July 18, 2016 Mile 891.8-906.7 14.9 Miles The intensity of a memory is proportional to the suffering inherent in the experience. Virginia lake, Purple Lake, Duck Lake outlet; these are vivid places, as alive today as when I first crossed their paths. Their liquid soundtracks are filled with piercing whines, percussive slaps, and choking curses. Their stunning beauty is inexorably accompanied by hypodermic pricking and rash-like itching. Though the upcoming section of trail is aesthetically perfect in my mind, I am not eager to open the tent and face the mosquitoes again. Nonetheless, the sunlight is fresh on the mountaintops when we break camp. “That was a great campsite,” Lindsey says as we start hiking. “I could hear the wind just ripping, but I barely felt it. It was nice and warm.” “Yeah. I bet our neighbors didn’t get much sleep last night.” They are still hunkered down in their tents just north of Virginia Lake. Without nearby trees or slopes, they must have felt every jab and hook the wind delivered. Now that we are out of the tent and moving, we can feel the icy chill in our hands and cheeks. Our first stop is Purple Lake, where we make breakfast on a flat, sunny rock above the north shore. I am especially nervous about mosquitoes here; my elbows and temples send me phantom itches every few seconds, pavlovian etchings deep in my nervous system left over from my last visit. I wait for the cloud to descend as we cook our oatmeal, but it remains pleasant and mosquito-free. The lake is placid, walled in on three sides by steep talus. The fourth side is open to Fish Creek canyon, and it is there that the lake makes its languorous exit. After breakfast the trail follows the eastern wall of Fish Creek’s expansive valley. Distant mountains can be glimpsed to the west and north, and an occasional small creek crisscuts the slope. We cross the Duck Lake outlet; the lake is above us to the east and invisible, but a healthy flow of water descends through a marshy garden of lupine, columbine, and tiger lilies. Up through a dry wood, Lindsey and I talk about whether Brian and Susie are going to last as a couple. During the days spent with them at VVR, there was a tension that we haven’t seen before. Not constant, but popping up at unexpected times. We're worried for them. The dry wood goes on and on, and we alternate between conversation and stretches of silence. Eventually the spartan forest shows a crack in its armor: a narrow stream traces a straight line down a steady slope. The trail parallels it, but we are headed uphill. I remember this stream and a large campsite nearby where Brian and I joined two other groups for dinner and a fireside conversation. This reminiscing has become as enjoyable as the scenery itself It seems much longer than I remember, but we eventually find the red cones, two volcanic remnants perched on the rim of a massive downslope. I've wanted to climb these for a while. They aren’t all that tall or far from the trail, and I’m told it’s an easy tenth of a mile to the top of one of them, but not today. I am already very tired, and it looks like we’re going to make the mileage to hit Red's meadow this afternoon. We cross a creek on a log, start our downhill switchbacks and find a good place for lunch. Right as our bodies enter “rest and digest” mode, the forest spits us out onto an exposed slope, the result of the 1992 Rainbow Fire. It's hard to believe that 24 years later, there are still so few trees. We are tired, and now we’re hot too. But there's nothing for it but to plod along. As we get to the bottom, I point out one of the PCT markers to Lindsey. It’s a wood square stamped with the PCT logo, cattle-brand style. “I think this is the marker where I decided I was definitely going to hike the PCT,” I tell her. “I have a picture where I'm holding up two fingers next to this marker. Two years. Obviously that didn’t happen.” That was in 2008. The timeline didn’t work out, but this is still an important place to me. Lindsey is kind, shows interest even though I have been regaling her with my memories for days now. It's hard to express what this place means to me, especially now that I'm in the middle of turning that dream into a reality. I’m starting to see my obsession with my memories and landmarks as ego-driven. Why, really, should they be as important to anyone as they are to me? Can it be enough for me to appreciate them for myself without expecting that others will care as much as me? Or do I need to feel seen? Our feet are sore as we come in to Red’s Meadow. There is a country store here, and we buy beer and ice cream and sit on the lawn to chat and laugh. Someone walks by with a dog and Lindsey falls in love. More dogs. We chat with some other hikers, and some tourists who wonder about our packs and where we’re going. They are appropriately impressed. We walk over to the showers—natural mineral water showers that I remember were uncontrollably hot and stank of sulfur, but we could both use a shower and I doubt I could smell much worse than I do—but they are closed, permanently. We resign ourselves to a few more days of stink and head over to the campground. We choose a site on the end. Next door is a young man who has just returned from the same direction as us. His friends quit the JMT the day before, and he decided to head out on his own, but quickly decided that it was no fun without them and turned back. He wants to know if we want any of his food. We take a few items, but most of it is freeze-dried meals with meat, and we are carrying too much food anyway.
Dinner is at the cafe adjacent to the store, which has the same delicious chocolate shake that I remember, and then an early bedtime.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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