July 4, 2016 Mile 987.4-1016.9 29.5 miles Earthcake is moving first again. I wish she wouldn’t; I’m bleary and not ready to get up yet. I roll over and close my eyes. Goat is up now, too. If I sleep a little more, could I catch up later? Probably not, I realize. I can hear the hum of mosquitoes and it’s only 5:15. I rouse myself and start to pack up. Thankfully, the mosquitoes aren’t biting yet, though they swarm so thick it’s difficult not to swallow them. I beat Goat out of camp. I’m feeling good once I get going, and after a while I pass Earthcake. I will never do that again, I’m sure. I don’t understand what strange German magic she uses to move so fast, but this morning it seems my magic can compete. The trail cuts straight through several miles of bog. I’m approaching a pass of sorts, but its more of a muddy valley. Lakes—Dorothy, Stella, Harriet—are strung together like a pearl necklace. A snowy peak reflects off of their surfaces, and an island with purple flowers stuns me from the middle of Stella. I take several pictures of it, but when I return home they will be missing, imagined and mythical like the island of Rigadoon. I am focused on the squishy trail, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep my shoes from collecting more of the heavy clay that weighs them down, or to keep them from sliding sideways and spilling all of me into the mud. It’s exhausting work, but it’s a mental puzzle that consumes my attention and puts me into a flow state. I’m so consumed by the challenge that I’m not even particularly aware that I’m enjoying myself until someone says “Hi! Isn’t this fucking beautiful?” He’s loud. His clothing is loud (Purple and pink camouflage shorts, a bright orange shirt that says “Let’s Get Weird”, and a workout headband). Even his smile is loud. His aggressive enthusiasm is both disarming and discomfiting, and all I can do is agree. This is fucking beautiful. The trail turns from mud to dirt, the lakes channel into a creek, and the streams that feed the creek all but disappear. The exuberant flowers and meadows of the High Sierra give way to a puritan forest. I have entered a sober land. Earthcake passes me, of course. I’m surprised I’ve stayed ahead of her this long. We cross the 1000-mile marker. It feels like it calls for a celebration, but I haven’t actually hiked all 1000 miles yet, so I feel like a fraud. I promise myself I’ll wrap up the rest of those miles before I finish We reach a large wooden bridge and stop for lunch. Earthcake is hiking stoveless, so I decide to try my instant mashed potatoes without cooking them. I might as well be eating wet cement. I want to vomit. I try to coax saliva out of my glands with big handfuls of peanut M&Ms and dried mango, but nothing can cut through the cold nihilism that is coagulating in my belly. As we eat and talk, each silence creates a vacuum filled by the same question: Where is Goat? He should have caught up while we were still hiking, or at least by now. As we wait twenty, thirty minutes, we start to make up explanations to push away the concern: Maybe he’s pooping. Maybe decided to stop for lunch. Maybe he stopped to talk with “Let’s Get Weird.” We’re just packing up when he strolls out of the woods, relaxed and grinning. “I wish I still had my Toblerone,” he says. “I think we can make it to Kennedy Meadows North today,” Earthcake says. “It’ll only be 30 miles." I lead again. Trees blur by like highway mile markers. The forest is dilapidated, the mountains are crumbling. Homesickness and apathy creep into my thoughts. I already miss the vibrant colors of Yosemite. I miss my wife. I miss my dog. I want to eat real food again. A rusty fox darts across the trail and lifts my spirits briefly, but then it’s back to a utilitarian sort of walking—just get the miles done in faith that it will get more enjoyable later. The trail makes a hard left and I am facing a bare mountain, bereft of any trace of vegetation. I know it’s where I’m headed because snow has stuck to the long slashes of switchbacks Somehow I stay ahead of Goat and Earthcake—perhaps the Northern California doldrums have hit them, too. I pass a hiker named Boy Scout, cross a creek by tightrope walking a fallen sapling, and climb and climb until I’m out of the few remaining trees and facing the switchbacks I’ve been looking at for an hour. They are made of talus, just like the rest of the mountain. I have to thoughtfully place each foot so that I don’t twist an ankle, and when I pick up a foot, it often sends a piece of sharp rock flying into my other ankle. It’s exhausting. I climb until I just can’t climb anymore, and then I sit down at a junction to eat a poptart. Earthcake passes me, then Goat. I lift myself and plod onward up to the ridge. From the top, there is a magnificent view across the top of the Sierra. Goat makes a video for his friends at home—he’s goofy with it, vulnerably funny in a way that I envy. We find a pocket of cell service and I call Lindsey for a bit, tell her my plans to hike further than Sonora pass. I won’t make it to South Lake Tahoe, but I’ve checked the maps now and Carson pass has a road where her parents can pick me up. We continue across a never-ending talus ridge. The wind is wicked. Three tents are clustered behind a clump of wiry-looking bushes. It doesn’t look like a spot I’d ever want to camp, and if there are people here they are already hiding in their tents. We cross over into a snow-filled basin. Goat and I glissade down a steep chute, whooping and laughing. We cross below butte-like cliffs to another snowy basin and begin our descent. We lose the trail in all the snow and start cutting down steep snowy slopes. We slip and slide, and one of my accidental glissades ends with me sliding roughly across rocky soil. It’s painful, but doesn’t tear my clothes or my skin. We finally make it to the road about 6pm, and find a ride from a guy who was out snowboarding for the 4th of July. His girlfriend has come out to meet him and gives us each a beer from a cooler in the back of her car before she drives off in the opposite direction. We are so grateful. The snowboarder asks Goat and I to lie down in the bed of his truck so he doesn’t get pulled over, and Earthcake sits in the cab. We ride down through the canyon on our backs, sipping our beers as the majestic trees and canyon walls kaleidoscope around the sky. It’s surreal and I marvel at the life that brought me here. We arrive at a campground resort with a store and a restaurant. We hit the restaurant first, along with the snowboarder who gave us a ride. He’s a brewer and he’s excited to tell us about the brewery he is opening. After dinner we go to the store, which is mostly empty shelves but I don’t need a resupply yet anyway so it’s fine. They have ice cream (and Goat gets to replenish his chocolate), which is all any of us cares about. When I walk outside there is a twenty dollar bill sitting on the ground.
We walk down to the campground and a man asks us if we’re hiking the PCT. He tells us he and his wife have space for us in their campsite next to the river. They provide trail magic every year, and this year they haven’t seen many hikers. They offer us chicken stir-fry (which Goat devours as if he hasn’t just had dinner ten minutes earlier), beer, and smores. In the morning, he says, they’ll make us pancakes and coffee. Somehow we discover that we have both marched in a Drum and Bugle Corps, a specialty within a specialty. My tribes are legion. We talk for hours. When I finally crawl into my tent, it is with a heart full of gratitude and wonder at such a full day. Thank you, LetsGetWeird. Thank you, brown fox. Thank you, snowy glissade. Thank you, snowboarder and girl with beer. Thank you, whoever dropped money. Thank you, trail angels. Thank you Goat, thank you Earthcake. Thank you PCT.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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