But, thankfully, it crosses at a fairly benign place where it has widened and slowed and most boulders are not in motion, at least not now. Usually the trail resumes directly across the creek and the objective is clear. A simple rock hop is possible in many streamlet crossings, the rocks having been placed a long-legged man’s stride apart. Cobweb had this magnificent way of ricocheting himself, rock-to-rock, zig-zagging across. Momentum is the key word here. One must not stop to consider.
Early one morning, I had already committed myself to such a hop. Seeing the next one an impossible 5 feet away, I stopped. This necessity was the mother of the invention I called the “Sacrifice the Queen” maneuver. In chess, the dumbest move apparently is to lose one’s queen, the most powerful piece. However, it may save the whole game. That’s the term I used for putting my foot on a slightly submerged rock, allowing that shoe to momentarily taste water, and then using it to complete the ford. It appeared unskillful, but to any sneer of laughter, I lifted my head with haughty eyes and simply stated, “I sacrificed the queen.” That usually shut them up with a look of complete confusion.
Sometimes a creek crossing looks like a barefoot necessity. Nothing immediate presents itself. Then running up and downstream to find an easier place ensues, perhaps a partial log, met by a boulder, a point peeking out. That’s all one needs.
Ice may be present. The logs may be unstable. Hiking poles definitely help for balancing, touching points on either side of logs, and for checking water depth. When all else fails, off come shoes and perhaps socks. Laces are tied in a knot and shoes slung around the neck. A crossing is slowly made diagonally, wading down stream, allowing the current to bring you and the thousand feasting mosquitoes ashore. No grimace or groaning is permitted for a Classy Crossing. This barefoot crossing has the benefit of some thorough cleansing action for feet as well as socks.
And always, of paramount concern is the pack. Sleeping bag and food must not fall in. Feet and legs may need to suffer to insure such, with slow, sure steps in icy cold water.
The whole procedure is an art form.
Tuolumne Meadows has a post office, café and store, joined together in one long building. Outside there are many picnic tables and two pay phones. The tourist crowds were not easy to maneuver around, and we long distance hikers stood out like wild animals. I didn’t spend any time in Yosemite Valley, but simply hiked down in a day, completing the JMT, and was back in time to stealth camp. Most hikers sent their ice axes, surplus supplies and winter gear home. I sent my Army blanket bag liner home but elected to keep my ax until I got to Echo Lake out of respect for Rainmaker’s and Cindy Ross’ near death experiences at Sonora Pass. And, too, in defiance of a local weekender who told me to mail it home. I might have been the only hiker that year to carry an ice ax through this section, but it had a dual purpose. It was a good weapon.
The trail has been great, and challenging, but the time had come to shift gears. I had to slow down because my rendezvous with Rainmaker in Reno, Nevada was still over two weeks away. I would miss seeing my thru-hiking friends, especially Ben and Becky. Those behind me would catch up and pass. Trail friendships are just that, and seldom continue into the other world. We love what we have when we have it; we let go of what we must when it’s time.
Tuolumne to Echo Lake
These last 156 miles of my solo adventure, I planned to hike slowly. Nearly three weeks remained before Rainmaker flew in to join me. I carried an estimated eleven days of food, in two stuff sacks. Only the campsite at Glen Aulin had a bear box. It also had some bears known to harass hikers in their tents. So, that first night out I continued another 12 miles to McCabe Lake Trail junction, buried my food under rocks between large boulders and gathered some smaller rocks to place in the vestibule for ammunition, should the need arise. No sign of a human camp nearby, no fire rings, no human footprints or trash. This was definitely a stealth campsite. To maintain a low profile, all my gear was kept inside my gray Cherokee tent.
Many hikers spent extra time in Yosemite Valley visiting relatives, climbing cliffs and just relaxing. Others had hiked quickly ahead to avoid the 4th of July-No-Post-Office at Echo Lake on this long weekend. It seemed that all the thru-hikers had disappeared. So, all alone, and trying to relax, I slept late, cooked oatmeal for breakfast, and piddled around to my heart’s content. However, I still was on the trail by 7:30. That inner drive that plagues me fought this slower pace. The next day, I only hiked about 10 miles and buried my food again. That was a big job since my food filled two stuff sacks.
