for a couple guys who were coming up to help me up over the very top where the snow had formed a tiny technical climb that just felt safer with people nearby. I sat atop the highest point on the PCT at 13,200 feet and felt very accomplished. I had done it! The big, bad, scary pass hadn't defeated me! I said a quick thank you to the snow gods for the incredibly low snow year before I picked my way down the managably snow-covered descent on the other side with my gifted microspikes strapped on my boots. It was incredibly pretty. It looked like a scene from Game of Thrones where there could erupt an epic battle between the Wildlings and the Night's Watch. I picked my way down and before I knew it I had passed the snow and I was descending through forests and creeks and the mountains were again rising up all around me.

After an 8 mile descent into the rugged valley I began to climb again up a very steep trail leading to Glen Pass. I cut off on the Bullfrog Lakes trail after a couple miles of climbing and headed towards Kearsarge Pass. Hiking in the Sierras doesn't bring you close to towns so you have to hike out, in this case a 17 mile roundtrip up and over Kearsarge Pass to the towns of Independence and Bishop, and back again with a pack full of food. I was a little grumpy at the time because at my pace I wasn't very excited about hiking extra miles, but this turned out to be one of the prettiest sections of trail.

I encountered my first ranger on this detour. I was eager to ask her all sorts of questions and struck up a conversation with her. I felt like I knew her, her name was Kat. The longer we chatted the more I was certain I knew her from somewhere. She was easy to remember, with a bubbly personality and excited smile. And then it came out, I DID know her! She had been the hut warden (basically a ranger) at one of the backcountry huts I had hiked to in New Zealand! It all clicked and I remembered her well! What a small world!

On I hiked up to the top of Kearsarge and the view was breathtaking. Looking back down the range you could watch the clouds mingling with the peaks. The lakes below reflected the clouds and the bright blue sky and it took a lot of self-motivating to stand up, leave this view and continue the hike towards the town of Independence.

Once you reach the top of Kearsarge Pass you fill like you're almost done with the hike out. Then you realize that you still have 4.4 miles of descending ahead of you. Damn. And there were dark clouds in every direction..Damnit. So I grabbed my two little lightning rod trekking poles and took off down the mountain, rushing to get down to tree-cover but also desperate to make it down in time to possibly score a bed for the evening in a hotel after 10 days in the woods.

I scurried and scrambled and made good time. I couldn't help but stop and admire the clouds and glow as the sun set behind the mountains. Several times I stopped as a storm formed in the valley below me and the rays of sun shines through them with prism-like patches of rainbows.

It was stunning. It should have registered sooner but as I gazed at this beautiful rain storm I realized that the pretty storm,was heading straight towards me, fast. I bolstered my cameras and scrambled down a little further where I could hide in the trees. I waterproofed everything and sat under a tall pine that shielded me from the rain. After a few minutes the rain let up a bit and I made a run for the trailhead parking lot at the base of the descent. The rain returned but I kept on flying down the mountain. I was soaked and the rain was stinging my face but I couldn't stop. It was getting dark outside and I had to get to the bottom. After a series of irritatingly shallow switchback I finally came to the bottom of the hill and I could see the parking lot. Two women were walking to a car and I knew I had to make a move. I literally, with full pack, ran to their car as they sat inside ready to drive off. As I neared the car I slowed to a big and ran to the driver's window, certain I had scared them with my approach. Turns out I probably couldn't have picked a more perfect car and pair of people had I sat there all day! The women drove me to their friend's motel and even paid for my first night's stay! The manager turned out to be a fellow hiker and greeted me with a beer before going to Subway to get me dinner. I almost cried, again. 23 miles of High Sierra hiking had ended in the best possible way and as I climbed in my warm bed I fell asleep almost immediately.

***Adding photos with limited internet (and on this phone) is a bit tricky here. I have 2 public PCT albums that can be seen at:

www.Facebook.com/jenmkirby (should be on my wall)

Ego, Injury and Success

Despite my most effective methods of denial and distraction, I was unable to ignore or rationally justify the excruciating pain pulsing in my ankle. By the time I hiked down the final hill to highway 2 I was unable to put weight on the ankle without welling up with tears. Shit.

I spent 3 days, then 5 hours in Urgent Care, before getting the diagnosis: joint arthritis. Arthritis at 32?! was all I kept thinking. The doc told me that arthritis can hit at any age and all it technically means is joint inflammation. I relaxed a bit and made the soonest appointment I could for the treatment: a cortisone shot into my ankle on Wednesday, 6 days away. In a small town there aren't many options so I committed to this plan and we headed back to my cabin to settle in for the long week of doing absolutely nothing.

