Elk Lake to Cascade Locks: in which we do everything out of order

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 1345.2

PCT mile 1959.1 to PCT mile 2155
Section mileage: 195.3
Days: 8/15 - 8/24

We could not have made Oregon more complicated for ourselves. We spent two zero days in Bend and Sisters, being our charming "thruhiker homeless" selves. There is an RV park in Sisters that lets hikers camp out for five bucks and take hot showers, so during the day, we holed up in the coffee shop with Craig typing furiously on his paper and me pretending to do something of consequence on my tablet. Since we had jumped off trail at Elk Lake to venture into Bend, we had a 48 mile deficit to make up from Elk Lake north to Santiam Pass. Easy, we thought, we will slackpack ourselves. "Slackpacking" is backpacking a section of trail without a full pack, only bringing food and water for the day.

So on our third day in town we made a "PCT HIKER TO SANTIAM PASS" sign to slackpack ourselves, SOBO, the first 18 miles. A forest ranger off duty picked us up within seconds of reaching the edge of town and we talked about backpacking and trees (the common denominators) on the ride. This was our first slackpack of the trip, and it was amazing. Walking felt like it required no effort, like we were floating forwards at 3 mph. The huckleberries were out in full force, and we greedily took long breaks to gobble as many down as possible. Since we were going southbound for the day, we ran into tons of thruhikers heading north. When you're heading north, you don't realize how many hikers are close ahead and behind. We hit our first lava fields, these barren, other-worldly landscapes of bubbly rocks in reds and blacks. With a full pack, they can be treacherous to walk on without twisting an ankle, but with a light load, I loved cruising through them. On the last mile, I actually ran into a real SOBO named BatCountry. We walked together to the road and he told me about his experiences SOBOing this year, and NOBOing a couple years before.

We were done by mid afternoon, and our legs still felt fresh. The trail popped us out at McKenzie Pass, next to a castle-like observatory built out of lava rocks. Craig and I sat on the pavement to make a hitching sign to get back to Sisters for the night. A young, cleanshaven man came over to us asking, "Do you two need a ride to Sisters?" Yes! We said, and I ran up to the observatory to see if BatCountry wanted a ride too. This guy (cannot, for the life of me, remember his name) is planning on thruhiking next year, so he was up for a couple days from Portland offering rides and sodas to this year's class of thruhikers. Paying the favor forward, if you will.

Three-fingered Jack

The next day, we'd planned a second, more ambitious slackpack that involved more hitching and way more hiking, south from McKenzie Pass to Elk Lake through the Three Sisters Wilderness. Craig had work to do that morning, however, and we needed to work our way north to meet my parents in a couple of days. So we bookmarked those 30 miles for later. I told you: we made Oregon as complicated as possible! Craig spent the morning organizing spreadsheets and writing about nutrient budgets, while I played arts and crafts with a big road atlas of Oregon, a selection of highlighters, and sticky notes, in preparation for my parents' arrival.

And so we hitched back to Santiam Pass for the second time in a row in the mid day heat. This time, we didn't even get to the edge of town before a girl pulled over to offer us a ride. She was an 2012 AT thruhiker named Slug who was living in Bend now, and offered us oranges and apples, "I know how much you miss fresh fruit when you're out there." At the trailhead, we ran into a young man wearing a canvas pack with a tin can and spring affixed to the outside. His hiking stick had a sharpened rock tied on one end, making it a primitive spear. "Bet that makes hitching harder," I whispered to Craig. He was clearly on some kind of survivalist mission.

We started up the hill towards Three-Fingered Jack, the first peak north. Our packs felt heavy, despite the fact that we only had three days' worth of food on our backs. The only problem with slackpacking is the day after. It was hot too, and the climb was exposed from a previous forest fire. We moved slowly, and I stopped often to take photos and soak in the vistas. Three-Fingered Jack consisted of a row of jagged peaks, with a steep drop off on the north side. We descended only as far as the first water source, Koko Lake, a small pond, and set up camp. A few others trickled in to camp, nodding politely to us. I miss our friends; there are so many thruhikers in the herd, but it still seems to feel more lonely up here in the pack.

We get a late start the next day, but we aren't in a hurry anymore. We have until tomorrow afternoon to get to Olallie Lake, 36 trail miles away. I pick huckleberries by the lake in the morning, bold deer eating them too, eyeing me but still moving closer. The views are beautiful, as we climb between Jack and the next peak of consequence, Jefferson. Part of it has been scarred by fires past, but the naked trees standing like telephone poles make it look like a post-apocalyptic world. I pretend we're characters in The Road, escaping roving bands of criminals and searching for discarded canned goods in cellars.


