August 30, 2016 Mile 1604.7-1629.9 25.2 Miles Cub Bear Spring is a pretty spot. I hiked late enough into the night to justify a later sleep this morning, and now it’s light out. I’m in a spacious area contained by healthy trees and bushes. The burbling water adds additional peace to an already serene area. I fill up my bottles, and then, because I’m so thirsty that I drink almost everything in them, I fill up again. My hope is to hustle today, but I can tell it will be a bit of a struggle. 33 miles takes a toll on the body, even after three months of daily hiking. Hiking the last 10 without any water probably didn’t do my muscles any favors either. It’s a quick jaunt down to the trail, where I can see the valley that I couldn’t see in the dark last night. It’s a deep valley, green and pastoral. It calls me to sit awhile and enjoy it, but I’m racing winter and there’s no time. I settle for a couple long breaths to take it all in, then I turn and start to hike. The trail stays high near the top of the valley, climbing like a railroad cut that doesn’t want to gain altitude too quickly. Ooh yeah, my muscles are sore today. The mountains turn rust red for a while. I inspect some of the rocks as I go. It really does look like a light sheen of rust, like these rocks have oxidized. I wonder if they have a high iron content? I know almost nothing about geology, but I’d like to someday. When the rocks are covered in silver flakes a little later, my curiosity deepens. What happened here? My dad tried to get me interested in geology when I was a kid. He was always trying to give us some natural knowledge. When it came to tide pools, I found it fascinating, but all the birds’ names them were totally boring. I always loved watching nature and exploring it; learning all the names seemed beside the point. Geology seemed to fit into that category: identifying the names of rocks. Today, though, it seems far more interesting. I have a burning desire to know: what makes one rock red, and another silver? Why does granite exist in some places but not others? Why are these mountains here, and why do these valleys look so different than the valleys of 200 miles ago? I also notice the trees look different. I still recognize Douglas firs and other conifers, but it seems like they have more diversity here. I wonder if that’s somehow related to the unusual rocks, or if it’s just a coincidence. All these questions will have to wait. I can’t visit a library or find an expert to ask. Hell, I can’t even look things up on my phone. I’m surrounded by the most interesting geology classroom in the world without a teacher. Later, I’ll learn that my hunch is correct—this is indeed an unusual geological formation. Whereas most of California is the result of collisions between the Pacific and North American plates, the mountains here were formed from remnants of the Farallon plate. And the trees are indeed different here because of the abundance of serpentine, an oily-looking greenish-gray rock that makes it difficult for many trees to grow. I pass Fisher Lake early, then a spring spilling down from the rocks where I stop to get more water. It’s so idyllic. Just a week ago I was struggling to keep hiking—I felt like I was going to quit almost every day, and I was enjoying myself rarely, if at all. Now it feels like a walk in the park. I’m doing more miles now, and my body is as tired as ever, yet somehow I’m having more fun. I know it’s the mountains. They are more interesting now, more varied. My curiosity about what’s around the next corner is heightened. A week ago, what was usually around the next corner was more of the tunnel of trees. Here, the view changes, there are lakes and water spilling down rocks, the mountains are made of different materials every hour, the trees are diverse, even the rocks underfoot feel different from minute to minute. Oh, and there’s bountiful sunlight. I can’t ever forget how much of a difference sunlight makes. If a change in the land and sunlight can affect my mood and perseverance so much, I wonder, what does it do to me to be in a city all the time? To be inside, with dead walls and restricted sunlight (or in many rooms, no sunlight at all), cut off from rough bark and dancing branches and thin mountain air that wafts the scent of hot clay cooking in the sunlight? If a tunnel of Douglas firs was enough to make me feel that cut off and isolated from the world, how must it stifle and constrict my spirit to live on concrete all day every day, passing from closed-off building to sealed car and back to building again? I’m out here now, however, and I’m grateful for the sound of this little babbling spillway with its clear, cold water. A little while later I’m atop a pass where I stop to text Lindsey and send her a couple pictures. Then it’s down, down, down, and suddenly up, up again, next to a little blue lake skirted by talus on three sides. The terrain has changed again, and I’m no longer following the upper rims of valleys. In fact, the long furrows and ridges have been replaced by a choppier, lumpier type of mountain, as if some great wooden spoon had stirred the mountains roughly and left them to set in this jumble. It’s a beautiful, disorganized mess of mountain. It also means the hiking is slower, as altitude changes come fast and hard. From the top side I can see a tight, dense cloud of smoke to the north. This is the third or fourth day in a row that I’ve seen it, but it looks a lot bigger now. It’s a tragedy regardless, but I really hope it’s not near the trail. It looks to be about where I’m headed. In the afternoon, I pass an abandoned cabin. I think about exploring it, but while I waffle I’m still hiking, and I’m long past it before I ever think about coming to a decision. A couple of hikers approach from the north. They’re thru-hikers, southbounders, and they tell me there’s a fire just past the town of Seiad Valley, which I’ll get to tomorrow. They were able to get through, but the smoke on trail was pretty bad. They think the trail is likely to be closed by the time I get there. I thank them for the info and wish them luck with their hike. I consider my options. I could turn around and hitch into Etna, then up to Ashland. That’s an awful lot of trail to miss. Seiad Valley is still about 40 miles away, and by tomorrow they could have the fire out. Or it could be worse. I press on. Maybe it’s not so bad, I think. Thirty minutes later I turn over a ridge and look straight into a mushroom cloud. I take my dinner at a pass covered in brown gabbros that exclude much in the way of flora. There are patches of seasonal grass and a little yellow flower that pops up in clumps, and a single fir tree. The smoke is all blowing to the east, and it smears across the sky and the landscape like a fog, blurring the ridge lines and erasing layers like LA smog in the summertime.
After dinner I get a second wind and crush out a couple more miles in the golden hour. I reach my campsite, high on the ridge with huge unobstructed views to the west, just as the sun is receding into a pinprick. There’s another tent here already, but there’s plenty of space out here. Ziiiiiiiiip goes the tent. A rustle from inside, then a dark head emerges in the dim light and looks around. “Hey. Do you mind if I camp here?” “Yeah, sure. Is that Zigzag?” “Yeah, who’s that?” I can only make out a dark mass, no features. “Roadside.” I only met him briefly, four or five days ago, but there aren’t that many people out here so northbounders are easy to remember. He was the guy I ate breakfast with the day after my bear experience, who had his own bear story. “Oh hey Roadside, good to see you!” I’m grateful for the company. Just in the past week I finally feel comfortable camping alone, but it’s still nicer to have other people around. After I lie down, I wonder how he got ahead of me. He didn’t seem like a particularly fast hiker, and I’ve been doing some big days recently. But if he’s able to keep the mileage that high, maybe we can keep pace with each other. I don’t hold high expectations, though. Experience has taught me I’m likely to keep hiking this thing alone. Little do I know that Roadside and I will hike together all the way to Canada.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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