WebMD is not your friend. I was convinced I had every ankle affliction I researched, sure they would have to amputate. The diagnosis of arthritis hadn't even been on my radar so I was skeptical. I had never felt such an intense pain and I was sure that I had fractured my ankle. Before heading out on this trip I did a lot of research on overuse injuries and stress fractures are one of the most common ailments that take hikers off of the trail. Unfortunately with overuse injuries you can't really prevent them you can only deal with them as best you can, or stop your hike. In the case of a stress fracture it can take months to recover and it would surely end the hike. Furthermore with stress fractures they don't show up initially on an xray, and only can be diagnosed once they start to heal and show up. So I was confused and concerned, and with 6 days til my shot I had plenty of time to fall into the depths of my inactive brain and contemplate every possible scenario that could potentially play out.

Before setting out on this hike I was very vague about my expectations, intentions and plans mainly because I wasn't too sure of them myself. In loose summary, my main goal was to be inspired, accomplish something big and see something difficult through to completion. Beyond these basic goals I was hoping to let the trip play out like most of my long-term trips, with a beautifully serendipitous, unpredictable course.

Then I started hiking. Like most hikers I pushed too hard the first day, mainly trying to keep up with the folks around me. I immediately got a lot of blisters and realised I had overdone it. I felt like I had gotten my ass kicked and I could barely walk, but I had been able to keep up with the pack. Was this winning? Was this the goal? Was it worth it?

Over the next few weeks I watched as some grew faster, some fell behind me in pace and others (like me) took frequent breaks for blisters and other injuries. This year, more than any other year, there's this defense hikers seem to be armed with; the movie WILD seemed to trigger a lot of doubts in this year's class of hikers and since day one we've been battling the stereotype of 'careless, unprepared and unfit hiker.' There's also the need to prove yourself to other hikers. No, there shouldn't be a need, but like with any sport you want to show you belong on the field. Perhaps more so with me as I don't look the part of the svelt hiker, the need to show my physical fitness has pushed me harder than ever.

There's a very basic (maybe even Freudian?) view of success out here: Faster days with bigger miles, quicker climbs, etc. are all looked at as signs of success. And I'm guilty of this as well, as proven by how many people I told about my first 26 mile day- a day that might have triggered this injury- with a proud smile and boastful demeanor. It felt good to accomplish something physically tough. But the morning after this accomplishment was the first time I distinctly remember my ankle having a dull pain. So I had achieved success in one sense but failed in another.. The lines between the two were beginning to blur. And there was another aspect to it all.. This is a 2,650 mile journey and the sacrifices you make for achieving success one day (by oh say pushing 26 miles) could be an immediate success that ruins your joint/foot health and chance of completing the rest of the trail. The risks and pain you might allow during a marathon are absurd to allow when you are going to be doing back-to-back marathons for almost 6 months!

There are several options concerning continuing on that have been bouncing around in my mind. It is still pretty early in the season and I would still be able to complete a thru hike of the trail if I start back within a couple days. Another option is to skip ahead by a couple hundred miles and start closer to the Sierras. And another option still, would be to continue on at my slow pace from here and if it looks like I am running out of time towards the end I can flip-flop the hike by flying to Canada and hiking southbound to avoid the snow. My reasons for all the different plans include a number of uncertainties. I'm still not sure whether or not this shot will work, or how long it will work. Even if the shot works, the mileage I am used to will likely not be possible for a while and I will be hiking very slow at first. After this injury I am also unsure of the future of my long distance hiking career... Who knows how long I will be able to keep hiking and if I only can hike another 500 miles this trip don't I want those to be the prettiest 500 miles of the trail? This has been a constant struggle with my pride, sensibilities and ego that I've had to confront. And this is just in my mind... you better believe every hiker on the trail has an opinion on things...