Mt Jefferson

We stop for lunch at the first clear view of Jefferson, a real mountain with glaciers and its own weather. I snap a few photos and sit back in the shade with Craig. Ten minutes later, Craig wanders to the edge to take a look into the valley, "Did you see that fire?" He asks. "No!" I say, jumping up. Down way below, a plume of smoke rises from the trees. We can see the flicker of orange flames. A brand new fire. I check my phone. No service. A group of backpackers arrives at our stop, and I ask if they have service. None of us do, so we hike on. Half an hour into the hike, I check my phone and this time, I have enough service to text news of a new fire to my dad with instructions to report it to 911. With such high fuel load and dry weather, fires spread fast and time is of the essence.

A little while later, I find a pair of full sized scissors on the side of the trail. Who would bring these into the woods?, I think. Nonetheless, I pack them out. No sense in leaving them on the trail. The trail hugs the ridges around Mt Jefferson, taking us into lush valleys with ferns and moss and glacial streams, milky with silk. We stop at a clear lake to have lunch. A section hiker is hanging out too, and we talk for a while. The survivalist dude walks up and joins us. We compare foot callous cracks; his are even worse than mine. Joking, I ask them if they've lost a pair of scissors. "Oh great, you found my scissors!" Exclaims the survivalist. "Now I can cut the felt that I found in that abandoned cabin." I have no idea what he's talking about, but gladly pass off the scissors.

We hiked on a few more miles down into the ravine of the super silty Milky Creek, at the base of one of ole Jeffy's glaciers. Since it's a ravine, there aren't many places to camp, but other hikers have carved out a few tent-sized flat spots along the river. As we're making dinner, another couple shows up and begins to clear rocks to make a semi-suitable campsite. Ferntoe and Thor the hiking Viking! They remind us that that night is the peak of the summer meteor shower. And so we fell asleep watching for the flashes of light in the sky, outside our world.

We had only 18 miles remaining to get to Olallie Lake, where we'd planned to meet with my parents the next afternoon. We hugged the north side of Jefferson for the morning. I love the north sides of mountains...they are wetter and lusher, since the sun prefers the south side of the sky in this hemisphere. We cruised through Jefferson Park, with its meadows of wild flowers and weekend backpackers and dozens of lakes.

The PCT led us north up an adjacent slope with a fantastic view into the valley. I lagged behind Craig, and at the top of the climb, ran into Ferntoe and Thor again. Below us lay a series of snow fields to descend. I struck out in my Chacos, digging in with my heels before each step. The second snow field led straight down hill. Ferntoe and Thor were right behind, and I said, "I think I'm going to try to glissade down!" Since we didn't enter the Sierras until mid June, there wasn't enough snow to slide down the snow fields we crossed. Thor lent me a trekking pole to arrest if needed. I tried to glissade by pushing off with one foot after another, kind of like skating. "That's really more of a grandpa shuffle!" called Thor from above. He took a running start and slid down on his butt and Ferntoe came skiing down after him. Ferntoe and Thor left Kennedy Meadows two weeks before us, and saw a completely different Sierras. At Muir Pass, for example, we had no snow. They had four miles of snow to walk through on the south side and another six miles of snow on the north side, down into Evolution Valley.

On our final descent into Olallie Lake, we ran into my dad, who had hiked up to meet us. We all walked down to the lake to meet with my mom and swim in the lake. We spent the night in the nearby town of Detroit, eating Hawaiian pizza and showering and sleeping in a real bed.

Visit from my parents! Sisters in the background



Obsidian Flats

The next morning, the four of us drove back to the town of Sisters for coffee and pastries, before hitting the trail at McKenzie Pass. We'd meant to get an early start for our planned 30 miles slackpack, but didn't get on the trail until 9:30 am, heading south back to Elk Lake. Back in the land of lava rocks, heading for the snow capped Sister peaks we had only seen from a distance thus far. It was a Tuesday, but there were tons of day hikers out on the trail, and we sailed past them, feeling weightless without full packs. The Sisters were beautiful, but what really caught me off guard were the fields of OBSIDIAN! Hills of sparkly black rocks like volcanic jewels. Unfortunately, like so many parts of this trip, photos fall short of capturing the splendor of the landscape.

We passed dozens of thruhikers heading north, most of whom probably assumed we were day hikers like all of the others. We recognized quite a few faces from the Saufleys and areas farther south on the trail. We even ran into Tori and her boyfriend Parker. We had seen them in Tahoe, and hadn't expected to see them again since they were only planning on traveling as far as Crater Lake. The fires had driven them farther north, like all of us. Tori was one of my undergrad assistants in Syracuse, and it was really fun to see her out here doing things other than measuring dead earthworms under a microscope. We gave them our extra sandwich supplies: sourdough, salami, and cheese and hiked on towards Elk Lake. I wanted to do more trail magic on our slackpack, but I can't think of a better recipient of our sandwiches!

