June 12, 2016 Mile 311-335.6 The climb back out of the canyon is brutal, in part because I am so tired, and in part because of a couple blisters on my feet. My body was not ready for yesterday’s 27-mile hike, and the sand made it difficult to sleep. When I get back up to the trail it’s a relief. I can see where the canyon finally spills out into the open a few miles away, and I’m eager for some views that aren’t these canyon walls. Cement and stone form the ruins of an aqueduct, and I wonder how long ago it was built and abandoned. At times, the trail walks right along the top of its wall, the dry water channel on the right, the steep drop to the canyon on the left. I follow the canyon back and forth three, four, five times, and finally I’m out. A broad valley continues in front of me. Foothills roll slowly away to my left side, a plateau to most of my right, and tucked close in next to the canyon, a domineering dam and spillway sit between me and what must have once been a lake. Now it is nothing but dirt and scrub brush. I follow a couple switchbacks and a steep dirt road down to the spillway and across to the other side, then down a dirt road. This is civilization again, but a sort of backstage civilization where utility workers make the magic kingdom run and high schoolers go to find temporary freedom from the coercions and strictures of parents and law enforcement. I follow PCT signs through some bamboo and tall grassy bushes, and come to Deep Creek again. It is broad and sandy now, and there is nowhere to cross without getting my feet wet, so I decide to embrace it fully. The water is cool and soothing on my bare feet, and I sit on the opposite bank and watch small fish and tadpoles as I cook my oatmeal with my feet still in the water. I haven’t seen another living soul all morning, but the water keeps me from feeling lonely. I fill up all my jugs, because the next water is a long ways off and it’s already a hot day. I pick up and move on over sandy hills and through tall plants. The trail splits into a dozen, crossing and recrossing itself. I’m afraid I might choose the wrong path, but they all lead in the same direction and eventually I see another PCT marker. The trail cuts left and crosses a paved road. A white minivan sits at a closed gate, and a woman in her forties comes out to ask if I’ve passed her daughter, who is hiking the PCT and is expected today. I haven’t seen another hiker since the hot springs, and I haven’t seen another PCT hiker since I left two days ago. But it’s good to know there are still PCTers out here this late in the season. Part of the experience is making friends with other hikers. She wishes me well, and I plunge back into the desert. A quick climb up the foothills leaves me sweaty. The trail traces a long path along the side of these hills, with a consistent wide-open view of the plateau to the right. I watch the trucks move in slow-motion down a distant road as I hike. It feels like I’m moving faster than they are. I have cell service again, so I call Lindsey when I take a break. It’s good to hear her voice. She had to leave for a rehearsal in the Bay Area a few days before I left, so I haven’t seen her in close to a week. She has returned to our home in Santa Maria now, and I feel a pang of guilt when I think about the mess she returned to. The last day before I left was a marathon of constant motion. At school, we had a half-day of classes, in which every class met for 18 minutes. There’s not much you can teach in 18 minutes. Then we had graduation (at which the band performed), and then I had to tell my band students that I would not be returning the following year. I would have liked to give them more time to process that before the end of the school year, but Lindsey and I made the decision only a few days prior, and I had to tell my principal before I told the kids, so it came down to the last day. It was emotional. By the time I got home, it was 7pm. I quickly got to work packing for the trail, but packing four months worth of food into priority mail packages is no small task. I also had to go to the store to purchase some last-minute supplies. In hindsight, I overthought the whole thing and made the task more difficult than it needed to be, but I ended up giving up at 3am, after I had only 5 resupply boxes completed and a disaster zone of zip-locked dry food and candy bars strewn around the dining room. Lindsey jokes about the mess and she is happy to hear from me. We talk for a half hour before I start to feel the pressure to get moving again. It’s difficult to say goodbye, but we do. My new pace is quicker. Lindsey has lifted my spirits. The trail stays on the side of these foothills for another ten miles, at least. I’m left with nothing to do but think, and so I think. I think about what I’m going to do for work after I finish the trail. I think about the erosion patterns of these foothills, and whether these looping half-circles of trail will be a constant feature all the way through Washington, and how much time it must have taken for these hills to erode into their current form. I think about what it must be like to live in one of these houses on the plateau, so far from every neighbor but still so close to the Southern California megalopolis. I fall into a long reverie about states