August 25, 2016 Mile 1474.9-1499.2 (+2 mile roadwalk) 26.3 (+2) miles It takes me twenty minutes to make the decision to get up and start moving. Lying here in my sleeping bag just feels so good, and it’s chilly outside. I don’t make a decision to stay in bed so much as I fail to decide to get up. The pressure of time lost and of the looming miles ahead of me builds up until a switch is flipped and it feels harder to stay in bed than to get up and hike. How many of our decisions are made this way, I wonder. There’s really no decision at all, just an ever-changing path of least resistance to which we ascribe choice after the fact. The morning uphill is wooded and pleasant. Whatever chill I felt before is quickly pushed back by the combustion engines in my warming muscles. I climb and listen to the quiet woods. Birds make relaxed calls across the distance to one another. Sunlight plays among the dust motes in thin stripes. Aside from one rushing creek, there is little spare water in this forest. There is no dampness, there are no muddy trails. No dewy ferns adorn the trail. But neither is it overly dry, like many of the northern California forests. Near the top of my climb stoic Shasta appears again. It’s only been a few days since I first saw it, but already the way that mountain stays put makes it seem like I’m on a treadmill. I zone out, listening to podcasts and thumping over miles. My feet are a little tender today; 30-mile days often do that. In the late morning, I encounter a southbound hiker. “How far is it to the green pipe gate?” he asks. “A half hour maybe? I honestly don’t remember how long ago I passed it.” I remember seeing it, but I’ve been so zoned out that I have no idea if it was five minutes ago or three hours ago. He thanks me anyway and we both cruise along. Thich Nhat Hanh suggests that when we sit in traffic, we imagine brakelights to be the eyes of the Buddha winking at us, reminding us to come back to the present moment. I’ve always loved that image. It’s time to come back to the present moment. This southbound hiker has buddha nature, and he has called my attention to my inattention, just like buddha’s brakelights. I turn off the podcasts and recommit myself to the breath as I walk. 100 mindful breaths. And then, because I am out of practice and struggle to focus, 100 more. I go through 5 cycles, losing the thread every time, but feeling better from the process. Next I focus on the tenderness of my feet. I have gained some new blisters in the last few days, and the long miles have taken their toll on my arches. It’s easier to avoid thinking about pain, but that’s part of the experience, too. I can be aware of it without complaining about it or trying to make it different. Just to experience life as it is, without judgment or resistance, that is the practice. I make another big climb and gain my first views of Castle Crags around noon. It’s a massive granite pluton that emerges from mountains otherwise blanketed in green, a mess of spiky turrets and jagged shark’s-teeth that seems out of place. California is endlessly surprising, endlessly fascinating. I check my map: ten miles until the interstate and my next resupply. Ten miles of downhill. I can do this. The soles of my feet start out tender, and the downhill pounding doesn’t help. Still, the forest is beautiful. Tall trunks widely spaced with a high, thick canopy above. It’s dark and quiet. Occasionally I can hear the sound of a small brook. This is the sort of forest I think they had in mind when they invented forest bathing. The air seems thick with peace, as if I can’t help but breathe it in and it will flow through my blood, permeate and soften my cells. Ten miles float by, punctuated by several stops to rest. I feel the dull pain of every downhill thump, but I’m also completely enamored with this forest. We are capacious creatures, I think, to hold both pain and pleasure, simultaneously and distinctly. I’m not sure I had the capacity to distinguish them before this hike, but the daily practice and my constant focus on internal states has grown this within me. When I finally reach the bottom I discover that my resupply is still two miles to the south along I-5, in the town of Castella. Just a simple hitch, I think. I remember what the police officer told me in Chester: hitchhiking is only illegal along the interstate. The problem is, there are no cars coming by this exit. After about twenty minutes, I decide to take my chances on the interstate.
There are far more cars up here, but they are speeding down a slope and it’s the interstate, so they’re already moving fast. Most of these cars are whipping by at 80 mph. There are also broad curves in the road, so by the time a car sees a hitchhiker, they would have to slam on the brakes to stop anywhere near me. I keep my thumb out, but I keep walking. It’s two miles to Castella, and I end up walking the entire way. The asphalt smarts with every step. By the time I get to Amarrati’s market, I’m hobbling. A picnic table is outside, with four hikers. Hoot and Chocolate Milk are among them. I can’t believe I’ve caught up to them after that 53-mile day. When I ask them about it, Hoot says they had to sleep most of the next day and barely got any miles done. They’re staying at a nearby campground. I should really join them, but I’ve been wishing for a hot shower and a good meal all day, so I’m gonna hitch up to Dunsmuir after I resupply and get a hotel room. Inside the market, which is a basic gas station convenience store, are great big stacks of resupply boxes, right in the middle of the floor. I find one of mine quickly, but I can’t find the other box, the one that contains my new shoes. The shoes I’m wearing have been a disaster—first they gouged out the tops of my feet, then the holes I cut in the tops to solve that problem started letting in rocks and dirt, now the arch support seems to be gone. If the new ones aren’t here, I’m going to be wearing these shoes until Ashland, Oregon. Not a happy thought. I ask one of the people working at the register if they have more boxes in the back. “No,” he says, “but let me help you get to some of those boxes at the bottom.” He does, and down near the bottom of a big stack, the name and address facing away from view, is my box. I am so relieved I could weep. I chat with the other hikers for a bit. It feels great to be around other hikers, people who understand what it feels like to be out hiking for days, and what it feels like to be back in town. There’s a sort of guilt-free pursuit of pleasure in town, an unfettered bacchanalia of gluttony and sloth. It would make us feel terrible if we did it all the time, but as disconnected points along an otherwise unbroken line of asceticism and effort it is exactly what we need. For a brief time the table is covered with bags of potato chips, bottles of beer, pints of ice cream, and candy wrappers. At the same time, we are not an ebullient group. I’ve heard the thru-hiker look described as a thousand-mile stare, and mostly our conversation is filled with these. Brief punctuations of conversation, followed by long stretches of silence. Our conversation muscles are atrophied, replaced by strong powers of reflective thought. Someone says something, someone else responds, then we all sit and think about it for a bit as the words echo around inside of us. The other hikers peel away one at a time, headed back to the campground, until I am the only one left. Dark is right around the corner and I decide not to hitch; I call a shuttle service based in Dunsmuir. At the hotel, the clerk tells me that he’s really not supposed to rent to hikers, but he’ll rent to me as long as I promise him that I won’t wash my gear in the bathtub and leave a mess. It’s a little offensive, but I can sort of understand. With a room secured, I continue my bacchanalia. I walk down to a liquor store for a couple of tallboys, order a pizza (which I demolish), and stay up until 11:30 watching reruns of the Simpsons.
2 Comments
Shane McLennan
1/18/2020 02:21:35 pm
Nick, you are an amazing writer. I seriously think you should try to publish your PCT experience along with all the fabulous photos. I think anyone who is thinking about embarking on such a long hike would appreciate all your knowledge, the ups and downs. What camera did you use?
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Nick
1/18/2020 02:26:48 pm
Thanks Shane! I do hope to publish someday. I just used an iPhone 6SE. Anything else was too heavy. The trail itself makes it easy to take great photos.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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