Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  “Where you been?”

  Walking the road to Buck's Lake, I sang old camp songs, stopping briefly at the Lakeshore Restaurant and store for directions to the motel. Vague directions and a strange look raised undefined suspicions. Taking a wrong turn, I talked to a woman cleaning a Marina cabin and was given better directions along with a comment that people rarely stayed in that motel. I eventually found the motel up a side road all by itself, very deserted looking.

  A car sat in front, but I found no sign of life though I tried all the doors, some of which were open. I looked into rooms that had been recently occupied, but not cleaned. Staying in an isolated motel by myself in the woods was a creepy prospect. Not only was the possibility of lodging disappearing, my resupply box had been mailed to the motel. Without the food drop, I couldn’t hike further. I was tired. It was probably a mile back to the store. What was I going to do?

  While writing a note to leave on the car, two guys in another car drove up. One of the guys called me by the wrong name, but said he’d gotten my box. "Where you been?" he said.

  That was the wrong thing to say to a tired hiker, who had been looking for someone for an hour, wandering around on tired feet. I got testy. I was exactly where I was supposed to be at the time I’d told him I would be there. Where had he been?

  In response, he got rude, but roared off to get my box, although I wasn’t sure he was coming back.

  He did return with my resupply box, but I refused to stay alone in a deserted motel. I might be comfortable alone in the wilderness, but not in a creepy, vacant motel down a dirt road in the woods. Besides, the restaurant was a mile away.

  Before mailing my resupply boxes, I’d called ahead, preferring real addresses instead of post offices, precisely so I could talk to a real person. Planning a zero day, I’d asked if there was a store or a restaurant nearby. Nearby in a car is not the same thing as nearby on foot. Walking back and forth from the motel to restaurant for food three times a day would have added up to six miles, not a rest day.

  Food now in my pack, I found my way to the B&B farther down the road. It was more expensive, but it wasn’t creepy, and it had food for sale, too. There was no TV and no cell reception, but the room had a Jacuzzi, and I was inside when it rained outside. Breakfast was a huge garden scramble (who knows how many eggs) with sausages and lots of veggies in it, fresh fruit, juice, a large blueberry muffin, a sweet roll, and three cups of tea. B&Bs are nice.

  Discovering a place on the map for an additional food drop to augment my carefully made hike plan, I wondered if someone could bring food to me. A young teacher named Rob who led 6th-grade camp was enough clue for the woman at the B&B and her sister to find the full name and phone number of the couple I’d met on the trail. Rob and Michelle agreed to meet me Friday afternoon at the Quincy-La Port Road on the PCT and bring me food, which I would leave for them to pick up at the B&B. Yay. I didn’t have to carry more than three day's food at a time for the rest of my hike, making the next six days before my last food drop a much more enjoyable prospect. That done, I dried my tent, cleaned my filter, soaked in the Jacuzzi in my room and read National Geographic. And I ate. Nice zero day.

  Distance is a relative thing. Walking on pavement to the restaurant when wanting the knee to rest for a day, was too far. So I gave the knee a break and bought sandwiches from the store downstairs. On the other hand, I was excited to have only 100 miles more to hike. A hundred miles seemed quite short compared to 500, 400, 300, or 200 miles.

  The third day from the B&B, the weather changed to sun. I walked ridgelines with peek-a-boo views through the trees and crisscrossed a paved road. Eating lunch and drying out my gear in the sun, I waved at passing logging trucks.

  I was hungrily wishing for a country breakfast and a Belgium waffle before my newfound friends and trail angels, Rob and Michelle, brought my food for the last three days. They also brought water, a muffin, treats, and a roast beef sandwich. I ate the roast beef sandwich on the spot. The muffin would supplement my breakfast. Yum. Thank you. Extra food was much appreciated, and talking with Rob and Michelle was a delight.

  Three more days. I could see the smog over the Sacramento Valley and the line of coast range mountains. The pointy and jagged Sierra Buttes to the southeast were getting closer.

  I passed two hunters on the trail, who were amazed that I was alone and had come so far. Silly men. They should meet some thru-hikers. In comparison my hike was short, though it was a long ways for me.

