Finally stuffed, and the buffet emptied, we walked next door to the store to supplement our drop box resupply. Ten people stood around listening intently to the radio turned up for customers and employees alike. From the streets of Manhattan directly to backwoods Stehekin, reports came live, transmitting the agony and fear. One woman was crying, telling listeners around the world of the people she saw, even while she spoke, jumping to their deaths. Desperate in their hopelessness, from the upper windows of the World Trade Center people flung themselves towards the pavement. Everyone was fleeing, all of lower Manhattan being evacuated, and the smoke, incredible suffocating smoke was everywhere.
My god, I thought, this is real. This is America. The country was in readiness, our politicians were telling us. We were in an advanced state of emergency. And the question on everyone’s tongue “Who are these terrorists?” We are told the Mexican and Canadian borders are closed. No planes are flying; all have been grounded until further notice.
Nothing made sense. A sick feeling came over me. I must get some fresh air. I must do something that makes sense. Rainmaker remains listening while I leave the store to work on my resupply. Not once do we consider not crossing that border. We have come too far, suffered too much, been out here too long. Neither Rainmaker, nor I, will turn back now.
My magic trail spoon disappeared. I carried that same spoon with me since the Lassen Park stream crossing, where I found it last year by the river’s edge. I looked high and low, through every stuff sack, and every corner of our tent. I went over the campground five times, checked the bear box, and retraced my steps, over and over. Then, I chided myself. Get real. People have lost their lives today, and you are mourning the loss of a spoon.
Hikers continued coming into town, were met with the news, shared the utter amazement and shock, which turned to anger that someone would commit this horrible act of violence. We thrilled at the story that four men on the last flight, hearing via cell phone of their fate, rushed the terrorists, still crashing, still dying, but as lions, and not sheep. And I think, “Never Again.” Never again will a hijacker be allowed to take over, take us anywhere. We are not pawns. Never again will we allow it.
But for now, the trail claims our attention. We rest, resupply, and mail home the final extras, those last few ounces not needed.
I met Zion, a thoughtful, intelligent 23 year old. He expressed concern that he will get drafted. Walking Bob invites Zion to come to Canada and hang out. He was hiking for Parkinson’s disease and bought two mousetraps there in Stehekin to eliminate the constant pests beneath his tarp. Jack, who I haven’t seen since Echo Lake, made it in. He is looking hungry, much older, and quite tired.
We left Stehekin the next morning after the ferry arrived with the only newspapers that village will see. I tried to buy a newspaper but the tourist ahead of me scooped up the last one. We stood around him on shore, as he slowly opened and paged through for our benefit. A small crowd, reading over his shoulder, standing closer than family, saw photos for the first time of our national disaster. Then, Rainmaker and I took the 11 o’clock bus out of town back to the trail. Eric and Molly, friends I’d met way back at Lake Morena, were catching that bus into town. Introductions were made, hugs and trail news exchanged. We broke the news of the disaster, to the best of our knowledge. The bus was returning to town, so we said our last goodbyes and hiked into the wilderness, leaving our nation to deal with its emergency. Until we arrived in Canada, we would receive no updates.
To The Canadian Border and Home
Now there were plenty of thoughts to occupy my mind. The state of our country, body aches and pains mounting up, how we were getting home, and new gear for a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. The smoke had abated and it appeared we would not have to reroute around any forest fires.
Border fever was a tangible feeling now. It drew us like a magnet, that last week of anticipation of completion, giving strength to tired bodies. We met Bad Boy Billy Bean and traded stories. He told us about a fellow hiker who awoke to find a bear’s face in his tent. He hauled off and slugged the intruder in the nose. The bear retreated, and the hiker went back to sleep. My friend Patch gained lasting admiration when we learned he had driven a cougar off twice in one evening, so that he could camp by water.
Beautiful weather continued. After a couple days, we saw one jet contrail, which meant the planes must be flying once more. What I would have given for a current newspaper!
