Vacation from hiking vacation

We stayed in Sierra City for several days. Craig's parents had shipped his laptop to him. Before we left for this trip, he had submitted his master's thesis to the top journal in the field: Ecology, if you're up on that sort of thing. Thinking that it would likely just get rejected, and he could resubmit it to another journal in the fall. It was, however, provisionally accepted with revisions. Only trouble was, they gave him 6 weeks to complete those revisions. So Craig sat on the porch at the General Store doing science while I hung out with the other hikers.

Our new friends in Sierra City helping finish the "ruined" ice cream

Sierra City has a little church that lets hikers camp in its lawn and a sweet swimming hole on the river, and the store has WiFi and a deli and a big ole porch for sitting. To top it off, the power had gone out a couple days prior, so they were giving away all of the "ruined" ice cream for free. This is (literally) what us hikers dream about. So we stayed for three days, until the ice cream was gone. Our good friend Milkman had also just decided to go home, so we had extra motivation to hang around. He was planning to hitch to the nearest city, Reno, to arrange transport back home. Coincidentally, my good friend Elisa was visiting her boyfriend Patrick in Reno at the same time.

We had bid goodbye to all of our PCT friends in the last few days, because Craig and I had decided to skip 500 miles forward to Oregon, to relieve some of the pressure we were feeling to hike faster faster faster. It was a surprisingly emotional decision; we were leaving behind our trail family. And most of these dear, amazing people, we don't know their real names!

We made a sign to entice motorists to drive us to the biggest little city in the world. Actually we made two, because Milkman has trouble spelling tricky words like "hiker". We sat on the side of the road, smiling at cars as they passed, until our smiles probably looked as artificial as they felt. A few cars stopped, offering a ride to the next town, or for 2 of us, but we decided to hold out for a better ride. By 4:30, I gave up and called Elisa, asking her if they could plllleeeeaaaasssse come and pick us up. A couple hours later, Elisa and Patrick came prancing up like magic and we drove down the winding road towards the little city of sin, excitedly catching up.

Doberman the Doberman

In Reno, we ordered real pizza for delivery. Patrick asked, "Should we get one party pizza?" Us three hikers exchanged looks, "We should probably get two party pizzas." I fell asleep on the soft carpet drinking Coors and watching Labyrinth (David Bowie, not Pan's), waking up from the heat of being not-outside. The three of us quietly moved out to sleep on the patio under the stars. We spent the next two days in Reno, drinking copious amounts of coffee by day and beer by night, falling asleep to awesome movies in the company of not only Elisa and Patrick but also his roommate's dog, a giant Doberman named Doberman. He moved like a horse and would come closer and set his forehead on your leg, encouraging you to scratch his neck.

After three days in Reno, Elisa and Patrick dropped us off at a highway exit half hour north of the city, and left for northern California. It seemed desolate, like we'd made a terrible decision. It was hot, and the road was exposed and cars were moving at 65 mph past us. We were hours from the PCT, and in addition to our packs, Craig had his laptop in a plastic bag and a giant box to ship it in. Miraculously, within five minutes, a big RV pulled onto the shoulder. We could hardly believe it, and went running towards it with our unwieldy loads. Inside, there were four beautiful people from southern California on their way to a reunion. They were young, and we're blasting electronica on the speakers and drinking mimosas out of red solo cups. We slid into the table, and they offered us beer. For an hour, we all road together into Quincy, where they bid us good luck and headed south.

New CHACOS! Over 900 miles on the pair to the left

In Quincy, we again only waited for a few minutes before a car pulled off, offering us a ride part of the way to Belden. We were heading to Belden to the Braaten's house to pick up our resupply package, with essential items like new Chacos and contacts and maps- things we couldn't easily replace. This ride was from a middle-aged off-duty cop, heading to hot springs for the day. He dropped us off, and again! we got within minutes, from a guy who was actually heading to the Belden Resort for work, and knew the Braaten's so dropped us off right at their house. No one was around, but (per the welcoming sign) we let ourselves into the hiker corner and found our packages waiting. An hour or so later, the Braatens returned and Mrs. Braaten came in smiling with pint of cherry tomatoes, "Candy from the valley!" We explained our plan, to hitch to Chico and take a Greyhound bus to Ashland. She offered to drive us down to the trail, a mile west, and we gladly accepted. The road is narrow and winding, and there is no shoulder to walk on.