I forded several wide streams that were very low for this time of year. The climb up Benson Pass was ambiguous. If it hadn’t been for the rock ducks (ingeniously piled rocks, used as trail markers), I don’t think I could have found the way. One important note; don’t ever cut switchbacks in a multi-use area, you could very easily end up on a spur trail, and not realize it for several miles.
Later, I crossed Kerrick Canyon Creek and cooked supper. Maybe it was the appetizer of double hot chocolate or the black liquorish sticks, but somehow the Ramen and Cheese delight didn’t go down very well. Or perhaps it was the dried apricots? Anyway, I felt ill. I didn’t want to camp where I’d cooked, but my stomach hurt. Slowly I stood up and contemplated the situation. It was already after 5:00 with a 900-foot climb ahead and a steep descent on the other side. Suddenly, off to my left walked a beautiful black bear. I don’t believe he saw me, or perhaps he was just being nonchalant. Decision made; guess I can hike some more tonight. I put on my pack while watching the bushes where the bear had disappeared and saw him cross the creek using rocks like a human would do, and then dash off. Either he had caught my scent or saw me at that point. I hiked another 3 miles and camped among some boulders, forgetting to pick up water at the last mosquito infested stream crossing. A dry camp, indeed. That was a 19-mile day.
On June 27th, the next day, I did an unbelievable 25 miles. It was windy, cloudy and cold, and not a soul to be seen all day. Very lonely for a face; I just would have liked to see another human being. Finally, in the distance, two people were fishing at Dorothy Lake. They watched me the entire time I skirted the east side of the lake. Greeting them when I drew near, they completely ignored me. A bit later, I met a park ranger on horseback, and talked his ear off for a while, begging him to check my permit, Whitney stamp and all. He finally relented, while reminding me we could have snow that night, any night, in the Sierras.
The last 13 miles to Sonora Pass are narrow, very windy, and at times snow covered. I stopped, put on my silnylon rain suit and later negotiated an ice slope using my ax. If one ever intends to slide down an ice slope, or glissade, it is not recommendable when wearing only shorts. From experience, I found it is quite rough on the skin, and can shred the only pair of shorts you have. My silnylon rain pants were very useful at these times. Rainmaker later told me he used a large garbage bag for his slides.
Early that afternoon, I reached Sonora Pass, and ate lunch. To my delight, Becky hiked in. We stealth camped in the same spot Rainmaker spent his last night, camped in 1999, and the exact spot he and I camped together our first night last year in 2000. It was time for connection. A special reverence for this place made me defy the perceived threat of a stranger who lurked, binoculars focused on the tables where we had supper. Becky had met him earlier when getting water, he with the duct-taped vest, who asked too many questions and refused to look her in the face. But, didn’t I carry my ice ax? Just let him come and threaten us. It’s a fool who tries to move a wild animal from its lair.
I had lightened my pack by throwing out some food and the Z- rest, giving Becky food and an extra shirt. Everything possible went in the garbage cans at Sonora Pass. I was tired of burying my food, and sleeping alone. It was 74 miles to Echo Lake Resort. The best remedy now was to just hike long and hard. The first two days I hiked with Becky, then she disappeared again. On the third day, I reached Echo Lake. That evening I called Rainmaker, and managed to get a ride to Berkeley Camp just a qua
rter mile down the road. For $10, I had a hot shower, access to a hot tub, full sized pool, and a bed in a shared tent cabin. I was done for now! I still had eleven days until Rainmaker arrived, and I intended to spend the time resting and relaxing.
Intermission
For nine days I stayed at the Berkeley campground, working out a deal with the manager to cook for an hour daily in exchange for room and board. I enjoyed the luxuries of flush toilets, a mattress, a pool, hot tub, excellent food, and human interaction. Frequently other hikers would come down to the camp for a night.
