August 11, 2016 Mile 1153.9-1184.7 30.8 Miles I’m back into old habits; I’m up just after 5, on the trail by 5:20. The morning starts with a quick climb up and over and back down to cross under the I-80. I decide to go to the rest stop to use the restroom—who knows the next time I’ll get to use a flushing toilet. The cinderblock walls and flat concrete ground seem so foreign and unnatural, I start to feel uncomfortable. Get me back on gently sloping dirt surrounded by trees and composting pine needles. It’s only a minute more before I’m safely on the other side of a chain link fence, protected from an invasion of the artificial. It takes a little longer for my gut to relax and feel safe again. In the midst of my civilized life, I would never have imagined that something as simple as walls and right angles could make me feel so uncomfortable and claustrophobic. Is this something new, or have they always had this effect? Have I simply been too overwhelmed by other stimuli to separate it from the general malaise? There’s a temptation to paint all civilization as evil, but I didn’t feel the same way at the Donner Pass Ski Resort yesterday. That place felt more alive, human in a way that the rest stop does not. The rest stop feels mechanical, bureaucratic, manufactured. Whatever it is that makes me so uncomfortable, I’m happy to be away from it. I reach a junction and for the first time in days I have to check my map. I’m not really feeling the uphill, but that’s the way I have to go so I set my resolve and chug along up the trail. It’s only a couple miles to Castle Pass and then over into a big meadow. The meadow contains a small lake and a wooden cabin called the Peter Grubb Hut. It’s one of two shelters on the PCT where hikers can camp for the night (the other is way up in Washington). Nearby are two horses, a donkey, a dog, and a llama, all grazing freely through the meadow. Their owners are camped behind the hut. I consider climbing the ladder that seems to be the only entrance and looking inside, but Brewhiker and Not You mentioned that they planned to sleep here, and it’s still early; wouldn’t want to wake them up. I continue on. The trail is being gentle today. More ups than downs, but nothing is steep. The hard granite of the last several days has all but disappeared, replaced by soft dirt and scattered pumice among lilting forests and meadows. It’s a walk in a park. Brewhiker passes me in a valley. Apparently he saw me pass the hut as he was packing up. He flies by and I don’t try to keep up. A half hour later I am startled by a short hiss behind me. It’s Brewhiker again, releasing the yeast pressure in a Smartwater bottle that he is using to brew beer as he hikes. I don’t know when I passed him. Another few minutes and I am passed by Yogi Beer, the hiker with one eye who camped near us last night. He offers me a squirt of Mio to flavor my water, which I gratefully accept. Even the pure Sierra spring water can use a little flavor from time to time. The day continues to be pleasant and easy. I break atop a volcanic outcropping with a view of three different meadows among the forests below, then lunch at another high point with views back to meadow lake. Early in the afternoon I reach my planned campsite at Mule Ear Creek. It’s too early to stop and I’m tired but not spent, so I decide to push a little farther. I hike with Yogi Beer for a little bit; he takes a side trail to a campground. “I’m not really Yogi Beer if I can’t find someone to give me a beer,” he says.
Past Jackson Meadows reservoir, into a state park. The forest has a greater mix of hardwoods, fewer pines. There’s a faucet, then a road walk—no cars pass by, no people exist. In the wilderness, I expect to be alone. In these semi-civilized places, it feels wrong, dangerous somehow. It’s like I’m being watched, or like all the people have fled due to some imminent danger. I’m suddenly very lonely. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home. There’s nothing to do except keep hiking. I try to self-soothe with Thich Nhat Hanh’s mantra, but I’m stuck in a negative cycle and it’s hard to break out, hard even to focus on the mantra. I’m exhausted. The trail leaves the road and climbs a hill beside it, eventually leaves it entirely. At a clearing between two hills I meet a mother and daughter, both of whom are older than me. They are the first people I’ve seen in a few hours. Would they mind if I camped nearby? No, they don’t mind. I exchange a few words with them, but really I’m too tired to talk and it’s buggy out, so I make ramen for dinner and crawl into my sleeping bag. It’s only while I’m writing in my journal that I realize that I’ve broken thirty miles today. My head is heavy, my eyelids are heavy, everything is heavy. I sink into a deep sleep. I wake up from a bad dream, my heart thumping, my memories filled with violence. I’ve had night terrors since I was a kid, but they seem to have gotten much worse in the past few years. Snap! I shoot up, fully awake now. What was that? I check the time: 2:55am. Something is definitely moving out there. I shine my headlamp out, but I can’t see anything. I lie back down. It moves again, closer to the tent this time. I sweep my headlamp around again, and this time whatever it is goes crashing through the bushes a short way up the hill. I focus my light on it, but all I can see is a single glowing red eye. It only pauses for a moment, then it’s off again, crashing and thrashing through the forest. I lie awake for over an hour, startling at every little sound. It was probably just a deer, I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home.
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 |