August 13, 2016 Mile 1203.8-1229.6 25.8 Miles Wow, that was one of the best night’s sleeps I’ve ever had. I am energized, refreshed, ready to cover some miles and see some scenery. I am stoked! The morning is bright and quiet. I’m sure I’m the only person awake today, a suspicion that is partially confirmed when I come upon a dirt parking lot only a half mile from where I camped. A chihuahua and an Australian shepherd yap at me ferociously. Their humans look up blearily from sleeping bags snuggled together on a tarp in the dirt, next to a car. The humans scold their dogs lazily and apologize to me. No worries, I assure them, and I mean it. For the next few miles the trail parallels a dirt road. There are tents and cars along the way, people camped in varying states of disorganization. One site is scattered with beer cans and half-empty bottles of liquor. Another has five lawn chairs organized in a half circle, two of them tipped over. There are probably twenty such campsites here, nestled among the trees along the top of the ridge. What I don’t see is a single human. The sun is up, the day is beautiful, and there’s not a single early riser to make coffee for the group and enjoy the stillness and beauty of the morning. I’m a little disappointed in the human race; they miss out on so much life. To the east, the slope plunges down to a series of lakes. They look so serene and colorful, and part of me wants to go visit them, take in their charm for a while. But I have miles to tick off, and that steep slope looks like it would be brutal to climb. No, those pleasures will have to wait for another time. A motorboat is cutting a wake through the largest lake. The buzz of the distant engine calls attention to the enormity of the quiet around me. Did people ever exist? And where are the birds Eventually the trail turns to the west and climbs down into a valley. Down, up, down, up. I must go through five different valleys, each deeper than the last. I am surrounded by a dry forest all the way down and I can occasionally catch a view at the top, but usually I just see more valley walls around me. A sign proudly proclaims “A TREE 8”. I chuckle. I can see plenty of trees right here. After several hours of solitude, a runner surprises me. He’s out for a 16-miler and we chat amiably for a minute before he has to press on. I’m impressed—16 miles! Then I realize that I hiked that much yesterday, and I considered it a short day. When he leaves, I feel more alone than I did before I met him. These long days without company are difficult. It’s not so much about needing someone to talk to, it’s about feeling isolated and cut off from other people. I hike in and out of several more valleys and eventually come to A-Tree Spring. The A-Tree is just a tree with a big ‘A’ carved into its trunk. It’s not even cut particularly well. There are people here—four with motor bikes, four with mountain bikes. They are just finishing up getting water from the spring, and one of them tells me it’s safe to drink without filtering. Someone has stuck a V-shaped rail into the spring and water pours steadily into a small pond like a zen fountain. Leafy trees form a pleasant arbor where I set down my pack and lay against it for lunch. I eat entirely too many peanut M&Ms while I wait for my instant mashed potatoes to cook. I want to ration them out until my next resupply in Belden, but I’m hungry and I’m tired and I have no self-control right now. I go ahead and filter the water anyway. People are constantly telling me not to filter my water, all the way back to the Sierras. I always filter anyway. They often seem like they will be offended if I choose to filter. I don’t really understand it. The best reasoning I can come up with is that perhaps they want to feel trusted, and if I filter it means I don’t trust them. I guess it’s true: I trust that they believe that it’s safe, but I don’t trust that they know it’s safe. After lunch, the forest seems to empty out. Tall stands of Douglas firs jut straight up to the sky on steep slopes. The slopes are scattered with branches and the occasional log, but there is no vegetation. My feet are beginning to hurt badly. These new shoes—Brooks Cascadias—are folding in and scraping at the top of my feet, just above my big toes. On one of my many rest stops, I check my feet—the skin is raw and pink, and small spots the size of rice grains are oozing pus. I’m going to have to get new shoes when I get to Belden in a couple days. I hope they have shoes there. A half mile before I stop to camp for the night, I stop and eat a mac and cheese bowl for dinner. I haven’t seen anyone since that afternoon, and my only company now is a single yellow jacket that I have to shoo away between bites. I’m tired of being alone out here, and a little scared. This empty forest makes me feel like I’m being watched. I stop and make camp just as it’s getting dark. It takes me a while to fall asleep, headachy and dehydrated. A couple hours later I’m startled awake by something outside my tent. I yell, but it keeps rustling around out there. I shine my light out through the screen mesh. For a moment, I see an eye shining back at me, but that’s all I can make out in the dark. I’m frightened. I yell again: “Get out of here!” Nothing but more rustling. I’m freaked out. I’m certain I’m being stalked by a mountain lion. I climb out of my tent cautiously. Maybe if I’m standing up it will scare off. I shine my headlamp around, but I can’t find it.
Back in my tent, I lay down and try to calm myself. Maybe it was just a deer. Or even a squirrel. Things get amplified in the silence in the dead of night. Crack! Another branch. Not a squirrel, then. Definitely bigger. My breathing is tight. I barely dare to move, listening carefully. Snap! Crunch! I whip myself up and shine my light out again. This time I see it, ghost-white between the shadows of trees: a deer. Only a deer. Muscles unclench, breath rushes out in a sigh. I lay back down and relax. I hope I can find someone to camp with tomorrow.
3 Comments
Giver
11/1/2019 10:47:52 am
I've seen all combinations: people who filter that never get sick, people who never filter that do, and vice versa. People want to feel like they have a guarantee in order to feel safer - filter folk -know- that the filter will work; the filterless -know- that they don't need one. That security helps mental well being in a wilderness where a foot slip could mean death or grave injury. But it discounts the fact that giardia and other gut bugs live in the very dirt that coats your body head to toe after a few shower-free trail days, and your immune system is going to be taxed to boot after weeks living outdoors. Even fastidiously washing your hands and face before and after eating, a stray crumb of dirt is all it can take. You do what you can, you learn from others and adapt, and you hope that it's enough. Some days it is. Good luck to you out there.
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Nick
11/1/2019 05:54:46 pm
Hadn’t ever heard that about giardia. Interesting stuff. I’m working on some articles about common hiker concerns. Would you be willing to share where you found that info?
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Giver
11/4/2019 08:03:28 am
https://www.cdc.gov/parasites/giardia/index.html
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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