We also ran into Awesome and Possum, a couple from Tennessee who we'd met in Sierra City. They have been averaging 30-35 miles a day! We made it to Elk Lake by 7:30, too late for their dinner, but before dark. We drove into Bend to have dinner at the Deschutes Brewery before heading back on the dark and windy roads for Detroit once again. We are so spoiled. Tomorrow we'd head north from Olallie Lake with our full packs.

We didn't start hiking until noon, spending the morning packing, breakfasting, and blackberry picking in Detroit before braving the windy, gravel road back to Olallie. I had miscalculated how many miles we had from Olallie to Timberline Lodge, at the tree line of Mount Hood. So we set off quickly, and luckily the terrain was easy rolling hills paved with pine needles. We only stopped for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, nighthiking for as long as we could. Despite starting at noon, we managed to finish over 27 miles before falling asleep on a carpet of moss. The next day, we hiked up and down hills, occasionally given views of the giant Mount Hood looming to the north. We had planned to meet my parents at Timberline Lodge at 5 pm, but were running short on time, so changed out rendezvous point to the highway at Barlow Pass. While we were waiting for them to arrive, a car swooped up and a guy jumped out. "You guys want a beer?" He asked, pulling two hoppy local cans from a cooler. "Thanks!" we called, amazed at our luck as he pulled away.

We stayed in the town of Government Camp that night at a hotel with a hot tub and warm cookies in the lobby for guests. All around were groups of runners in matching t-shirts, getting organized for the annual Hood to Coast relay race, which started the next morning. Instead of joining the crowds on Mount Hood in the morning, we drove north to Cascade Locks, to hike south for a couple days. I had heard such great things about the spectacular Eagle Creek Trail, that I wanted my parents to hike part of it before they left for home the next day. They dropped me and Craig in town and drove towards that trailhead. We had to hike from the Bridge of the Gods in Cascade Locks to tie together our linear hike, and I figured a 3 mile head start would be a good idea.

The hike from Cascade Locks was just a walk on a bike path, lined with bushes of ripe blackberries, huge, juicy, and sweet. After a little mishap that might have involved some extra hiking up a steep hill, we found our way to the Eagle Creek trailhead. Tons of dayhikers were climbing up the gorge with us; it was a Friday, after all, and we were a half an hour from the Portland metro. We ran into my mom soon, hiking back from the first waterfall, where we hugged goodbye.


Tunnel Falls, Eagle Creek Trail

The trail was carved into the hillside, with ferns clogging the tributaries and moss carpeting the stone walls. This was the Oregon I had imagined we'd be hiking through, not realizing that the Cascades would be so different from the coastal range. Below us, in the gorge, the creek fell downstream in a series of cascading waterfalls punctuated by meandering stretches. We passed thruhikers heading north towards the Washington border. Leonardus, Badass, Sunnyside, Kristen, Oak, Thor, Ferntoe, and so many more. Eventually, we caught up to my dad, returning from the six mile hike to the unofficial culmination of the Eagle Creek Trail: the spectacular Tunnel Falls. We hugged goodbye and continued our climb to the falls: a column of water crashing 175 feet, framed by cliffs wallpapered with ferns, mosses, and liverworts. We hiked through the tunnel carved by human tools behind the falls, oddly cold and quiet.


Past the cliffs, we began our climb in earnest. Hiking south from Cascade Locks to Mount Hood was not, in retrospect, the easiest choice. Cascade Locks is the lowest point on the PCT, and Timberline Lodge is 6000 feet higher. To connect the alternate route from Eagle Creek to the official PCT, we would have to climb the Indian Springs Trail, up 2000 feet in 2 miles, far steeper than anything else on the trail. We stopped after the first tenth of a mile, and ate all of our snacks for the next day and a half in one fell swoop. Eventually we completed the climb, popping out in an abandoned campground. Forest, Hopscotch, BFF, Park, others were there for the night. "Where are you coming from this time?" They asked, confused, and offered us a handful of M&Ms.

We camped in a little grove of trees, only 15 miles into our day but tired from the climb. The next morning, we continued south towards Timberline Lodge. It was 30 miles away, and there were a few big climbs between us and the lodge, but we wanted to get close enough to make it but 7:30 the next morning for the $15 AYCE (all you can eat) breakfast buffet. We were going to destroy that buffet. The closer we got to Mount Hood, the more beautiful the trail became. We began to pass glacial streams white with silt and the ground became a spongy carpet of mosses I could identify by name. Rhytidiadelphus, Hylocomiun, Ptilium, Dicranum like little green friends.

We sailed past the spectacular Ramona Falls, upward through rhododendron groves to sandy cliffs with views of the glaciated peak of Hood looming above. As the sun began to sink, casting a golden light on the trail, we reached a stretch of huckleberries so thick with ripe berries we could no longer just pick at them. It would be dark soon, but we didn't care. We threw down our packs and began at roam through the bushes, stuffing our faces with berries. In the dark, we camped by a cool trickle of water with a hidden campsite on a hill, setting our alarm for the morning. Tomorrow: 6 miles by 7:30 am.

