August 10, 2016 Mile 1129.7-1153.9 24.2 Miles Another early start. The sun hatches in the east as I cut along a western ridge, views of placid Lake Tahoe between us. I remember another early morning in a kayak on the lake. My dad looks down at his compass, asks me “which direction is north?” I think for a second, point out my best guess. “Pretty close,” he says, and points ten degrees over. I just finished the sixth grade, where we made compasses out of magnets, needles, styrofoam and water. Ever since, I have been obsessed with pointing out north and checking my sense of direction. I don’t know whether it is something innate or practiced, but today I can feel that the ridge points due north. It feels like I can see all the way to Canada and the trail’s northern terminus. I am so lucky, so grateful to be out here on the PCT, where sunrises and myriad other moments are a part of my daily experience. It’s one thing to seek beauty, it’s another to set your life up to experience it every day. PCT, I love you. I pass ski resorts. The lifts and clearcuts aren’t my favorite things to look at, but I guess they’re better than condos. At least the wildlife has a chance and can pass through undisturbed part of the year. These empty resorts seem strange in the summer. I’m walking through what seems like civilization, but there isn’t a person to be seen. It feels like I’m being watched, like a small, fearful community is hiding in a post-apocalyptic world—don’t let the stranger see you, he might bring disease or destruction. I climb down through one resort (the empty ski lift is operating for some reason), then back up to another ridge. I chant my new mantra in time with my feet: Calming, Smiling, Present Moment, Wonderful Moment. Calming, Smiling, Present Moment, Wonderful Moment. Soon I’m grinning like an idiot, staring with wonder at the colorful mules ears and sage and indian paintbrush that adorn the sandy slopes. This truly is a wonderful moment, I think. A lady comes by and I give her a wide grin and shout an eager “Good Morning!”. Too eager, I think. I’ve startled her out of a reverie, shocked her even. But she seems infected with my good vibes and laughs and good mornings me back, a little less enthusiastically perhaps, but still happily. When her friend hikes by a moment later, I dial it back a notch. Less infectious, but better calibrated, I think. She asks me about water along the ridge. I have to tell her there’s none. “None?” she says. “There’s some water right after the switchbacks in a few miles,” I tell her. “After the switchbacks?” “Yeah, you’ll go down and cut across and there’s a little stream next to a meadow.” “A little stream?” I smile and wish her well. I’m pumping my legs and lungs at full capacity, striving toward a high point along the ridge. When I reach it, a hiker is stretching out her legs. “Doesn’t it feel great to stretch after a big climb?” she says. “Yeah,” I lie. I have no idea if she’s right. It does sound like a pretty good idea, though. She seems like a hiker’s oracle, waiting up here to drop truth bombs on unsuspecting thru-hikers. I drop my pack and do some stretches while I scan the horizon. I’m not bendy at all and I look like an idiot. Squaw Valley, Tinker Knob. Wow, this area sure aims for offensive. It sure is pretty, though. Mostly, I stay high on the ridges. There are few trees up here and I can see way ahead to a strangely-shaped, monolithic mountain, and across to Lake Tahoe, which begins to slip further behind. The miles fly by as I’m calming, smiling, and trying to stay in the present, wonderful moment. I’m only occasionally successful, but it feels good the entire time. It’s nice to step out of my own head. I plunge down to Donner Pass. There’s an old railway tunnel off the side of the switchbacks that looks like it would be fun to explore, but not today. I have more exciting things to look forward to. Donner Pass Ski Resort. Free beer! Food! The olympics blare on the TV while I sip my free Coors Light (Thank you DPSR!) and wait for an obscene amount of food to cook. I introduce myself to Brewhiker and Not You, who are sitting at a nearby table taking advantage of the wireless to check in with family and friends.
I devour my food as soon as it arrives. The veggie burger disappears in seconds, the fries are dipped in the a la mode of my pie, and I buy a second beer to wash it down. Brewhiker and Not You take off. A minute later, a young, blonde, leggy hiker comes in and sits next to me at the bar. From across the bar, a guy who has been sitting silently by himself comes over and tries to start a conversation with her. She politely brushes him off. He goes back to the other end of the bar and goes silent again until he asks for his check and leaves. She introduces herself as Poundah, and we chat for a bit about the trail. She and a couple friends are going to skip ahead to Ashland tomorrow. The writing’s on the wall—we’re all too far behind schedule and won’t make it to Canada at this rate. She convinces the bartender to give her a couple extra beers for her friends before he closes for the night. On the porch we run into a middle-aged male hiker who Poundah seems to know and they have a curt conversation. When he takes off his sunglasses to wipe them off, one of his eye sockets is just a pucker. He goes inside to get a beer before they close, and Poundah and I walk together to a campsite a half-mile away, just off the road. Pretty soon her friends Whistler and Paramount arrive. They are a super-friendly couple who seem genuinely happy to meet me. Whistler in particular has a natural enthusiasm and wants to know everything about me. He compliments Paramount and Poundah to me and doesn’t sound like he’s just flattering. He’s got charisma, this one. I find myself wishing that I could flip ahead with them and be part of their group for a little longer. Temporary friends. The hiker with one eye arrives—Yogi Beer is his trail name—and camps right on the trail. He comes over and chats, but Poundah seems annoyed and gives him a cold shoulder. I don’t know him and I barely know Poundah, so I am in no position to judge, but I wonder what has transpired between them. Whistler has a green ukulele, which gets passed around while we all make dinner. Mason Jennings comes to mind when it’s my turn. I play “If you ain’t got love” with a couple stops and starts as I try to drag lyrics up into memory. My voice is out of practice and I’m shy, so I pass it on after the one song. Poundah has a breathy alto voice that she uses to good effect and Whistler has a light tenor that is perfect for a campfire. Paramount doesn’t sing, but she still adds a lot by her presence and full attention to the group. I’m grateful for the camaraderie and peaceful vibes, and I go to sleep feeling connected and happy.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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