I've explained before about how different people define their hike in different ways. The loose definition of a thru-hike is one end-to-end hike of a trail within one season. Purist hikers tend to insist on hiking every step of the actual trail whereas others are content with common sense detours and side trails so long as a continuous foot-path is taken between the start and end of the trail. Well, here's my thought: I missed about 1.75 miles at Idyllwild of walkable road (walkable yet dangerous and ill-advised by locals), so technically I'm not going to be 100% able to hike every mile. And now, per my hiker doctor's instruction, I'm going to miss another couple miles since it would be detrimental to my healing ankle to summit Mt. Baden-Powell (a steep 4 mile ascent that would over-extend my ankle). So that's another 6 missed miles. So in some people's minds I'm already not a true thru-hiker. But honestly, I couldn't give a shit less! I will hike 99.9% of available miles, and then another hundred between side trips and town walking. I refuse to miss the most beautiful waterfall near the trail simply because it's not on the exact route, nor will I succumb to blinding pride and do something detrimental to my health like trying to ignore and push through pain. So at the end of the day I will still call myself a thru-hiker even though I will have technically skipped 15 or so PCT miles. HYOH means Hike Your Own Hike. Do what you're comfortable with and hike your hike to your own specifications.

So aside from mine, who else's opinion of my hike matters? My parents. Regardless of how far I go after this I know they are already proud of me, but I want them to see me finish this as far as I can. We're on the same page that health is more important than this hike but so long as I can be out here, I'm going to be.

So who's opinion doesn't count? Everyone else's! I had a friend who was overwhelmingly negative about my attempt at this hike and actually said (a few beers in) "Even my friend Sarah couldn't do it, and she's a badass." I was floored at the implications of that and several other things he said and at first they motivated me, and now I just realise that his opinions don't matter, and they were likely made from a place of envy and bitterness. Every other person I talked to about the trip had great things to say and wished me well. I've thought a lot about what this hike will mean to individual people in my life, and I've thought about my reputation based on this hike, and I've had to deal with letting go of thoughts on that. I can't worry or care what other people think, it's me and what I think that matters.

And what if I have to stop hiking this season? Well, I would be pretty bummed, but after a week of pondering it the shock of the finality of that fate has worn off and I'm coming to grips with it, if it were to come to that. It might happen, this injury has shown me how quickly and unpredictably my luck and health can change. No hike in the world is worth risking my future health on and if hiking at this rate is going to cause permanent damage to my joints then I'll stop. I've hiked 370 miles, and at this point I am a "section hiker" and the PCT will always be something I plug away at until I finish, even if it's not a one-season push. I think for a lot of people this is the one or first big adventure of their lives which would make not finishing a bigger deal. To me, this is amazing, but it's just one more trip in a very long line of bucket list-worthy adventures I've been fortunate enough to go on. The proof is in my ankle- this injury is the culmination of stomping my way around the world and doing masive amounts of exploring by foot, dancing, and chasing dreams my whole life. If I had to stop it would only be a matter of months before I embark on another journey.

So who knows what this injury will do to my hike! I start back this weekend at small miles and I will continue as long as I can. It has already been an amazing adventure full of more beauty and incredible people than I could have imagined. Lets hope I can keep going and make it to Canada but there's no rush... as they say, "Last one to Canada wins!"

Sitting and waiting to hit the road again, finally smiling and optimistic!

Will Hike 4 Burgers

I woke up to a rustling sound in the bushes by my tent. It startled me but it was too sloppy and noisy to be a predator, and when I saw a little tongue licking the moisture off my tent I relaxed a bit. A couple seconds later a voice called out for the pup and off he ran. Too fast to get a pic but an interesting shot all the same!

I rolled around a bit and packed up shop and took off. I was at mile 329 and the goal for the day was 342. The first few miles were a steady uphill and I aced it. I walked quickly and evenly, paying very close attention to my gait and trying not to stomp or place undue stress and jolting impact on my ankle which had developed a dull pain. I made it to the summit of the first ridge and stood relaxing for a minute, looking back at the beautiful landscape behind me.

I was nibbling on dry ramen noodles and reading a wildlife sign when a woman quietly walked up behind me and said "Hi!" I jumped and ramen noodles went flying like confetti and my heart skipped a beat. Hiking alone you constantly wonder in the back of your mind if you're being stalked by a big cat or approached by something scary and perhaps the crunch of the ramen had muffled the sound of her footsteps but she very nearly literally scared the shit out of me! And I scared her, too. We both laughed (at me) and started down the hill. She was a 5th grade teacher who ran ultramarathons, and as we walked she got quicker and quicker. I kept up, not wanting to stop the pleasant conversation we were having but soon it became clear she was going far too fast. I saw a creek and had an out, telling her I needed to stop for water. Like every day hiker or trail user I've encountered she was very happy and supportive of us hikers and sincerely wished me well. I crawled into the woods and sat by the spring, purifying another few liters for the final stretch.