Picking berries on the climb to Mt Hood

Descent from Mt Hood

In the still black forest, we stuffed our sleeping bags into their sacks and set off with our headlamps leading the way. Craig flew down the trail at 4 mph while I lagged behind at my fastest pace. Higher and closer I climbed, until finally I rounded a corner and spotted a chairlift for the ski slopes. Not long after, paved paths intersected with the PCT, leading down slope to a giant stone hotel: Timberline. Craig was already inside on his first plate of food. There was a mountain of whipped cream a foot tall, surrounded by reservoirs of berries. Meats and eggs and waffles and pancakes and pastries with chocolate and cheese crammed inside. Fine cheeses towered. A smoothie bar and strong coffee. Heaven. I took a shower and we lounged on couches digesting our food. After noon, we left to climb down the mountain to Barlow Pass, where we'd aim to catch a ride back north. We were more than halfway done with the PCT, and had finally completed the section from Ashland to Cascade Locks.

Ten minutes at the road, and a car full of things pulled over to pick us up, driven by a friendly deadhead. All was going well until the car shut down. We coasted to the shoulder and he popped the hood. Liquids were full, and nothing was leaking. "Maybe it's the starter," suggested Craig. So the two of us began to push the car, and it roared to life! We leapt inside, once again on our way! One ride, ten more minutes of waiting, and we were back in Cascade Locks, completing our very very complicated week of playing leap frog.

Shelter Cove to Elk Lake Resort

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 1147.3

PCT mile 1912 to PCT mile 1959.1
Section mileage: 48.1
Days: 8/11 - 8/12

Pinesap aka West coast Indian pipes!

We drank coffee on the porch of Shelter Cove until 9, talking mostly to this great southbound hiker named Suzanne (no trail name yet). She regaled us with stories of harrowing snow in Washington at the start of July. Apparently the southbounders (nickname SOBO) are calling themselves SNOWBOs this year since there was so much snow in Washington that stuck around well into the SOBO hiking season. It was kind of the opposite of the northbound (NOBO) experience this year, since it was a remarkably low snow year in the Sierras. Suzanne told us that she had to self arrest (ie. Use an ice axe to break her fall down a steep mountain pass) on her first pass. We didn't even carry crampons or ice axes.

Wishing Suzanne good luck, we left to road walk the two miles back to the PCT. Banjo hiked with us. He hiked California last summer and was returning to finish Oregon and Washington this year. He's young yet, early 20s, and works as a welder. He got his trail name cause last year he carried a banjo on the trail: not the lightest instrument by the way. There are others who have carried instruments on the trail: this year I've met a Ukulele and Didgeridoo. There was a Tuba Man on the Appalachian Trail years ago. Anyway, Banjo hiked with us for the morning.

Firefighting helicopter

We passed a lady firefighter literally covered in soot, who warned us of the flames of a new fire just uphill of the PCT. I could hear the tuk-tuk-tuk roar of the helicopter blades on the hill and moments later, saw the flames engulfing trees. All day long, the sounds of helicopters and a fire plane could be heard, as they desperately swooped back and forth between the lakes and the fires from last night's lightening. Late afternoon, the thunder began to roll in from all directions and rain began to fall. Fearing the worst (a downpour and lightening) we began to run downhill, me and Craig racing each other with our cumbersome packs swaying to and fro. We arrived at the big Charlton Lake about the same time as a few other thruhikers. A family had set up camp on the peninsula, complete with a boat, coolers, and slackline.

Thruhikers can be pretty shameless mooches, including us. The term on the trail is Yogi-ing, as in Yogi the bear. It's a special technique that thruhikers use to sneakily convince non-thruhikers to give them things (food, beverages, rides, a place to stay). The trick is to make the campers think it's their idea. Anyway, this group of campers had coolers, so once the other thruhikers left to hike on, Craig and I sat by the family to make our dinner on our stove. We told them about our trip, asked if they'd kept dry, etc. Alas, no sodas were offered to us. We've never been any good at Yogi-ing things. Worth a try at least!

Sunrise on Charlton Lake

The next day, we woke to my alarm to get an early start. It was 28.5 miles on easy terrain between us and the Elk Lake Resort. By 7 we were on the trail and by 9 it had started to rain again. We pounded out the miles, cruising past other thruhikers when they took breaks. We walked past bushes full of huckleberries in the rain, grabbing the ripe berries as we hiked without breaking stride. The trail became a river, and still we hiked on, hopscotching the puddles. We passed by dozens of lakes; I'm guessing there would have hundreds of mosquitos too, had it not been for the rain.