  Rabbit Brush and Paintbrush still bloomed, amazing to see in nearly mid-October. Long past blooming, Mule Ears’ dry leaves covered wide areas of hillside, rustling as I walked through them. They sounded like crumpled paper or discarded Christmas wrapping paper on Christmas morning.

  Topping MacRae Ridge on a blue-sky, sunny day, I could still see Pilot Peak, and even Shasta's white, peeking over mountains in the north. I ate lunch viewing Spencer Lakes nestled in a glacial valley sculpted out of rock. Beautiful. After lunch and more climbing, the lakes in Lakes Basin came into sight. Over 7,000 feet, picture-worthy vistas abounded, and I began to meet more hikers.

  The wind blew hard the day I passed the Sierra Buttes; its whistle and roar was my usual accompaniment throughout the day, and the noise wore on my nerves, though the striking and rugged Sierra Buttes entertained my eyes.

  Past the Buttes, the trail stretched out over the Manzanita-covered mountainside, high above the steep and rugged valley below. It was a long walk, exposed to the sun and over talus (large rocks), scree (gravel-size rock) and any size rock in between. I wouldn’t have liked it on a hot day, and found it hard on the feet even on a relatively cool fall day. An old lady with a bad leg had to move slowly all the way down. Reaching the highway I had marvelous good fortune: the first car stopped for my upraised thumb and a nice elderly gentleman delivered me to the Sierra City Hotel.

  The lovely old hotel was a one-man operation. Bob checked me in, ran the bar and was also the cook, bottle washer, maid, and server. He was very helpful and promised a ride back to the trail after my rest day. Why was I taking a rest day this close to the end of my hike? Because I was tired. I’d walked nearly 500 miles, and I still had three days to go.

  Bicycles

  It was an uphill day. Coming out of towns are like that. My rest day helped, as did mental preparation. I do better if I know what is coming. Unexpected uphill on days I thought should be easy discouraged me more than facing a known climb.

  Despite being illegal on the PCT, five bicycles passed me. The biggest no bicycle signs I have ever seen were at those trailheads. Yet every bicycle rider I saw innocently claimed not to know they were illegal. In a pig's eye.

  Other than bicycle riders, the day was a good one. I found a nice flat area near the trail and spread out my cowboy camp and ate my dinner while watching the orange glow of the sunset followed by moon-and-star-decked sky.

  The next beautiful day I went over 8,000 feet headed toward Donner Pass, the Sierra Buttes to the north and the snowy mountains above Lake Tahoe to the south. Illegal or not, the PCT was a popular bike route from Donner Pass to Sierra City. Each biker I met claimed their bikes didn't harm the trail. It must be other bikers, who caused damage. But on foot, I could see ruts cut by tires into soft forest duff. The next rain would carry the loosened duff down the trail, leaving larger and larger ruts, exposing rocks as time went on. Especially on switchback turns, there were deep grooves, loose dirt, and duff.

  Bikers left a bad taste in my mouth for the end of the trip. I met an organized group, a biking club, not just one or two by themselves. I told them this was the Pacific Crest Trail, created by an act of Congress for hikers and that bikes were illegal.

  They laughed and said, "So what? Was I trying to make a citizen's arrest?" More laughter.

  I lost my cool and yelled at them, but they cared not a bit for what the old harridan had to say. It was most unsatisfactory yelling at the backs of bike riders going up the trail. I was just an impotent old lady.
I wept for the conflict and how poorly I’d handled it, and I wept for the trail.

  Not long after the bikers, I was very glad to meet an older, enthusiastic day hiker and later, a dad with two 12-year-olds eagerly out on their first backpack trip. As I left the Peter Grub Hut, a mom and her 20-something daughter questioned me about backpacking and the trail. Those hikers were antidotes to my distress about bikers. I needed to see people who truly cared about the trail and didn't just ride through digging up dirt.

  Thankfully, the rest of the day was more uneventful and always beautiful. The willows by the streams in the meadows were turning a nice bright yellow in contrast to the browning grasses. Castle Peak looked majestic against the sky, and some die-hard asters still bloomed. After going under I-80, Bill Persons popped me into his little convertible and took me to their home. God bless trail angels.

