indie's Adventures on the Pacific Crest Trail 2010

Day 112 (Sunday, August 29): 1726, Callahan’s Lodge/Ashland to 1734

What is it that makes us tick, surge with adrenaline, or simply, smile? Most of us probably take these things for granted. On the trail, it can be those extra things in my resupply that I absolutely, positively forbid my parents from putting in my boxes. It can be a hot shower. Or the chance encounter. Today was one of those days that I’ll remember for many years to come.

Please understand that things have not been going badly. I’m happy, even in my constant pain. But this morning, in the comfort of a bed in a motel room, my body ached terribly. My feet, back, neck, shoulders, everything,… everything was crying out for a full zero day. Did I grant it? No. Instead, I woke up early, blogged, indulged in motel coffee, cheeriyoos, and bananas, and struggled to pack up my things for an 11AM check-out. Flyboxer, who preferred not to spend the previous night in Ashland, had relented, and we split the room at the Knight’s Inn. This was a good choice. It had been stormy and cold. The weather people had issued an ‘unusual weather alert. This morning, I wanted a zero, but gave in. It was somewhat sunny, warm, and there was no need for a zero. This meant we had to be out by 11.

I was aching for spiritual food, but the Catholic church, Our Lady of the Mountains, was about a mile and a half away. The address listed ‘Hillview Ave’ and alarm bells went off. No hills- no way. Instead of trying to walk, I made a sign with the name of the church and stood on the corner and held up the sign. Within a minute., Steve pulled over and drove me up to the church he had just left. Instead of being late and sweaty, I was 15 minutes early.

The 11:30 mass was the Spanish mass and, had I had a choice, it I would have donated an arm for English, but that was that. Regardless, I got to hear the Gospel, recieve the Eucharist, and exchange signs of peace with my Latino brothers. I will admit to having daydreamed once, imagining that at least one father or mother in that church had come in from Mexico and into California on the PCT, braving the heat, snakes, and Border Patrol. And now they had a beautiful family to show for it, bringing the entire family to Mass. After Mass, I asked Ralph for a ride back to Albertson’s, and he gladly agreed. I had gotten to go to Mass without having to walk any town miles. I had walked my share of them yesterday.

Flyboxer was outside the Subway at a table, and at the next table, Swayze and Dinosaur, who I hadn’t seen in weeks, since Sonora Pass. Flyboxer had resupplied, so I went into Albertson’s to pick up a few things, one of which was a rotisserie chicken. The plan was to devour the chicken, clean to the standards of a starved vulture.

When I got back to the outside tables, Flyboxer was talking to this 19-year old runaway named Jeremiah. He was hitchikng up and down the west coast. Flyboxer offered to get him a sandwich at Subway. Meanwhile, I shared some of my rotisserie chicken. The legs were his favorite part so it worked out well. The last thing to do was to grab my backpack from the motel lobby and pack up the few things I had bought.

The best spot to thumb a ride was about a 2 minute walk from the Knight’s Inn, where there was a freeway entrance ramp and two gas stations. We were going to take turns, so I went first, sticking out my thumb. Five minutes in, a weather worn-looking gentleman appeared out of nowhere and offered 3 gas station hot dogs. He could have been homeless or pulled off to the side of the entrance ramp and ran over. At about the same time, a man in his Sunday best and driving a long white truck started yelling my name “Indie, Indie. I can’t believe it!” He was waving me over to where he was on pause at the entrance ramp. Something inside said “Go” even though I didn’t know him. When I came over to the window, again, he said “Indie. I’m Scott. I’ve been reading your blog for months. Get in!” By this time, Flyboxer had come over. “Flyboxer, is that you?” “Flyboxer, Indie, I can’t believe I am finally meeting you!” I was blown away. Flyboxer was blown away. Scott was in a state of shock. We had never met before but it was as though we knew eachother.