Scientist with his laptop in a plastic bag in Chico

At the trailhead, there was a electronica festival across the river, with copious amounts of young people lounging on floating rafts on the river. Once again, we got a ride within minutes, from a car of three college girls heading to Chico. They'd actually been partying in Reno for the weekend and were heading home. They dropped us off at a little motel close to downtown. We checked in and got giant burgers and beers down the road. I was getting fat from all of this not-hiking and eating.

The next day, we hit the coffee shops to load up on caffeine and WiFi again. This is a strange version of a thruhike. Another day later, we left Chico on a Greyhound bus heading north to Medford. More pizza, more hotels, more coffee, more internet. I was getting bored. Craig still needed more time for science, and I needed to hike. We made a plan to meet up in Crater Lake in a few days.

Turns out, updating a blog on the PCT is hard

We're trucking ahead on our journey, and have arrived in Mammoth Lakes two-thirds of the way through the "Sierras". It has been an incredible trip so far. Since my last update a full month ago, we've traveled 450 miles north away from the LA corridor, north from the land of reptiles and sand and deep into the heart of the grand granitic land of soaring mountain passes and gushing streams of snowmelt.

To be perfectly honest, I haven't even done a good job of keeping up my personal journal much less this blog. I won't try, even now, to chronicle these last weeks day by day, because summaries like that turn into lists of mountains climbed, hikers met, miles walked, and wildlife seen. And yes, that's what this trip is patently absurdly full of : ridiculous miles. But anyone who has been on a trip like this knows that there is so much more to backpacking than, well, backpacking.

It's not like there is all this empty time however. People often assume that backpacking involves a lot of sitting around campfires writing songs on ukulele and whittling little sculptures out of twigs and reading. But the truth is that there is a lot of walking, and when you walk 20 miles in a day, you're too tired to do much but the basics (food, water, shelter) before sleep takes over. There is plenty of time, however, to think while you're walking. Like think in a way that you've probably never experienced unless you've spent this much time by yourself without the distractions of the modern world.

I am continuously surprised by the  thoughts that circulate while I'm hiking. I think about grand things sometimes of course, the big questions, my future, etc. But a lot of time goes into thinking about the past, people and conversations that I haven't thought about for years. Songs circle in my head from my childhood. I conjugate verbs in Spanish. I even find myself thinking of movie previews that I saw years ago and imagining what the full feature was like. I spend literally hours at a time fantasizing about food (mostly deconstructing ice cream flavors)... That's the thing about a long distance backpacking trip like this. It is of course a physical challenge, and a mental challenge to do nothing but walk every day for months (there are these things called cars and planes and they lead to these people called friends and family, and your feet have blisters on blisters, etc.). But it's also a deeply emotional challenge for many hikers. You really have to face who you are and that can be a scary thing.

But the trail... it has been incredible. It is surprising every day.

Kearsarge Pass to Red's Meadow

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 629

PCT mile 789.1 to PCT mile 906.7
Section mileage: 117.6
Days: 6/25 - 7/2

Tink, Kodiak, and Screagle in Bishop

We spent a full three zero days in Bishop at the brand new hostel. A few weeks prior, a climber in his 20s had bought a bed and breakfast and rapidly converted it into hostel catering to outdoors folks. When we arrived, there were oodles of hikers lounging on wicker chairs under a veranda drinking beers. The hostel was even being (temporarily) run by thruhikers while the owner was at a wedding. It was glorious. Our stay started with a hostel-sponsored pulled pork dinner. We drank copious libations, ate fruit and yogurt and salad, and met a brand new tribe of hikers, the likes of whom we'd not yet seen. These were the types of hikers who hiked with lamps and antlers and flamingos strapped to their packs. Who hiked big miles, and partied big in towns. Check out this video of Uke's version of "Hotel California" that he wrote and we performed.