  Bill was sympathetic to the bikers and calmed my ire. Bill, now passed away, headed many volunteer maintenance crews on the PCT, and he and Molly had been incredibly gracious trail angels and friends of the trail. In 2010, they fed me a delicious dinner and breakfast and drove me to the airport in Reno.

  With the completion of Northern California, I walked 635 PCT miles in 2010, truly blessed to still be able to travel through such beautiful country.

  Chapter 26 Fall and Winter, 2010-2011

  Knee Replacement

  While I was still walking in California, Yellowstone emailed me that she needed a knee replacement. Her knee problems had begun with her fall trying to catch up with me in Oregon. I was so very sorry she’d hurried that day. Her knee replacement was three weeks before mine.

  Replacing my knee on Nov 30, 2010, my doc discovered my posterior cruciate ligament, but could find no trace of the anterior cruciate ligament (ACL). For three years, I’d been wearing a brace for the wrong problem. The brace had helped prevent lateral or twisting motions, though it might have helped more if it had been an ACL brace. The knee replacement meant I could ditch the brace altogether.

  Yellowstone and I compared notes on recovery. My recovery was fast initially, but I hit a snag after 3 to 4 months, possibly due to old scar tissue on the lateral side of the knee. I did achieve better function. I could go up and down stairs independently. But residual pain persisted. I was able to hike up Mt. Si in March (8-mile round trip and 3,000-feet elevation gain and loss), but the knee took more than one night to recover.

  The middle of May I started very seriously walking nearly every day, starting slowly at 1 mile and methodically adding a mile each week. I was trying to convince the knee it could recover overnight and hike every day. I road walked. I trail walked. I walked to doc and dentist appointments. I walked to the grocery store. I got up to nine miles.

  The knee still hurt, but not badly. I thought it could be controlled with rests, Tylenol, and an occasional pain pill. I didn't want to damage it further, but my physical therapist said repetitive movement would be key in recovery. So I planned to repetitively move it along a trail.

  My doc said I needed to keep my pack light. I spent more money getting an eight-ounce Hexamid tent, a pocket filter from Aquamira®, and a few Cuban-fiber stuff sacks. I decided to go stoveless, saving the weight of stove, fuel, and pot. I figured I could be loaded with food for four days, carry an extra fleece and some water, and my pack would weigh 23 pounds. My Doc suggested the knee pain might eventually go away. That would be nice, but I was prepared to hike anyway.

  Chapter 27 July 24, 2011

  PCT—Oregon

  Snow

  On the PCTL chat line, I met a 75-year-old hiker, who was proud of being a Tough Old Broad, TOB for short. She was indeed tough. A fall had resulted in a broken hip. Not much deterred, two months later she went to Alaska to work on trail maintenance on the Iditarod, Alaska’s famous route for a sled-dog race.

  Leaving my car with Gray Squirrel in Vancouver, Washington, I took the train to Eugene, meeting TOB at the train station. She had a glass of wine, and we chatted, had dinner out and then went back to her house, where I slept on her deck, as I was allergic to the cats in her house. It was a pleasant night with a lovely new friend.

  While enjoying our chatter about various adventures, TOB drove me to the trailhead. Although she’d done many amazing things with her recently pinned hip, hiking with me into Rosary Lakes was her first post-surgery hike. When we came to the lake outlet, she turned around as she didn’t want to risk a wrong step crossing slippery rocks.

  I headed on with an exhilarating sense of freedom. I liked hiking with people, but I liked hiking solo, too. Each had its own lovely flavor.

  The mosquitoes were doing their Oregon-in-July bad thing, and I did a lot of bandana waving as well as putting on generous applications of repellant.

  Arriving at Bobby Lake, I met Marmite and Sherpa, whom I’d met at Old Station in California in the fall. When hike-planning now, I always wonder who will be the previously met hiker I will see again on a new trail.

  If 2010 had been a high-snow year on the PCT, this one was an exceedingly high-snow year. On my second day, four miles of trail were on snow. At first it was just small patches, then bigger ones, and then visual sign of the trail disappeared, along with the footprints of Marmite and Sherpa. I kept making forward progress, but walking on snow while looking for trail is more strenuous and time consuming than simple trail.

