June 27, 2016 Mile 770.3-788.3 The mosquitoes are still swarming when we pack up, so we forgo breakfast in the hope that the sun will beat them back into submission in an hour or two. Wallace creek is wide and there are few stepping stones to cross, so we hike the first mile with wet feet. I charge up the first short ascent with a piston-like pace and my lungs quickly bring me back into check. As I pause to catch my breath at the top, Sprinkler says “I don’t think I can keep that pace.” “Yeah, me neither,” I reply breathlessly. “I got a little ahead of myself.” I slow a bit, but we are still beating a quick rhythm up the trail. Wright creek is next, and we’re able to cross it without soaking our feet, but the sun is out and the mosquitoes have receded. “I don’t understand how you can hike without eating,” Sprinkler says. “You’re starving me!” “Oh, sorry. I don’t know, I guess I just like to get some miles in before I eat. We can stop.” And we do. Sprinkler has a pop tart and some snacks while I make my oatmeal. I’m pretty sick of oatmeal already, but at least it’s hot. We’re sitting in a clearing on the northern slope above the westward-running creek. Pine and fir trees fill the hillside above us and thorny brush hedges the clearing to the East and West. We have some small conversation while we eat, but mostly we listen to the creek After breakfast, Sprinkler is more talkative and tells me about her travels through South America. I’m surprised to find out that they were only a few months ago, immediately before she started the PCT. She describes dangerous cities in Columbia and impossibly tall mountains in Peru. She tells me about the “American tourist uniform” that she saw everywhere she went: earth-tone hiking pants with a color-coded puffy—earth-tones for men, jewel tones for women. The miles pass easily as we traipse between meadow and forest, meadow and forest. This is forest that would be easy to get lost in—few distinctive landmarks, limited visibility. The meadows, though, slope downhill to the Kern River valley with views of the Keawah mountains in the West. We dip briefly downward to Tyndall Creek, then climb up into a desolate granite garden as we turn northward toward Forrester Pass. We find ourselves in a basin defined by erosion and rocky detritus. Occasional rills cut across the trail, and meager grass spreads to either side like ink bleeding across vellum, but the grass is tenuous at best, and the edges fray like old carpet in the gravel. Looking northward, expansive fields of talus are dotted with scattered boulders and snow. Shattered ice-blue lakes and jagged spires that resemble broken teeth give the entire scene a violent, jarring feel. The twisted metal and shattered glass of a traffic accident would hardly seem out of place here. The basin floor slopes endlessly northward toward a slate wall. Forrester Pass is the small notch at the top; switchbacks, which I can’t yet see, have been blasted out of the wall. A camera crew is perched atop a high point on the basin floor. It tracks Sprinkler as she walks through a track in the snow ahead of me. I wonder what they’re filming for. I catch up to Sprinkler just before the switchbacks, which seem to be crawling with hikers. “Hey, um, nothing personal, but do you mind if we hike separate on this pass?” I can tell she’s been thinking about how best to ask this for a little while. “Yeah, no, that’s fine,” I say. I’m glad she’s worried about my feelings, but I’m not offended at all. Actually, I’m surprised she’s continued hiking with me in lockstep for so long. She’s obviously the stronger hiker, and I know from experience that it can be frustrating to constantly restrain your pace. “Okay, I’ll wait for you at the top,” she says with a relieved smile before she bolts up the switchbacks. By the time I hit the third switchback, I’ve already passed six hikers, but Sprinkler is three switchbacks ahead. It’s a display of sheer power and stamina, and I am in awe. Near the top of the switchbacks, the trail crosses a dangerous ice chute that often remains until late in the summer. That’s where I finally catch up, and only because she is stopped, waiting while a weathered hiker kicks the ice and snow with his crampons to create a track across. Sprinkler sees me walk up and exclaims “Did you follow the PCT email threads? That’s Ned Tibbits!” I didn’t follow the email threads, but I know of Ned through the PCT facebook page, where he often posted info about snow and ice skills, in part to advertise for his winter skills course. “He told me I have nice hiking form,” she says, grinning with pride. I have to smile. “Well, you did just demolish me on that uphill.” She laughs. While we’re waiting, she asks a couple questions of another hiker waiting to cross the chute, who is taking Ned’s winter skills course. He’s complimentary of the course, and of Ned, but he says the heat waves have made the snow really wet and soft, so he’s not sure if he’s getting the experience he was looking for. After Ned finishes carving a path, we finish the last few switchbacks and crest the pass. A dark canyon framed by improbably steep mountains curves north and west. I can hardly believe that this place exists. Dragons would not be out of place. We meet and chat with two other PCT hikers just before they depart: Frogman and Papa Squat. It’s one of the first times I’ve introduced myself with my trail name, and I feel a little self-conscious using it, but no one blinks an eye. In fact, Sprinkler seems proud to have named me. Dark clouds are moving in, and I have no desire to be on a pass in a lightning storm. We hurry down from Forrester pass, but it’s a long, exposed, snow-covered descent. A disembodied voice comes out of the mountain: “Glissade!” It’s Frogman, hidden in plain sight among the rocks below. It’s a short glissade into a snowy basin, so I give it a try. It’s a blast, sledding on my ass in the snow. Sprinkler follows suit, laughing as she bounces down the hill. “You want to stop for lunch soon?” Sprinkler asks.