We were weary, and only time would tell if gear, body or weather would hold up to the end. Early one morning, my trail spoon poured out of my Cheerios bag. Just before dawn, with barely enough light to see, a large object started falling out of my breakfast Ziploc bag when I dumped the cold cereal into my pot. At first, I thought it was a mouse, and was both repelled by the notion, yet curious about the creature. Then I realized it was my lost trail spoon. It had returned to me. Rainmaker understood when I kissed it, and reprimanded it for leaving me, for hiding like that and making me worry so.
Early morning hunters with high-powered rifles and scopes were seen everyday now. A buck walks into our camp early one morning, and shares the sunrise with us. He is safe until we leave. My blue sleeping pad was strapped on outside my pack, so we were more visible. I don't mind the hunters. They teach bears respect.
Layers of colors surrounded us; fall had arrived. The weather is perfect. A hawk circled overhead, then a vulture. “Not yet!” we called to him.
Rainmaker taught me so much, and it was always such a joy sharing trail adventures, stories and dreams. We will finish the Pacific Crest Trail together, a continuous unbroken line from the Mexican border to Manning Park, Canada. As we discussed the future, I realized he was contemplating the end of his long distance hiking career, as I was contemplating the beginning of mine. I love this life, and at last have found my peers. At last I feel respected, rewarded and allowed to find out who I am. Our appearance is horrible, untrimmed, ragged, and dirty. Our clothes don't match. We make no fashion statements. Often misunderstood and thought homeless, many of us are economically at the poverty level, and enjoying it.
On Monday, September 17th, David and I neared the Canadian border. Now I stopped, and waited for Rainmaker to lead the way. This adventure had begun as his hike. He had invited me along last year. He has led me to this discovery. It seemed appropriate that he should see Canada first, touch that monument, and rest his pack against the sign that designated our crossing.
The drama was nearly complete, and I would cherish it forever. You never loose things won at such cost, they will always be there for you. The mountains have infused us with their spirits. No matter what happens to us or around us, we will always be strong; we will always have our identity.
I looked up the side of the mountain, and saw a narrow strip of trees torn down at the base. That is one skinny avalanche! Oh, that is the border! We reached the monument, and Rainmaker raised his fist in a victory salute. Section hikers were lounging nearby and they took our photos. We ate some snacks, leaving just enough for supper and a light breakfast. Then we uncapped the monument, dug deep inside the pillar and found the register. We signed it, and read the names of those who came before us.
After many congratulations, we hiked up to a designated camping area near Windy Joe Mountain, in Canada. Twenty teenagers with two chaperones were already camped there. It was full with only one space left for a small tent just a bit off the trail in the main area. Since it was nearly dark, we immediately set up camp, and began cooking.
Kids are full of curiosity. These young people kept coming by asking us about water. They leapt over my aluminum pot, with its one last meal cooking over an esbit stove. I was afraid they would knock it over, contents, flaming hex tablet and all. After I had to change clothes in the tent to avoid the boys’ eyes I really started to feel crowded. Finally, a large group came so near, stepping over my stuff, I ceased cooking, looked them steadily in the eyes. In a soft slow voice I said, “I am drawing a circle around our si
te. Next one who steps over the line gets shot." They stopped, looked at me seriously, and gave me plenty of elbow space. No one crossed over that line the rest of the evening. Rainmaker was leaning against a tree. Silently, he looked at me with blue smiling eyes, and continued cooking. I sensed approval. The kids went to sleep early and except for the noisy attempts of the chaperones to hang their food bags, by flashlight, our last night on the trail was quiet.
As agreed, we woke at 4:30 a.m. and cooked coffee by red and green photon lights. I hung my red light on the tent door, setting a very mysterious atmosphere. We shared our peanut butter and whole-wheat bread, each getting a sandwich with predawn coffee. Hard to believe. Hard to believe it’s finished. I go home now. That was the last night on the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been hiking for nearly five months now. They say it changes you. They say you will never be the same. I think they must be right.