of mind, and the filtering effect they have on our perceptions of the world. At a distance from civilization, it seems a little easier to perceive accurately. When I’m in the thick of civilization, I tend to find myself easily overwhelmed by people and cultural norms, and I fall into a sort of myopia that leaves me chasing goals and desires that aren’t important or fulfilling. I’m in a soup of distractions, always facing the opponent in front of my eyes without seeing the larger battle. When I let myself get away into the wild, I can examine those goals as part of a larger field of possibility, as if at a distance, and I can more easily see their relationship to larger purposes and more fulfilling desires. I have a feeling this is true for all of us, though perhaps not everyone finds themselves as distracted by civilization as I do. While I hike I try to think of steps I can take to help myself take better control of my filters and stay focused on the larger view when I’m in civilization. What has worked best for me so far has been meditation and hiking. I’ve been fairly consistent with the meditation on weekdays, though my discipline breaks down on weekends. Hiking, on the other hand, only seems to happen once or twice a month. I should really make that a weekly thing. Maybe even schedule a shorter recurring midweek hike, just to help clear the mind of the detritus that builds up from being around people every day. I don’t have any great ideas about how to keep the large view in the thick of things, though. The trail slowly winds its way out of the foothills. I cross a concrete bridge over a mossy stream and a large dirt lot next to a fenced-off water district building. There are a couple large trees next to the road here, and I take advantage of the shade to take a rest. I check the map and see that I am just below Silverwood Lake. The hike up to it looks intimidating and hot, though. I put it off and just sit until my restlessness finally overcomes my resistance to the uphill. It only takes a few minutes. The climb is as hot as I feared, and I start going through water more quickly. By the time I reach the top, I’m down to a liter of water. The lake looks refreshing, but the trail skirts far above it for a few more miles, so I’ll have to ration myself. Powerlines buzz overhead and speedboat engines drone across the wide lake. A buzzard circles overhead; I’m afraid he might be sizing me up for a meal. I’m getting hungry, but there’s a popular picnic area just a couple miles ahead, and I’m hoping there might be a food truck or small snack bar there. As I work my way around the lake, it seems like there is always another cove or arm of the lake between me and my goal. My energy drops low and I’m just throwing my legs down in front of me without care or intent. I finally get to the picnic area, and a restaurant menu is stapled to a post, but there’s no restaurant around. There is a running faucet, though, and I fill up with water. I sit for a long time on a shaded bench next to the restrooms. A few people come and go, looking at me funny—I’m sure I’m dirty—, but all I can do is sit. It takes me a half hour before I can muster the energy to walk twenty feet to a picnic table and make some instant mashed potatoes. The food helps, but I’m still exhausted. I rest for another hour and drink water until I’m bloated. Finally, I fill my water bottles and continue my hike. The trail skirts a road out of the recreation area, crosses under a highway, and begins another climb through a valley. The desert chaparral is a little greener here and provides a little more shade. The sun is getting lower, too, so it’s not so hot. It takes me a few hours to reach the top, but it feels easier than walking around the lake. A sign at the top tells me that the canyon I’m about to follow downhill is a rare ecosystem that hosts several endangered species, especially several rare birds. I know nothing about identifying birds, but suddenly every bird I see is potentially a rare find. Many of them are probably quite common, but the sign has adjusted my perceptual filter and increased their value. As I think about how easy it was to change the way I perceive the value of birds, I start to wonder how easy it would be to do that with everything. I start to look at every bush as if it is a rare find. I consciously choose to see life itself as a scarce and fleeting thing, and try to notice my experience in every moment. When will I ever be back in this place again? It’s a wonderful way to look at the world, but it quickly becomes exhausting as I try to keep perfect attention on my experience in every second. Fairly soon, my mind is back on more mundane matters, like not tripping over rocks and trying to find a campsite. The latter problem is solved when I come to a small clearing off the side of the trail. It isn’t shaded, but the sun is pretty low now, and I’m exhausted. I set up my tent and make dinner. Something roars through the air by my head and I nearly jump out of my skin before I realize it’s just a hummingbird. Everything else is alarmingly still. I climb into my sleeping bag and realize that I haven’t seen a single hiker all day as I drift off to sleep.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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