Craig picking huckleberries

Twenty five miles into our day, things got less pleasant. The straps on my Chacos had been rubbing my toes all day and they began to bleed, skipping the blister stage all together. I tried to wrap them in duct tape (hikers cure-all), but by the end of the day I still had 3 bloody toes. Craig's feet were killing him too, and to top it off the rain had begun to pour and it was getting cold. Did I mention that I sent my rain jacket home in Tahoe? Between all this, we limped into the fancy-rustic Elk Lake Resort restaurant by 4:30, hung our packs by the door and joined the long table of thruhikers gathered there to wait out the rain. ALL of the hikers were there: Kristen, Forest, Hopscotch and crew, Banjo, Poundcake, Justsofresh, etc. We ordered big expensive beers and sandwiches because when you hike that many miles in the rain, cost is no matter (even if it does matter).

We were going to rent a cabin with other hikers, but they were all reserved. We'll hike on then, we promised ourselves. Fat chance: neither of us could really walk much less hike. It was Justsofresh's birthday the next day and all he wanted was to "wake up dry". Two beers in, and we'd decided that the three of us would try for half an hour to hitch to the nearest town, Bend. If that didn't work, we promised ourselves, THEN we'd hike on. The bartender, Erica, ended up offering us a ride to Bend when her shift ended. The three of us piled into her car and rode down the mountain towards cheap motel warmth and gas station pizza.

The next morning, we were debating how to get to the trail when a guy pulled up and asked if we were thruhikers. His name was Mr President (circa 2008 I think) and he offered rides to Sisters and the trail! Amazing magic.

Crater Lake to Shelter Cove

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 1100.2

PCT mile 1834 to PCT mile 1912
Section mileage: 70
Days: 8/7 - 8/10

We spent 4 nights at Mazama Village in Crater Lake National Park. Three days in Crater Lake without actually seeing a lake. Craig had more writing to do, so he loitered in the hiker corner of the restaurant (ie the back room where our stench wouldn't be as offensive, and there were lots of outlets to plug in our electronic devices). He made friends with the wait staff and they brought him free milkshakes and kept his coffee cup full. Meanwhile, I hung out with hikers passing through Mazama for more respectable lengths of time, drinking beer in the laundry room and spending more time on the internet than a thruhiker should.

On the fourth morning, we had one last restaurant breakfast and hopped aboard the trolley bound for the post office. We dumped all our food on the sidewalk and selected enough for this section; since we skipped up from Sierra City, we had food that we had bought in Sierra City and Medford (cause who can resist a Trader Joe's AND WinCo?) not to mention food from our resupply boxes in Belden and Crater Lake. We mailed ahead a large box of food and Craig's laptop to Sisters, Oregon, our next real town stop, then flagged the next trolley down, waving our hands like crazy homeless folks on the side of the road.

The trolley dropped us off at the rim of Crater Lake, where we promptly went into the cafe to split a soda. You never know when your last soda might be, after all. There were hoards of tourists looking at trinkets all labeled "CRATER LAKE" so there can be doubt as to where they were bought. A big group of forest firefighters came in, bringing with them the smell of smoke. This coterie of firefighters came from Florida; when states can't handle fires with their own resources, they send out for any available crews to fly in to the rescue. Firefighters from Georgia and I think Idaho were also in town. We finally shouldered our packs and set off onto the Rim Trail, a popular alternate to the PCT.

Crater Lake, obviously

Crater Lake is strange, to say the least. It's one of the deepest lakes in the world, formed from a collapsed volcanic crater. But it's also in the middle of an extremely arid section of Oregon. So we set off from the gift shop with 3 liters of water apiece, since the next water source was a blistering 28 miles away. That is the longest dry stretch on the PCT, if you're keeping track, since the Mojave Desert. The Rim Trail hugs the rim of the lake for about ten miles. The trail was really just a thick layer of volcanic sand, and we hiked in the heat with almost constant views of the azure, refreshing water of the lake taunting us from below. There is only one trail to the water, and it was on the opposite side of the lake. We moved slowly, anonymous bearded thruhikers passing us throughout the day. We stopped in the early evening to camp under the trees and watch the new Wes Anderson movie on my tablet, making it a 17 mile day.

Mt Thielsen

The next morning, we didn't get started until 10 in the morning. Kind souls had filled water jugs cached at highway 138 for hikers and we eagerly grabbed a liter apiece to make the hike to Thielsen Creek a little less thirsty. On the climb to Thielsen, we ran into a couple of hikers. Badass and Sunnyside. I met Badass back at the Saufleys (mile 454) and was super impressed with her hiking dress and four bags of popcorn that she night hiked out with. It was such a lazy day for us. We actually sat down in a field after the creek and rewatched Royal Budapest Hotel, for the second time in 24 hours. We considered staying in that field, setting up camp 13 miles into our day. That might sound respectable to you. But we usually walk at least 3 miles per hour. So that's only four hours of walking. Most hikers in this section are averaging 25 miles a day. If nothing else, we're unpredictable!