Rainmaker and I packed up so quietly and hit the trail as soon as we could see without lights. Only about four miles to go. By 8:30 we came to Gibson Road, a parking lot and “The End”. We then hiked on the road until it came to Hwy. 3. We turned left and there was the Manning Park complex; cabins, lodge, restaurant, gift shop, and groceries. We enjoyed a very nice breakfast, and saw other long distance hikers eating there, also. By paying with a credit card, the money change was no problem. If one pays with American dollars, they give Canadian back. Exchange rate was 40% increase in our favor.
We took the Greyhound bus to Vancouver. From there the 5 p.m. Amtrak bus took us to Seattle. The Customs officers were very thorough. The agent had problems seeing the bearded Rainmaker as the clean-shaven David Mauldin, the man on his driver’s license photo. After David removed his glasses, and reminded the officer that it had been a long hike, the agent finally let him pass. We flew out of Seattle on our reserved flight, the 22nd of September.
Reflections
So many things lost their influence on the trail. Money only mattered when I was in town, and then, it was spent on real things, like food and clothing. Reduced to drinking out of a plastic peanut butter jar, wearing the same clothes day after day for 5 months, and making all my worldly possessions fit into the pack, proved how little one really needs to be happy. The less I had, the more complete my experience. A materialistic attitude is detrimental to a long distance hiker.
The need for noise was replaced by quietness and focus on life: taking time to look, and see what is before me, observing the bears, snakes, water, wind, weather. Reading the true nature of things. Knowing now, for a certainty, that a person is truly responsible for his or her own happiness.
Society lost its power, and a new definition of the Real World replaced it. It is very real when one faces wilderness elements and life’s basic needs daily. Civilization seemed contrived, with all its self-inflicted trappings. Walls are built to keep things in, and out.
What works for me is here and now, and may not work for me forever, or for anyone else, now, or ever. I really learned to live in the moment, and for the moment. Respect is earned by what one does, not what one has.
Life -Lessons and Preparation
Chapter Five
Life-Lessons
In the fall of 2001, Rainmaker and I returned from the Pacific Crest trail, and enlarged our website, http://www.trailquest.net. We started selling silnylon tarps, rain pants and rain jackets, in addition to the stuff sacks, pack covers and patterns for our tents, the Lakota and the Cherokee. Our business partnership, Dancing Light Gear, began October 2000. I earned just enough to support my investment in designing, creating and testing backpacking gear for personal use, while maintaining my source of income by cooking at the hospital.
Foolishly, reluctantly, I resumed cooking at the hospital within one week of returning home from the trail. As usual, the kitchen was in turmoil, a true representation of society at its best and most human state. My mind would wander back to the freedom of the trail and the solidarity I felt with all things wild. My co-workers noticed a big change. No longer did I cower at their criticism, but defended my status and myself and made no effort to hide plans to hike again next spring. No one could imagine how one obtains such freedom; I could feel their resentment. There was such a difference between the women I worked with and myself. While they spent a great deal of money on clothing and furniture, I saved it for long distance hiking.
I love my home in the mountains with David, but longed to earn the title of Thru-Hiker. In the traditional, purist sense of the term, a thru- hiker is one who hikes an entire trail in one calendar year. Yellow blazing occurs when one hitch hikes ahead, skipping trail sections. Blue blazing is taking a short cut, or alternate trail. The Appalachian Trail, all 2,168 miles of it, is well marked and maintained with white blazes. My personal goal was to accomplish a purist thru-hike. Rainmaker and I agreed there was no reason to wait, that 2002 was a good year.
Personal issues and nightmares still haunted me. Many times I dreamt that all my freedom had been lost, and would wake up crying, wondering what had happened to Rainmaker. I wrote the poem "Survival Tree" in an effort to confront these fears and attempt an explanation of my moods. And, I hoped, given enough time, unburdened and free, I would no longer resemble a survival tree.
Survival Trees
the ones who could have died,
fallen upon, gnawed on, fire ravaged,
They are misshaped, ugly,
and deformed.
Perhaps no traces of the torments remain.