  I was glad to have my GPS and also glad someone had walked the trail before me, leaving footprints. Still, I was misplaced several times. It wasn’t that I didn’t know where I was. My GPS clearly indicated my position with a tiny triangle. It also theoretically indicated the trail painstakingly drawn in by myself on Garmin Base Camp on my computer before transferring to my hand-held GPS.

  How did I find trail in the snow? Like a trail planner, I used my eyes looking for gradual inclines. I looked for the occasional trail marker, although there are not as many on the PCT as the AT. I looked for downed logs cut in two, making way for a trail. I checked map and compass as well as GPS. I angled forward and crisscrossed the supposed trail showing on the GPS while searching for footprints or any two-foot or more section of melted out bare ground I could identify as trail. And I guessed.

  At the trailhead to Elk Lake, Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top, and Southern Sister, stunningly promised good hiking ahead. But first, my dear friends Grapevine and David met me at the trailhead, and we headed to their trailer for a night with shower, laundry, and a bed.

  Dead Woman Walking

  In the morning, Grapevine and I hiked together. Oregon was my first real test of the knee replacement, and Grapevine had undergone back surgery in the early spring, so we were both exploring how repaired bodies moved on trail.

  We made it up to the top of Koosah Mt, with just a few snow patches on the trail. We gazed south to Diamond Peak and Thielsen, fading in the distance. Closer at hand, Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top and South Sister commanded our view.

  Starting down toward Mirror Lakes we ran into snow, a lot of snow. Under the snow, the trail was relatively straight to Mirror Lakes, though we couldn’t see it. Following the GPS, we came to Camelot Lake, had a first lunch while resting after our snow slog, and then passed Sisters Lake, both beautiful in the snow.

  It wasn’t so beautiful slogging through the snow, finding occasional bits of trail following the GPS. Arriving at a snow-free spot on the Wickiup Plains Trail, we had second lunch. Descending a rather steep slope with no sign of the switchbacking trail, I was delighted when we found our destination snow-free between two forks of Mesa Creek. Monkey flower, marigolds, and shooting stars grew beside a crystal-clear stream. I was ecstatic that we had successfully followed the GPS. Grapevine was too exhausted to care about the flowers, the GPS, or anything else as she crawled into the tent.

  The following day the trail was 95% snow, and therefore, very difficult, especially for Grapevine. A dead woman walking (her words), she was worn out before noon. It was difficult to walk on snow, sometimes hard, sometimes soft and sometimes very steep. Her foot
with the ankle fusion didn’t adjust well to slippery snow and I was an old lady too, with a knee replacement. Although my knee performed stellarly, it would never be a normal knee. We made fewer than seven miles, hiking all day, falling behind schedule, and we knew we had to bail. I didn’t do so with very good grace, and I’m lucky Grapevine is still my friend. She made the right decision.

  In the morning we slogged through snow-filled mountain meadows and over snow-covered mountain streams. We stayed pretty found, although we rarely saw trail tread. Once, I was sure I saw the trail on a dry patch of ground at a lower elevation, but when we came closer it turned out to be the remains of an old rotten, reddish log.

  We planned to bail on Glacier Way Trail, but while having our mid-morning trail bars by a lovely stream coming directly out of a snow-bank near a patch of blooming Pasque flowers, we saw a hiker who had come up from the Obsidian Trailhead. Grapevine was no longer interested in going one step farther on the PCT. She was focused only on getting off trail ASAP. She had no interest in anything whatsoever other than following that hiker's footprints out. The hike had become a mission to get Grapevine out of the mountains.

  There was no way we could split up under those conditions. In all that snow, someone could have been irretrievably misplaced without the GPS. We walked out together, I stalking ahead and Grapevine limping behind.

  We were able to contact David by cell phone, and he and Gray Squirrel met us at the trailhead. Grapevine left with David to recover at their trailer, while Gray Squirrel and I camped at McKenzie Pass, ready to continue hiking the next day, a section of trail skipped.

  What a Difference a Day Made