We ended up rallying and hiking a few miles farther, past the Oregon/Washington highpoint (about 7500 feet). We stopped at this spectacular ledge with views east, ensuring us an early sunrise wake up call. Tomorrow, we swore, we'd hike farther. We were hanging out in camp when another hiker walked up: JustSoFresh. He's also a flip-flopper, having started north bound in Tahoe, and we both liked him immediately. A group of three other hikers showed up soon after, joining us at our awesome campsite. Juno, Rimshot, and Kit, I believe. It's so hard to remember all these new names!

We woke the next morning thirsty, determined to get to another water source early, before it got hot. All of us had decided to take the Oregon Skyline Trail, an alternate to the PCT. Partly because it was ten miles shorter, but mostly because it took us by a series of lakes, including Crescent Lake. Which had a swimable beach! We were down to 1 liter apiece, and had almost 20 miles to the nearest on-trail water. We left at 7 am, before anyone else in camp, and hiked fast and hard. We slowed a bit late morning, because we started passing bushes of huckleberries, these tart, sweet blueberry-like fruits. And even though we were pretty much out of water, we kept stopping to grab fistfuls. Even with these breaks, we finished 17 miles by 12:45! And at the road, there was another miraculous cache of water!

The afternoon was another story. From the cache, we jumped to the Skyline Trail. This trail stays 1000 feet lower than the PCT, which unfortunately means that it's hotter. It was muggy and we were grumpy. We pushed on in misery, determined to get to the beach. We were getting closer, and feeling relieved, when the trail dumped us out on a gravel road. I looked at the map. This wasn't on the map, and the trail didn't continue. In the far distance, down the hill, we could hear motor sounds. A dog barked. Feeling frustrated and unsure whether to turn left or right, we bushwhacked down the middle towards the dog and motor sounds. Ten minutes later, we reached another road, this one paved. Progress at least... We chose a direction, and this time we reached a cluster of RVs, and a campground. Our map listed this as "free camping" but this was a pay per site kind of place, and we were out of our element. Twin girls in jean vests biked past. A woman was standing next to campfire in a matching bikini top and sweatpants. I felt like a dirty leper. We were discussing where to go when a voice called those magical words, "You guys want a beer?"

Faces were turned towards us, like 20 of them, and a few guys came over to introduce themselves and hand us bottles of Black Butte porter. "Are you having a family reunion?" I asked, confused. They laughed, "not exactly!" They asked us to camp and eat dinner with them, and what could we do? On our way down to the lake to wash off, we passed Juno, Rimshot, and Kit, sitting with a different group eating dinner. We waved and smiled. We had been adopted, and so had they. We'd later learn that everyone we had seen that day had gotten lost trying to find that campground. Back at the campfire, cleanish, we got to know our hosts. They were mostly road engineers for the Forest Service, and this was their 20th year meeting up at Crescent Lake for a camping reunion. Dogs roamed freely about camp, one a chow with a lion cut and the rest versions of dachshunds.

"Have some ceviche," said Bill, one of the retired engineers. Spotting a familiar can in Bill's cozy, Craig asked, "is that Hamms?" And we were in heaven. Craig got Hamms, and I got Black Butte Porter. Five minutes later, they invited us to dig in to their food, "we always pack way too much." They weren't kidding. The picnic table had steak, chicken, shepherd's pie, cold salads, grilled vegetables, potatoes, bread. I don't think I could have dreamed up a more elaborate spread, and trust me: I think a lot about food. We stuffed ourselves, trying to answer all of their questions between bites.

Crescent Lake

And then, there were wadoodles. Which are, evidently, made by shaping biscuit dough around a phallic dowel, and toasting it into a biscuit tube over the fire. And THEN you put whipped cream and marionberries (or anything delicious you have on hand) in the hole. When we couldn't stay awake any longer, we hobbled to our tent. We fell asleep to the lot of them singing "Itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini" followed by the two oldest (and drunkest) men trying to sing a whole bunch of songs in Bob Dylan voices. We fell asleep happy.

The next morning, they fed us breakfast of bacon eggs hash browns coffee cookies bagel watermelon and surreptitiously stuffed salt water taffy and coffee packets into our packs. We set off for Shelter Cove Resort, on Odell Lake, ten miles away. It was hot and mucky hiking. Five miles in, we crested a hill and entered a different ecosystem. There was a rushing river, and the landscape was greener. Huckleberries of all varieties lined the trail. It was almost lush.

Waiting out the rain at Shelter Cove

At Shelter Cove, we were met with a big group of hikers, most of which were new faces. I picked up my package and had settled on the gravel to sort through it when it began to rain. Big drops of rain, falling slowly at first, but the type of rain that signals the start of a real storm to come. Thunder followed and we all gathered on the porch of the store with our phones. And then the rain came, with a vengeance, sheets of it, driving at an angle. Since we were by the lake, we could see lightening striking the ridge. "There's a tree on fire!" called one hiker, and we all ran closer for a better look. Sure enough, a few trees were burning across the bay, in the direction of the PCT. The owner of the store called the fire department. We all congratulated ourselves on making it to this porch to wait out this storm. We were planning to hike out ten miles, but ended up setting up by the other hikers in the soggy campsite for the night.