Crammed into Sarge's dad's car

After three days, we pried ourselves away from the vortex and took the bus back to Independence with Tailor. It was almost evening, and a weeknight at that, so we weren't sure how easy it would be to get back to the trail. In the Chevron parking lot, someone called "Tobias?" from a car (Tailor's real name). It was thruhiker Sarge, a girl from Santa Rosa getting back on trail with her dad and sister. They made room for us in their car. I squished in back with the packs, and they drove us to the trailhead.

Bullfrog Lake off Kearsarge Pass trail

Craig on the north slope of Glen Pass

The next morning, we stopped by to say hello to Uberbitch and Bristlecone, who insisted that we stay for pancakes. Blueberry pecan pancakes. How could we refuse? Dr. Fierce, Shizam, and Church Lady were there too. From Kearsarge, you can go to one of three towns: Lone Pine, Bishop, or Independence, and they had gone to Lone Pine. After breakfast, we set off up the hill to once again climb Kearsarge Pass. It was a beautiful day, and I had mint Oreos. We climbed up and over Glen Pass, and down once again to the other side, towards clear blue alpine lakes. If you ever want to explore a section of the PCT in the Sierras, I recommend you consider Rae Lakes. Each of the lakes was clear blue and rimmed with pine trees, at the base of granite peaks. We hiked to the north end of the chain: Dollar Lake. We set up camp on the shore, bracing our tent from the ferocious gusts of wind that swept through the valley all night.

The spectacular Rae Lakes

Not-so-sneaky ground squirrel

We woke up to the unmistakable sound of rain on our tarp. We stayed in our tent until almost noon, while others hiked past in the drizzle. We took turns reading a tattered copy of A Walk in the Woods we'd found in a hiker box. Once the rain slowed, we set off and caught up to Dr Fierce. We hiked fast downhill with him, grateful for some new company to make the miles go faster. We hiked together until we reached the suspension bridge. Tailor was there, looking pale. He wasn't feeling well from the sudden increase in altitude from Bishop. We stayed with him for lunch, making friends with a too tame ground squirrel, who tried to steal my sweaty cheese wrapper. Tailor said that he was going to take the next few days slower to give his body a chance to recover from the skip in elevation. We wished him good luck and reluctantly said goodbye to begin the long, slow climb up Pinchot Pass.

On the climb up Pinchot Pass, the trail took us parallel to a rushing river with waterslides carved in granite. We ran into Seahawk, who is (unsurprisingly) from Seattle. He was without his crew, fighting an infection in his foot. The infection made his foot swollen and painful to hike on, so he had slowed down. We set up camp just shy of the pass, on the spongy grass next to a cold stream of snowmelt. We were too high in elevation for a campfire, so Craig made a big pot of tortilla soup instead. It was cold at this altitude, with the pass blocking the sunset. I had picked up some instant pudding in a hiker box, and made it now in a Ziploc, swishing together the mix and powder milk with cold water. I left it in the steam to solidify. Red Bandit hiked past on his way to the pass for sunset. After dinner, I went to check on the pudding. It was still liquid, so I left it for morning. Pudding breakfast, why not? Calories is calories, right?

The next morning, I woke up to discover that the pudding was still soup. Butterscotch soup with little chunks of powdered milk. I gagged down 3 cups of liquid pudding, alternating between drinking it and dipping my poptarts in it. Not a good way to start a climb. But it was either drink it or pack out the 1.5 lbs of waste. I had to stop partway down the descent of Pinchot Pass to relieve myself, and yes: pudding in, pudding out.