No one can tell why the tree looks like it does,
this perverse tree reaching for the sun.
But it lives, and that’s what is important.
It survives, that’s what matters.
The big strong straight trees have fallen,
are rotting.
But the survival tree remains.
That’s me. ---Brawny
Appalachian Trail Preparations
As I prepared for the Appalachian Trail, every gear item was scrutinized. My rain jacket and rain pants were still in usable condition after five months on the Pacific Crest Trail. I realized a pack made in that same fabric, 1.1 ounce per yard, silicone impregnated rip stop nylon, would be very light, and strong. Last year’s silnylon stuff sacks were still in reasonable shape in spite of being used externally (with my packless system) for several months. I designed the 8-ounce silpack, fashioned as an upright oversized stuff sack, and sewed it that winter. One tall stuff sack was placed inside a shorter stuff sack, with the same diameters, and stitched at the bottom. Four exterior pockets were formed by sewing 4 vertical seams up the sides. A mesh pocket was added later, which brought it up to 9 ounces, and an estimated capacity of 2,288 cubic inches. A top flap (the width of the pack) covered the opening and also had a pocket, providing additional space. All the seams were sealed with silicone. I added wide shoulder straps, (made from a closed cell pad) and covered them with silnylon. My water bottles were carried in their silnylon bags on the shoulder straps. The water provided a counter balance when the bottles were full. Many people questioned whether this pack could hold all my winter gear, with enough food to last between resupplies. I planned to give it a try. I made a hip belt the same way I did the shoulder straps, anticipating heavier loads when leaving town with 6 days of food.
Rainmaker and I began the search for a pair of shower tongs. The only ones I could find weighed three to four ounces. I decided to do without, until Rainmaker made some one-ounce “gram weenie” sandals for me. Made with shoe inserts and cord threaded through ventilation holes, they were light, fit well, and took up very little space. With such a small pack, the volume of an item was every bit as important as the weight. I wore these sandals everywhere in trail towns, shelters, on side trails to the privy and in public showers in hostels. From Fontana Dam to Katahdin, this ultralight footwear received much acclaim.
Rainmaker cut my orange plastic trowel down so that the handle was one inch shorter, and trimmed the blade by an inch and a half. This saved space, and ¾ ounce.
To commemorate my special piece of gear, I wrote my name and the date on it with a permanent magic marker.
A silnylon tarp measuring 5 feet x 8 feet weighs 7 ounces and can be successfully pitched for protection from rear and side wind and rain, using only 5 stakes and one guy line. We have used a trapezoidal floor, with the door on the side in several new ways. The resulting shelters and tarps are offered at Dancing Light Gear. We call them Tacoma tarps and shelters.
To pitch any rectangular tarp in a "Tacoma" configuration spread it full length on the ground. Stake down the back two corners, then pull the front forward and inward, forming a trapezoidal floor. This will create slack in the front, which will be taken up when the front pole is inserted. The greater the difference between the back and front lengths, the higher the pitch. Keep a low pitch in inclement weather, a higher pitch to break the wind, in good weather. Stake out the two front corners. Insert your hiking pole; lengthen until the canopy is taut. Tighten the pole and stake it out, using a guy line. The five-point tension will keep the pole in place, if its tip is inserted into a grommet or loop. The pole may be inverted, and the handle uppermost if it is secured with a clip in the wrist strap to the tarp. Silnylon is quite slippery; special care must be taken when using it. A customer requested a "beak" be sewn on for this pitching option. We designed an overhanging panel for various lengths of tarps. While working on this custom order, I saw my Tacoma Tent take shape. Further development led to the Tacoma line of shelters.
The quest for a solo ultralight tent weighing under a pound occupied my mind, on or off the job. By sewing a floor and special drop-down screen door, my Tacoma-style tent for the Appalachian Trail thru hike was created. I put a swing-style storm door on my tent. Seam sealed, with six stakes and guy lines, the weight was a very respectable 18 ounces.
My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking Page 8