Ashland to Crater Lake

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 1022.2

PCT mile 1727.4 to PCT mile 1829.3
Section mileage: 101.9
Days: 7/31 - 8/3

It was hard to leave the hotel's free continental breakfast and air-conditioning for the triple digit heat. The news commentators on TV didn't make it easier, "this makes 12 days this summer over 100 degrees. We are well on our way to a record hot summer!" I reluctantly left the room and Craig late morning, bound for the bus terminal alone for the first time in ten weeks. I sat at the terminal making a PCT HIKER TO TRAIL sign while I waited with the real homeless people - the ones that don't have a social safety net to rely on when they get shin splints.

I got off in downtown Ashland, and asked a man on a bench, "Do you know where I can find some donuts?" I had decided on the bus ride that the one thing that would make hiking much, much better was a stack of gooey, chocolate topped, creme stuffed donuts. He directed me to Puck's around the corner where I bought 5 donuts, ate 2, and strapped the greasy paper bag to the top of my pack. With my donuts and hitching sign, I started walking in the general direction of the trail. Immediately, a man in a pinstripe vest with dreads hopped out of his car and came towards me, arms outstretched, for a hug. I flinched. He was taken back, saying, "Hey, it's okay! Do you need anything?" I said, "nope, just heading back to trail!" gave him a hug, and marched on. Definitely back in hippie-ville!

Five minutes later, a woman pulled over and offered a ride back to the trail. At the trailhead, she asked, "Do you want me to call your parents for you?" I chuckled and said, "thanks, but I talked to them yesterday!" and jumped on the trail in what I hoped was the right direction. It was hot, and hiking felt hard again after 8 days off. The trail was dry and meadows brown. Most of the plants had gone to seed already, and all of the views were hazy from wildfires that had erupted across southern Oregon and northern California in the last week.

I ran into a couple of girls in carhartts at a trail junction. "You guys aren't hiking, are you?" I asked. They were, however, building trails! If you've never done trail building, it is seriously hard, gruelling work. And one them, this girl named Solstice, hiked the PCT to Kearsarge Pass this year. I sat with them in the shade, forcing myself to drink water, and ate another donut. It made me feel sick, so I gave the last two donuts away. A few miles later, I reached the spring where a few thruhikers had gathered for the night. I made dinner and talked to them for a while, feeling like the new kid at school. I know no one in this section of trail; we'd left all our friends in Sierra City.

Onwards I hiked, into the plume of smoke on the horizon and red glowing sun. As the sun sunk, so did the oppressive heat. When it got dark, I turned on my headlamp at night hike. At the highway, 16 miles from where I started, I ran into a woman standing by her car, staring at the hill behind me. "How are you?" I asked. "Okay," she said, "waiting to see if we have to evacuate our home," indicating the hill. I turned around. In the dark, I could see the red glow of the forest fire consuming the hill where she lived. I wished her luck, and hiked on a little farther to a clearing in a field, where I laid out my Tyveck and camped under the stars.

The next morning, I awoke to a friendly golden retriever whose tail wagged so enthusiastically that its whole hind end swayed with it. I miss waking to dogs. His owners, an older couple, called him off and continued on their walk, wishing me a cautious "good morning." I leap frogged with the couple for the first few miles, exchanging pleasantries and telling them about my trip. By mid morning, I had seen no one else, when I came upon a tent next to the trail. I hiked past, and saw a head pop up and call out, "Hey!" as I passed. I said hello to the faceless voice, then hiked on to a nearby road. I had decided to take a 1.4 mile alternate off the PCT to visit the Hyatt Lake Resort where there was surely coffee, breakfast, and news of any new fires.

I walked swiftly to music on my newly-shipped iPod, until the road became overgrown with grass, and finally abruptly ended in the middle of the woods. I looked around. No sign of a lake, or resort, or any milkshakes. I looked on my map. First road, turn left. Walk 1.4 miles. Arrive at resort. I flipped to Yogi's guidebook pages and read through the directions again, trying to find out where I'd gone wrong. "Turn left," it said, "on the first paved road." This was definitely not a paved road. I hate backtracking (as do all thruhikers), so I took off in a northeastern direction hoping that I would hit the real road soon. Instead, I hit a sewage treatment plant in the woods, which was just a retention pond with a thick layer of algae and a barbed wire fence around it. I found the plant on my map, and used it to navigate a hundred yards farther to the (paved) road.