Often, for a couple hours diversion, I hiked back to Echo Lake Resort, to meet friends passing through. I missed them, those hardy thru-hikers. We exchanged stories of bear encounters, food disasters, lost gear, family contacts. One woman’s family learned by reading someone's online journal that she was hiking solo now that her partner left the trail. Another guy, bemoaning the fact he didn’t have his wild bear photos, told us how he was conned by two bears into leaving his pack unattended trailside, while he scampered into the woods after spotting one of them feeding. Then, turning back to the trail, saw another bear happily trashing his pack. Thankfully, some friends showed up in the nick of time, and helped drive the thief away. Lesson learned, take the pack with you. I could not restrain the laughter as this hiker expressed his indignation of being conned by bears.
We rummaged through each other's drop boxes, witnessed dog fights, irritated too-clean tourists, traded each other fuel for food, and griped about the resort. Although only a stone's throw from the lake, the store personnel said they could not give anyone clean drinking water because it was a drought year. There were privies, but no water to wash with. Yet the store sold fresh produce, a contradiction in standard health precautions.
The pampered women at the campground surprised and sometimes annoyed me. One lady told me it was such a hardship for her, that this campground was as rugged as she could stand. I thought I had come to heaven! Several campers asked me what made me so different, so strong, and why I wasn’t afraid. Amazing. Somehow over these last two months I must have changed, dramatically. Perhaps a long hike is the best therapy for recovering one’s identity.
I was anxious to get back on the trail; this soft campground life was boring. Having mailed my tent home from the resort, I had to wait. Finally, the time came. Early one morning I hitch hiked to South Lake Tahoe, caught a bus to Reno, and got a room at the fancy Sands Hotel. Rainmaker would fly in tomorrow evening, and the anticipation was like that of Christmas.
Reunited and on to Canada
Chapter Four
Reunited And Onward to Canada
I met Rainmaker at the Reno Airport around midnight on the twelfth of July. Last time I saw him in April, he was clean-shaven. The guy who walked towards me now had a full, mostly gray beard. But the confident stride of that long, lean body, those wide shoulders and piercing blue eyes, were unmistakable. We returned to the motel by cab. The next day we rented a car for the one-way drive to Klamath Falls, Oregon, where we dropped it off. Our dear friends Brenda and Ralph met us there and took us to their home for the night. The next day they drove us to Crater Lake.
Suddenly, Rainmaker and I were together again, on the Pacific Crest Trail, with just what we carried in our packs. Our routines were reestablished: sharing a tent, smiles, jokes, and conversation. Sharing, most of all, our love for the trail and for each other.
The rim trail around Crater Lake was spectacular, constantly giving and taking the same 300 ft. of elevation. Crater Lake is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, without a doubt a magnificent place.
It was very cold for July in southern Oregon. The locals told us that it was quite unusual. One cannot count on the usual on a long distance hike. Our clothing was sufficient, but just barely. The multiple layers gave plenty of options, wearing everything at once was effective in the worst conditions.
Nearly every day after my partner joined me, it rained. In spite of all his other accomplishments, his trail name will always remain Rainmaker. We had separate tent vestibules and made ourselves hot coffee and breakfast in the mornings before packing and heading out. Our 3-½ pound, double-wall Coleman Cobra tent kept us warm and dry. There had been very few mosquitoes; our theory was they all froze to death previously.
Shelter Cove Resort was one of three resorts where we planned to buy food. The store was very expensive; I needed only three days of food, and in retrospect, should have just bought what I needed, regardless of price. However, ramen noodles were $1 per package, stovetop stuffing over $3 a box and candy bars were 70 cents each. You know something is wrong in life when noodles cost more than candy. So, instead, and in protest, I stubbornly chose some “soak and heat” stuff I’d found in the hiker box. I will politely refer to this concoction as food, and dumped it in with my tad of remaining ramen and mashed potatoes. This medley would have worked had there not been all these little split peas, inedible beans and dangerous seeds mixed in. Just bird feed, I kid you not. I called it Shit Supreme.