“Sounds good.” I’m hungry too. Right then, thunder echos through the valley. “Let’s get a little further downhill first,” I say. “I don’t want to be up here in a thunderstorm.” Several years ago, my friend Brian and I got trapped below Donahue pass in Yosemite as sleet, hail, and lightning crashed around us for close to three hours. It was a frightening and miserably cold experience, and ever since, I have been especially cautious of storms in high places. Sprinkler agrees, and we take off almost running downhill. The trail is mostly fist-sized rocks, so it takes all my attention to step carefully. A light, cold rain begins to fall. After a half hour of this, Sprinkler calls to me “I can’t keep going that fast. I’m afraid I’m going to break an ankle. Go ahead, I’ll catch up.” “Okay, sounds good,” I reply. “I’ll stop as soon as I find a good place for lunch.” I continue my jog-hike for another twenty minutes, until I see a series of small campsites and trees perched above a small drop-off. The rain is still falling, but I haven’t heard thunder in a few minutes, so it seems a good time to stop for lunch. It’s nearly 2pm. Sprinkler shows up a few minutes later, and I can tell she’s a little grumpy. She tells me again that I’m starving her, and I chuckle and apologize. The rain stops and the sun comes out, and we’re both feeling a little better with some food. Shortly after lunch, we meet up with 2nd Breakfast again. It’s good to see him again, but he can’t keep up with our pace for long. Sprinkler and continue our long descent with a lot of conversation. After we pass Vidette Meadows, we find ourselves following a solo female hiker through a long flat section. She is working hard to stay ahead of us, but she is able to keep pace for a couple miles before she finally takes a break. She gives us a mildly dirty look as we pass, as if we have insulted her. Oh well. The trail suddenly turns sharply uphill, and the mosquitoes return. I’m running low on energy and have to take a break about halfway up the switchbacks. The mosquitoes attack Sprinkler while she waits for me. “Go ahead, I’ll meet you at camp,” I tell her. We’re almost there anyway. “Thanks,” she says. My break is fairly quick, though, and I catch up to her a few switchbacks later. We get to the Kearsarge Pass junction, where we planned to camp, and where we’ll part ways tomorrow morning when she goes into town to resupply and I continue on. There are already six or seven tents set up, but we’re able to find a clear space near the trail to pitch our tents end to end. We find a good spot for dinner a little ways from the junction. Sprinkler breaks out a flask of cinnamon whisky she’s been carrying since Kennedy Meadows. It seems fitting to celebrate our last meal together before we part ways. Conversation is light and easy, but occasionally one or the other of us will mention our regret that we won’t get to hike together anymore. By the time I finish the desert sections I have to make up, she’ll be far ahead, and she hikes far too fast for me to catch up. Regardless, we both promise to keep in touch. When we get back to camp, 2nd Breakfast has arrived and set up camp nearby. He tells us that he is planning on ending his PCT hike the next day. “Oh no, why?” I ask. “I’ve been having a lot of heel pain, and I just can’t keep up with the mileage,” he says. Sprinkler points out that he’s been keeping similar mileage to us, but he’s adamant. He wishes us both well and returns to his tent. Sprinkler and I climb into our tents and talk for a while into the evening. The alcohol has loosened my tongue and my brain a little, and at some point in the conversation I find myself passionately extolling the virtues of classical music and, later, drum and bugle corps. Halfway through the second subject, she cuts me off and tells me she needs to go to bed. I have to laugh—first at myself, for choosing subjects that few people are likely to care about, and second at the ironic parallel to our first night of camping together, when I was the one who cut off conversation to go to sleep. As I settle into my sleeping bag, three more hikers walk by, searching the dark for a place to camp. I feel sorry for them, because I know they won’t find one nearby.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Author
Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
Categories |