I had been texting KC and she was waiting for me at McDonald's. I had 4 miles to go. These last 4 miles were downhill, like really downhill. The view was incredible from the top and the trail was exciting with sections of trail winding along narrow ridges on what all of California looks like to me: a fragile, loosely held-together pile of rocks and sand.

My pace fell to almost one mile every 40 minutes as my intensely painful steps with swollen feet required constant breaks. patient KC cheered me on via text and a couple more hikers cruised past me on the descent. I've said it before, but this was one of the longest stretches of the trail yet. I couldn't shake the pain in my feet and as I entered the final canyon approaching the hwy I could feel myself transitioning into a full-on Mac attack. I went through what felt like 45 curves before finally laying my eyes on the parking lot at mile 342. The sign pointed the way and soon I was walking like a zombie up the hill to the fabled Mickey D's.

It was good to catch up with other hikers I hadn't seen in a while. Between shoving nuggets in our mouths and chugging milkshakes we all swapped stories of the last week, including snow storms which had swept through...and a group of hikers who bailed on the storm and went to LA to wait it out!

KC and I shared a room and lounged around all night dining on Del Taco and catching up over terrible tv and beer. She left early the following morning and I decided to stay and let my ankle calm down since it was a bit sore.

The following day, fresh off a zero (and a McMuffin at the trailside McDonald's) in Cajon Pass I headed off uphill with 7 liters of water and what I thought was a well-rested, sore-yet-healthy ankle. There was a patch of poodle dog bush (a nettle, very poisonous) and the scenery was again, gorgeous. There was even a water cache, with water!

I had just taken the zero and bummed (or rather paid way too much for) a ride to the San Bernardino REI with some fellow hikers where I paid a chunk of REI's mortgage in exchange for new shoes and insoles which were meant to do great things for my achey feet and tender ankle. Back to the trusty Keen boots, the same boots that carried me through New Zealand and the French Alps, I was back in business!

Before this hike I had a short list of old soccer injuries that I thought might come out of hiding somewhere along the trail. It took 350 miles (and a stroke of bad luck) for this to happen, but happen it did, and it happened hard.

My blind confidence in my new kicks lasted most of the day. I was happy with my progress and took a serious of photos showing how far I had hiked that day..

My hike was going fine until at about mile 350, when a tiny disaster struck. As I climbed up a switchback on what looked like a normal flat trail my left foot collapsed 6 inches into the trail. I had sunk into a gopher hole! And of course it was my sore ankle and, unprepared for this strange occurrance, down I crashed onto the ankle, with all the weight of me and my water, a full weight of....let's just say it was heavy. Don't panic. Don't panic.. I sat down in the middle of the trail and did a little exam of my ankle. I wiggled it, pressed on it, looked real hard at it and basically came to the conclusion I had no idea what anything meant or what I was doing. I stood up and hiked on, slowly.

Six miles later at the top of a small saddle I came up to a couple tents and decided it was a good time to call it a day. I pitched my tent and cooked and ate a pleasant dinner with a new friend, Rick. I crawled into my tent and spent the rest of the night trying to ignore both my ankle pain and my suddenly leaking air mattress. I finally fell asleep around 4am.

Of course, at 6am (as per usual- no matter how unfair or unwanted) I was wide awake. I rolled around a bit on my deflated air mattress and peeked outside. 2 guys were gone, 1 remained. I packed slowly waiting on the 1 guy to pack up and go. We had briefly talked and he appeared to be stalling, perhaps waiting for me to get up, maybe wanting to hike out together, but I was ready for another solo day....and digging and using a homemade toilet is so much more peaceful when no one's around ;)

Eventually I heard him leave and I finished packing inside the tent. I took my daily ibuprofen and crawled outside. My ankle was all kinds of hurt. Standing up I realized this was a pretty ugly injury and as I packed up my tent and took off I was already thinking this was going to be a problem..

I hobbled on with the distinctive waddle of a hiker who is trying to redirect weight, change their gait and avoid pain. I was quickly passed by a couple hikers who seemed unconcerned with my pronounced limp as they said excuse me and walked past without small talk. I took frequent breaks and elevated my ankle (again with no idea of why other than having seen another hiker do it). Even when injured its nearly impossible to be in a bad mood when faced with views like these:

(Happy Mother's Day!)

I hobbled almost 13 miles before flagging down the first vehicle I had seen that day and getting a ride from a forest service ranger. His name was Spiritwolf and he was so interesting I forgot the pain in my ankle and listened as he drove me down hwy 2 telling me stories of his life and goals for Native Americans. He also told me he thought I was like his wife who was descended from warriors, and who was stubborn when injured and determined to keep going against better judgement. Guilty..