We passed innumerable JMT hikers, heading south towards Whitney while we trekked north. We had ten miles to our next pass, Mather, technically making it a two-pass day. We camped out with Seahawk, sharing cured meats and stories by a branch of the Kings River. We all agreed that the last few days have been the most spectacular off the trip. The next morning, Seahawk was gone by the time we woke up. On the log, there was a toe sock. To Craig's great disgust, I picked it up with a plastic bag to carry it until we caught up with Seahawk. We were headed over Muir Pass, named after everyone's favorite Sierriaite. All day, we passed JMT hikers who had relay, "Seahawk's just ahead!" But we never did catch him, and the sock stayed in my pack. "It's not near your food, is it?" Asked Craig.

Crossing Evolution Creek

My throat had been sore for a couple days, and my nose started running in sync with it. Endless ooze leaked out while we climbed, and I blew my nose until it was raw. I can usually keep up with Craig, but I lagged behind today. We finally reached the top of Muir Pass, where there was a small stone shelter where we meet a couple of thruhikers, Milkshake and Hobo, about our age and from NYC. On the descent, I gathered some speed, and we tripped down the gravel-paved path into my beloved Evolution Valley. A few years ago, I took a backpacking trip with friends into Evolution Valley to climb a couple of the surrounding peaks. I knew then that I'd be back again on the PCT, and I remember saying that I wouldn't be one of the thruhikers sticking religiously to the trail, ignoring side trails. And yet there I went, one foot in front of the other like a hiking robot, moving ever northwards, towards the next pass, the next mile, the next town, and next ice cream cone.

I once thought Evolution Valley was once one of the most beautiful places in world, but after the last hundred miles, it was just another valley with blue blue blue lakes framed by snow capped peaks. No big deal. I hate that I have become used to this; Kings Canyon National Park has ruined me. We hiked through the valley and down into the woods, to a lower elevation where we could cook bratwurst and popcorn on a camp fire.

The next couple days were a blur of misery. My cough had gotten worse, and during the climb up the next two passes (Selden and Silver), it would get worse and worse. I would hack, trying to expel the phlegm lodged in my throat that whistled painfully as I breathed, until it hurt to swallow and I couldn't talk. Craig was so patient with me. Selden Pass was especially miserable. The climb up wasn't awful; it was the mosquitoes. Hundreds of them, trailing us like zombies, and diving in for blood every time we stopped moving. We were a hundred feet shy of the pass, trying to stay ahead of the swarm. I was fading fast, so we threw up the tent and hid ourselves and all our things inside. For the first time on this trip, I agreed that we should cook dinner inside the tent. Normally it's bad idea (bears, fire risk, etc) but at that moment I would gladly have taken third degree burns over one more mosquito bite. The mosquitoes swarmed outside the mesh of the tent. After dinner we lay there counting them: 150 mosquitos.

Shooting stars

We woke up early the next day to get a head start on the squeeters. By the time we reached the river before Silver Pass, I was a mess. Crotolus and Far out were there too, just as miserable as me. "I think we caught it from someone in Bishop," they said, and I strangely felt better knowing that I wasn't the only one who felt like death. In a surge of motivation, I rose from my mat, where I was curled up in the dust, and said to Craig, "Let's climb this @$!#" Part way up the pass, my body stopped cooperating. I felt completely sucked of energy and my eyes started itching and burning. I could barely keep them open. I couldn't talk, couldn't breath, couldn't see, and couldn't hike. I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep while Craig did all of the camp chores. Seahawk hiked past and I croaked, "Did you lose a sock?" He had not, alas, so the sock hitched a ride in my pack to the nearest trash can. Gross.

The next day I felt a little better, so we hiked about 20 miles, stopping just 7 or so miles short of Red's Meadow. Red's Meadow is a horse pack station with a restaurant and store, and bus service that takes hikers into the town of Mammoth Lakes. We bought ice cream and hopped aboard the bus bound for town. And more importantly, bound for cough drops, eye drops, and medicine.