Heading in the correct direction, I almost immediately flushed a large creature from the roadside. Looking back, I realized that it was a big hawk, grasping a rabbit of about the same size in its talons. I wished that Craig had been there too to see it; he loves megafauna, especially predators. The road was otherwise quiet and I was the only one at the restaurant when I arrived. The news was on the TV and the cheerful commentators were talking about the fires. A fire in southeastern Oregon had grown from 100 to 7500 acres overnight. Luckily (for me) it was traveling south into California and not north towards the PCT. When I left the restaurant an hour later, smoke had settled into the lake, obscuring a view of the opposite shore. All afternoon, the light was an eerie red glow, like it was five hours of dusk.

I hiked into real dusk, to a wooden shelter. Someone had left a cooler with sodas, so I sat on the picnic table drinking Sprite alone, contemplating dinner. The shelter gave me the creeps. There was a squeaky pump that I had to use all of my (admittedly weak) strength to move the handle up and down to get brown water to flow. I pay close attention to my unease when I am traveling alone, so once I got water I moved on down the trail to camp in the anonymous woods where I felt safer. Giant black ants were everywhere, so I set up the tent and pulled all of my food inside for safety.

In the morning, I started out by 7:15 to try for a forty mile day. I've never done a forty mile day, and as silly as it sounds, I want to hike one. The trail was quiet, and I started moving fast. "Lava" said my maps, and sure enough! The trail wound past lava fields full of big black jagged boulders. I ran into a trio of women hiking up the mountain and sat down to eat a snack and field the usual questions. "The trail fairies left some soda by the road," one said. "Fairies?" I teased, "don't you mean trail angels?"

Sure enough, at the highway there was a glorious cooler of cold root beer and strawberry soda. I chose a strawberry one and sat in a pile of ants to drink it and wait for my Aquamira to do its purification magic. It tasted like something familiar. Pop rocks? Yes, definitely. Liquid pop rocks. From the road, I started a slow climb towards Mt McLoughlin. The trail actually skirts around the base, and there is a spur trail that takes intrepid hikers an additional 3000 feet to its summit. I was not feeling intrepid, and besides, I had 40 miles to hike. In the distance, I saw a dust cloud getting closer on the trail, and out of cloud emerged two horses with two women walking next to them. One of them asked, "You out for a day hike?"

I turned to the side, showing off my pack, and said, "Nope, going all the way to Canada!"

She looked surprised, "But your pack is so small!"

Now it was my turn to be surprised. On the Appalachian Trail, I would get this a lot. But that was 8 years ago, and I had not updated much of my gear since then. I have a bulky, synthetic sleeping bag, and carry extra food and clothes, so my pack seems to be bigger (if not much heavier) than other thruhikers. "Doesn't feel that small..." I retorted.

The trail in the afternoon was flattish, and I was hiking fast. I was well on my way to my 40 mile goal when I stopped at a spring to refill my water and the mosquitoes found me. There are many species of mosquitoes, and this was a different, more aggressive species than we'd seen in the Sierras. I realized that I hadn't brought any bug spray (even the natural kind) or pants. I'd have to fight this battle the old fashioned way. I walked as fast as I could, trying to outrun them. It wasn't working; they were too fast. I started slapping at my legs and arms as I walked. Then I reached a poorly maintained section of trail, and logs were strewn across the trail at regular intervals. My slapping, speed walking routine was punctuated by occasional hurdles over logs. It looked like I was trying to do some angry, hokey dance from the 50s like the jive or the chicken dance. After an hour of this, I gave up and set up my tent in the middle of the trail. I made dinner and waited a couple hours for the buzz of the little assholes to subside.

I hiked into dark again, past the 1800 mark and along volcanic cliffs. I was tired and it started to smell like smoke. For all the haze in the air in the last couple days, I had never smelled like the forest was burning nearby... until now. But what was I to do? I laid down on my tarp, too tired to set up my tent, and fell asleep. 32 miles. Far from 40, but still my longest day on this trip.

I woke in the middle of the night, covered in big black ants. One was wedged in my eyelid, and chomped down when I opened my eye. I hastily, groggily set up my tent, shook out my sleeping bag and went back to sleep.  I woke up again at dawn, drank the rest of my water, scarfed down some trail mix, and hit the trail my 7 am. I was getting better at this. I had 28 miles to Crater Lake, where I would meet Craig and eat ice cream. It was still smoky, and between Devil's Peak and Lucifer, I could see the advancing plume of smoke getting closer to the trail.

At the first stream, I ran into a slender blonde hiker from Michigan named Kristen. She had just started her Oregon PCT hike a few days prior. Lucky for me, she was there to lend me her water filter, because my Aquamira drops were gone. I hiked ahead, trying to keep a good pace, stopping to eat skittles and ginger candy every five miles. My feet were sore, but less sore than the day before. I could hear the buzzing of helicopters and little fire planes all day, swooping to dump water on the countless little fires. By 6, I had reached the general store. Oregon was on fire, but I was safe for now.