I arrived at the Mountain Hardware (not Mountain Hardwear) store and went to the hiker section to look through their resources and find some lodging. I didn't know it at the time but I was about to spend a considerable amount of time in the town of Wrightwood, CA, and I was about to luck into the perfect place and perfect people to make my time away from the trail as interesting as I could have hoped for. But I think they deserve their own post, posted soon :)

Canyons, Prisoners and Camping in the Lions Den..

After a hectic morning of breakfast, post-officing, shoe swapping and negotiating a ride I was on my way. The sun was shining and the vibe at the trailhead was drastically different than when I was rescued from a potential lion attack a few days prior. I laced up my new-to-me sneakers and took off.

Three guys who had ridden along also took off...almost running. This is when I learned about "slackpacking." So slackpacking is basically when you keep your full pack in a town and make day trips out with the bare necessities, like a bottle of water, and you hike during the day without any weight on your back before returning to the comfort of your prearranged lodging that evening. I was pretty skeptical and my immediate thought was FUCK these guys! Why not just hire a sherpa? This is totally cheating, and if it's not cheating it's just dick-ish.. How dare they just prance past all the other hikers and call themselves the same! So as they scurried off into the distance there I stood with 30 pounds on my back, fuming. Possibly jealous, definitely feeling like a chump with my full bag on I thought about this for a long time and contemplated the ethics of all the different types of hikers who at the end of the day will all call themselves the same thing: thru-hikers. Is an assisted hike any less valid than unassisted? Would anyone argue that slackpacking was not considered assisted? Is it just smarter? But the most important question was: Should I care? And the answer was no. No I shouldn't care, and after a few more miles I decided to try really hard not to care.

I hiked up the hill, feeling heavier than ever with 5 days worth of food and 3 liters of water. I could look down and see what used to be a lake and it threw the drought into sharper perspective.

I hiked the rest of the day without seeing any other hikers, though I did come across two exotic girls in bikinis who were asking directions in broken English to Bertha peak (sincere apologies, I did not get pictures). I had to giggle thinking how unlucky the guys hiking that day were to have not had the fortune to see these half-naked girls, and instead their looks were wasted on me! Maybe if they had carried their shit with them they'd have been there... ;)

Perhaps it was my cynical mood from earlier in the day but I started to think after 10 miles, this is the first day I haven't been blown away by the scenery, the first day I feel like I am really just hiking to get somewhere else and not to see my surroundings. And of course, as only the PCT can do so well, I walked around a bend and was met by an intensely pretty view of Big Bear Lake. You win, PCT, you win!

The other hikers I assumed were camping at the water source ahead and I rounded out 19 miles before stopping at the inexplicably empty campsite. I set up camp, fixed dinner and settled in to snore the bears away.

I took off the next morning well after the sun had come up and flowed over the easy grade at a quick pace, stopping only to of course photograph all the little things along the way that caught my eye such as this intensely textured fruit casing...

I still hadn't seen the other hikers, I started late so this was normal for me. I made up miles quickly in the mornings and then casually rounded out my days in the afternoons. As I crossed over Deep Creek I started descending. As I followed Deep Creek I stayed about 100 feet up the gorge wall, always able to look down at all the perfect little beaches and swimming holes but far too exhausted to justify scrambling down and back up. I was comforted a bit in my inability to reach the perfect pools by the weather turning and clouding up, getting colder.

I collapsed, exhausted and inspired at the 300 mile mark. When I'm really worn out I tend to sit down like an old man; A long grimacing crouching down followed by a little crash landing and a sigh. There was a pile of little rocks in disarray on the trail and I assumed a local (frequent visitors to the creek) had messed up the 300 sign, so I used the opportunity to take a break and sit and reconstruct it.

My goal had been a campsite at 306, where I was assuming the hikers I knew would be (Sigrid and a Washingtonian named Russ). But alas, the weather was getting ugly and when I passed a flat spot in a little nook at mile 304 on the otherwise inhospitable stretch of trail I jumped on it. About the time I set up the tent it started to rain. I had moved about 50 feet away to cook and eat and as I sat there in the light rain eating my mashed potatoes I watched as the wind whipped at my tent. I was too tired to go restake it, I just watched until I finished eating. Its tough to successfully stake a tent in sandy spots like these. I had placed my pack in the tent so all the wind could do was make it bounce around as if possessed. I finished eating, carried 6 large rocks over to place over the repositioned stakes and crawled inside. The sky opened and the rain didn't stop all night. It was one of the most peaceful nights I've ever had, all alone in the middle of the wilderness, snuggled up warm in my down bag with a full belly as the rain tapped on my tent.

