August 14, 2016 Mile 1229.6-1257.4 27.8 Miles I notice that my moods are following a pattern: Cheerful and eager in the mornings, peaceful and relaxed in the afternoons, lonely, depressed, and sometimes frightened in the evenings. I often forget how much of my thinking and emotions are controlled by neurotransmitters. We like to think of our mind and body as being different from one another, but really, they are so tightly pressed together as to be two faces of the same coin. I seem to be more in touch with my moods in general, which I’m certain is the result of being more in touch with my body. I scan myself constantly: for aches and pains, heaviness in my muscles to check for fatigue, tightness in my joints, rubbing from my pack that might need adjustment. It’s only natural that I should be more aware of the changing nuance of my breath, the coursing of adrenaline through my muscles, the serotonin in my belly. Emotion is a physical sensation, and that awareness allows me to separate from it, consider it rationally. Sitting meditation turns down the volume on the mind, and one becomes aware of how it connects with the body. Hiking meditation seems to come from the opposite direction: focus on the body long enough, and eventually you become aware of how it connects with the mind. It seems to require solitude, however—the mind has to be focused on the body, not on conversation. These ideas turn themselves over during a short climb, then as I wind over the tops of mountains. Layers of mountains are partially obscured in all directions by a shadowy haze that emanates a bruised purple in the pre-dawn light. Dried-out mules ear and sedge grasses adorn the ridges where I weave my way north. The mules ear makes a scratchy sound when the breeze stirs it. This aimless weaving continues for a couple hours after the sun rises. The haze evaporates and I can see mountains for miles in all directions. I start a gentle downhill and find myself among chapparal. Bushes with bright red berries line the trail. They look delicious. I’m certain they can’t be safe to eat, but damn, they look delicious. I haven’t had fruit in so long. The slow descent continues, the bushes grow taller and thicker like hedgerows around me. Someone has recently cut back the bushes to a sidewalk’s width. I’m grateful for trail workers—this brush would be hell to push through, but as it is, it’s an easy stroll. The downhill grows steeper, little by little, and it seems like I’ve been descending for hours. Trees rise up—pines, mostly, but occasionally oaks. The dry dirt cedes some ground to fallen leaves and needles. The switchbacks begin, and I get my first view of the valley. The Middle Fork of the Feather River has cut a deep valley between the mountains. I can see my fate: miles and miles of switchbacking downhill, then miles and miles of switchbacking uphill. All to get to a point that is probably only a half mile away. Someone should really install a zip-line here. It takes me hours to get to the bottom. By the end, my knees are complaining and my feet are screaming. The tongues of my shoes have been rubbing skin off above my big toes with every step. For hours now, the pain in my feet has been my only focus. It’s a sort of anti-zen, where every thought fades away in the face of obsession. An arched bridge spans the River, and I stop on top to stare into its deep, rocky pools. It’s time for lunch. I hobble over the bridge’s wood planks and down a short steep side trail to the river’s edge. A man in his sixties is just starting to pack up a gravity filter. The bulk of thru-hikers fall into two categories, it seems: twenty-somethings (of either gender), and retired men. I often wonder why there are so few retired women out here. Is it a generational thing? Were young women not taught to adventure outside, and therefore they never got a taste for it? Or is it something more elemental: For example, do older women feel more connected in their community, and are therefore less willing to leave those connections to go on a long adventure? I guess the answer will be apparent forty years from now, when today’s adventuring twenty-something women are retirement age. I am surprised and grateful to find another person here since I haven’t seen anyone since yesterday afternoon, but he is already leaving by the time I have opened my backpack. I am left alone with the the river, pain, and a bag of peanut M&Ms. I try not to eat too many while I wait for my refried beans to cook, but it’s hopeless. My stomach feels like a gaping wound and peanut M&Ms are the only balm I have. My shoes and socks come off. I try to wash some of the dirt out of my pus-filled wounds, but it’s tattooed in there and it hurts like hell to scrub. Next step: surgery. My Swiss Army knife is razor-sharp and virtually unused. Scissors seem like the right tool for this job. I pull out the laces from my shoes and fold back the tongues as far as I can. Where the tongue meets the shoe, the material is folded and sewn together—this is what has been rubbing and scraping the top of my foot. I hack mercilessly at the fabric and do my best to remove the offending material. My beans are ready, and I settle in to a hot meal and a good read. A good book—hell, even a bad one—always makes me feel less alone. The book I’m reading is inventive and interesting, if not exactly great literature: Hegira by Greg Bear. It’s a combination of sci-fi and fantasy where a small group of people is exploring their world and slowly discovering that it was created by an advanced civilization that has disappeared. “Boo!” I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s Yogi Beer. He laughs. “Jesus, Yogi. I almost shit myself.” “Ha ha. Where did you camp last night? I thought I’d be able to catch up with you.” “I’m not really sure. A little before Duck Soup Pond, I think?” “I’m gonna jump in the river. You want to join me?” “Um.” Why not, I think. It’s a hot day and I could take a longer break, do something a little different than just hike all the time. Maybe I can wash out the sores on my feet. “Yeah, sounds good.” I get to the river first and find a small pool that’s about waist deep. Some of the rocks are covered with black moss. Yogi goes a little further down to jump into a deeper spot. I get in up to mid-thigh and start to splash the frigid water on myself bird-bath style. It feels so good and so, so cold. Some of the black moss is getting on my legs, and I wipe it off. It smears off red, like a smear of blood. That’s when I realize. Leeches. Hundreds, thousands of tiny black leeches. The rocks aren’t covered in moss, they are covered in little blood-suckers. I smear more of them off and thrash through the water to get away from them. That’s enough of the Feather River for me. Leeches notwithstanding, the dip in the river is good for my spirits, and the climb back up the hill is easier. My feet feel a little better with that fabric removed, and the forest is prettier on this slope. A few small streams intersect the switchbacks, and I run my hands through their water just to feel the cool wetness run over my skin. For the first time on this hike, I pull out my headphones and start to listen to a podcast. I’ve avoided it until now, because I wanted to experience the sounds of nature. But all of this alone time is starting to wear on me, and I just want to hear human voices. I choose a podcast by meditation teacher and therapist Tara Brach. It’s about our need for independent will, to choose our own life path and make our own decisions. Yes, I think. That’s right. It seems like most of my anger and resentments are related to fear of losing my independent will, when I feel like people are telling me what to do. With Tara Brach’s wisdom and my mind spinning off in new directions, the climb seems to pass quickly. I’m back to big views and fir trees, and I hike west for a long time, well into the evening. At sunset, I find myself at Lookout Rock, a promontory with a 200-degree view to the north. It’s sublime. There’s even cell service here, and I get to talk with Lindsey while I eat a dry dinner in my tent.
I drift off to sleep about 8:30, but I’m startled awake again an hour later when Yogi Beer comes rustling into camp in the dark. After I determine that he isn’t a bear come to eat my food, I roll over and fall back asleep, content to have the safety of some company.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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