Ultralight is definitely the way to go on a long trail. Most of the weight is food, which normally should be a pleasure to deplete on mega sections of 150+ miles. But, if you end up with nasty food, a daily debate to dump this weight, or eat it down, may surface. Dumping food in bear country must be done with care. If cooked and indigestible, carry and bury it at least half a mile away. If dumped raw, do it early morning before hiking away, broadcasting it several hundred feet away from campsites, to feed small creatures and avoid mounds of mold.
Before we resumed the trail, we bought a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream at Shelter Cove, and sprinkled hot cocoa mix on top to add some interest. We opened the lid, got our trail spoons, and ate right out of the container, finishing it off amid stares of vacationers nearby.
Elk Lake Resort was a tiny store next to a beautiful lake, full of boating enthusiasts. Thankfully, a friend who lives in Bend, Oregon offered to help us. We resupplied in Bend after she picked us up at the resort parking lot. This resort had hot meals, which smelled delicious. However, the few groceries there could not even resupply one thru hiker, if he or she could afford them.
I bought a beautiful fleece turtleneck in Bend, which replaced my silk button down shirt. That silk layer worked great in the desert, allowing for warmth and ventilation, but it had deteriorated with the sun. The fleece turtleneck was necessary now, vital in cold weather for keeping my neck warm.
In Bend I also bought a handsome Nike daypack, which weighed 21 ounces once I modified it for trail use. I discarded my pack frame, and kept two-silnylon stuff sacks. I had to make a hip belt for it, though. Leaving town, my pack was really loaded with food as a direct result of the poor resupply at Shelter Cove. Now, it seemed quite heavy. All along the trail from Elk Lake Resort to Canada, I made adjustments, sewing with dental floss at night in camp. I cannibalized various stuff sacks, trimmed off some closed cell pad, and customized the hip belt further. This was my first frameless pack.
Bend, Oregon to Cascade Locks
In northern Oregon, the PCT traverses lava flow for many miles. The trail was quite rough in places, with marvelous views of northern mountains and evergreens, white barked trees, and sweet smelling lupine. Rare cloudless skies and moderating temperatures sweetened the adventure. Horses with riders were very common, yet they seemed to have little, if any, regard for hikers. Even though we hiked on narrow ledges, they kept right on coming towards us. Horses have the right of way, yet time is needed to find a safe place to step aside. I quickly learned to scramble down hill, off trail, hoping for enough distance between us to avoid kicks by startled horses.
Thru-hikers were catching up to us now. One group of three young men was so compatible they were still cooking and eating out of the same pot after 2,000 miles. They still shared their 10 x 10 ft. tarp. We exchanged trail news and stories with them. They would bring news of us ahead, and we would have their reports for those who caught up. We talked of the water in northern California, solutio
ns to the cattle problems (a .357 Magnum was mentioned), inquired after the welfare of hikers ahead and behind, traded incredible stories of animals, hardships, sickness, and plummeting down 59 switchbacks. Each hiker is like a small town newspaper. The more trail gossip, editorials, weather predictions, current events and not so current, the better.
It rains quite often in Oregon. Overcast and chilly, I hiked with 3 layers on top, shorts and rain pants. The silnylon jacket did a great job keeping out the wind and rain. The attached silnylon mittens worn over fleece gloves kept my hands warm. Rainmaker was wearing Nike sandals, with Smart Wool socks, both he bought in Bend. Due to a foot injury suffered the first day hiking from Crater Lake, his New Balance Shoes were causing extreme pain. These sandals replaced the shoes and allowed us to go on, over snow and glaciers. I noticed his sandals never got heavier, because the water just drained away, but my high tops with shoe inserts grew heavier and completely water logged. A sharp pain developed in my instep every time I climbed with this additional stress. In the mornings he dried his sandals, and started out with dry feet. My shoes never dried completely for days on end. This is how I got my bright idea of hiking the Appalachian Trail in sandals.
Ollalie Lake Resort, reportedly quite similar to Shelter Cove, was our next resupply stop.
“Maybe they’ll have some decent deals. Like ramen, 2 for a dollar. Or, buy one oatmeal, get one free.” Rainmaker quietly considered my banter, and I continued, “Maybe like a free motel room with the purchase of every ramen.” Rain turned and gave me an incredulous
My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking Page 6