Waking up the next morning I could see where it had snowed just a couple miles back and I was glad I had made it past that.

I followed the trail down to a bend in the river where there was a hot spring. Everyone had talked about this hot spring and had encouraged me to spend a little time there but the only two people there were two older naked men leaned up against a stone ledge waving slowly at me with blank faces. I waved politely and hiked on..

The second half of the hike along the creek was clearly through a section frequented by the local idiots as proven by the spray paint and beer bottles strewn about. Such a shame to have such a beautiful place tagged with shitty graffiti and littered by people who go there because of its beauty and uniqueness, and then trash it.

The canyon widened and when I had almost reached the end I came across a prison work group that passed me on a very narrow stretch of trail. Its strange to be greeted by 30 apparently sex-starved men who made eyes and even whispered comments at someone like me- a hiker covered in dirt, sweat and smelling terrible... I must've been upwind.

After that encounter I came to the end of the canyon and the view opened up. I scanned the horizon for the famous trailside McDonald's, but I was still too far away... The view was pretty incredible, even without the double arches.

I ran into the Lion Tamer (Sigrid) at the water source around the next bend and we sat for a minute to catch up. I was right, she had camped only one mile ahead of me each night! I knew she couldn't be much further. We loosely decided to hike together and set off with the goal of making it from where we were at 314 to a campsite at a lake at 326. The weather was spotty but we pushed on.

Sigrid is a quick-stepping hiker and she took off and I tried to keep up. We walked for a couple miles until it switched to uphill, at which point we swapped back and forth between leading and resting. My ankle was starting to bother me, but nothing serious. The biggest pain was in my feet. There's a pressure that builds in your feet that doesn't clear up, and I hear it won't ease up until I'm done with the hike. 20 miles of pounding on your feet with so much weight- you're really just not going to get used to that.

We made it to mile 322 and a conversation with another hiker lit the fire under us. He said the camp at 326 would be very packed since there were 20 or so hikers behind us with the same idea for a camp spot. We took off, we needed to get there first and stake our claim!

We wound our way through the hills and when we hit 324.5 I hit a wall. There was a steep, brief climb that zapped my energy. I was too tired to freak out when I crested the hill and saw one of the most stunning views on the trail yet, the lake. I stood there silently taking it in before forcing my feet to carry on.

From our vantage point on the ridge above the lake we could see the open shelters comprising the proposed camping spot. It looked 20 miles away! I sucked it up and tried to follow Sigrid. I was limping but she was at full stride and every corner I turned I could see her getting further and further ahead. Although I was tired I was not so confident stopping along any of the beaches along the shore of the lake. There was evidence of locals, trashy locals, and I didn't feel safe alone there at night. Rednecks and assholes are far scarier than bears and mountain lions..

As I finally limped around the corner at mile 326.5 I saw the arrow drawn in the sand that pointed down to the picnic shelter campground where I knew Sigrid had gone. I had been eyeing the lake and I couldn't see any other tents there, and I was skeptical of wether this was a place that allowed camping. It was about a 200 foot climb down and I decided to push on and look for another spot. After another steep climb I crested a ridge and saw, yet again, an amazing view that could have made the cover of any number of travel magazines.

As beautiful as it was I was also looking at a trail on the side of a steep slope that offered no camping. I had already hiked 22 miles and my feet were swollen and painful, despite my ibuprofen (or as hikers call it: vitamin I) intake. I had heard from KC that she had camped the previous night near 329 so I hiked on. The fact that her text was actually to the effect that she had seen a mountain lion freely roaming at a campsite at mile 329 didn't matter...all that mattered to me and my feet was that there was camping there. I was tired enough to sleep with lions if I had to..

I could see the snow starting to fall on the tops of the mountains across the lake but the sun managed to stay in a small opening in the clouds, lighting my way in beautiful golden light. 

I briefly forgot the pain in my feet and pushed on another few miles to the base of the hill at the Silverwood Lake Rec Area where I pitched my tent in a hidden clearing. A 24 mile day and I was ready to snooze. I slept well in anticipation of the following day's hike, the final push in the trek toward the mythical burgers and fries...