To be called by name by someone you’ve never met is a supernatural experience. Jesus calls us BY NAME to his banquet. So, here we were in a truck with Scott, who knew us both from my blog. Scott said over and over about how he couldn’t believe that he ran into us. Scott had left a comments two months earlier on my blog, stating “when you get up to Ashland, dinner at Callahan’s Lodge is on me.”

Scott knew every detail of our thru-hike from reading every blog post. He was inspired by the thru-hike, something he repeated over and over. It’s hard to find the right words to express how inspired I felt as well. The blog had struck a popular chord with Scott, a PCT fanboy since 1981, and seemed to resonate with him. He had been following our progress north, toward Ashland, but with Internet so sparse and blog posting so infrequent, it was hard for him to gauge exactly where we were on the trail. Somehow he recognized two hikers standing on the edge of a freeway ramp and made the connection.

Scott drove us up to near where the PCT was, but turned off near Callahan’s. He offered to buy us dinner several times before we finally agreed. Dinner was absolutely amazing. I opted for a mountain salad, three-layer cheesecake, and a local beer, Caldera Ashland Pale Ale. Scott was as captivated by our story as we were by his interest and excitement. “You guys are my heroes!” Scott even asked Flyboxer how his fingers were doing. He had read a blog post called “Fried Fingers,” in which Flyboxer had grabbed a rock out of a campfire and burned two fingers. Scott also told us about his hiking adventures with his Ashland-based family: his wife and six children. We were three Christians that had been brought together not by fate, but by faith. He even asked us to sign the back of his receipt from dinner. Scott got to see something most people don’t: our trail signatures: my trail signature, where the second i is upside down, and Flyboxer’s fly with a black eye.

When Scott dropped us off, we hiked on in disbelief of what an amazing encounter it had been. I had by the swtiched out of my Sunday best into my Lawrence of Arabia outfit, as soiled as it was. There had been little time to do anything in Ashland. Laundry was the way it was when I left as it was when we got there. But that has nothing to do with anything. What had been meant to happen in Ashland had happened: a little chance to rest and a chance for three people who had come out of the woodwork to share a story and a smile.

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Day 111 (Saturday, August 28): 1712 to 1726, Callahan’s Lodge/Ashland

It was amazing that my tarp survived the night in loose pine dirt. The winds howled all night, and brought with them temps in the 30s. The weather is abnormal. Plain and simple. I made some hot cocoa. This seemed to help warm me up pretty nicely.

I hiked solo for a good part of the morning. The focal point was Mount Ashland, with it’s radio tower and other space communications stuff on top of it. Walking on this mountain’s flanks revealed some serious clouds and the constant threat of rain. I was completely bundled up, hat, gloves, and hood. Fog banks rolled over the places of least resistance on the mountain ridges.

Rounding out a big bowl, I felt the urge to sing loudly, forgetting the warning shots the day before. There were trail runners coming up the mountain. I could blame them, if necessary, I figured. When I came to the other side of the bowl, I saw my one-person audience laughing. Flyboxer. He was at the Ash Cache, as I called it. It was a cooler of Pepsi cans in a cooler labeled ‘Long Distance Hikers Only.’. I dug in. There was no ice in the cooler and it was still ice cold. The trail register asked for a highpoint, lowpoint, and embarrassing moment. I listed getting over Forrester Pass as my high point, almost turning around before Forrester as my lowpoint, and as my embarrassing moment, getting called ‘homeless’ in the lobby of the Acton Post Office.

Afterwards, we began to descend toward Ashland, a mid-sized city in southern Oregon. I saw a coyote just off the trail and then just tried to ignore the cold and stormy clouds. Flyboxer and I finished the trail down together, entertaining eachother with great storytelling. Some drizzle made it through the trees, but not much.

Nearing the bottom, fleets of 18 wheelers could be heard rolling down Interstate 5. Next to it, Highway 99, with little or no traffic. This was the road we took to walk to Callahan’s Lodge, where Flyboxer had sent a resupply box.

When we got there, to Callahan’s, there was no box. Flyboxer was bummed and frustrated. I reminded him that he’d dealt with this before, and survived. A wedding reception was gearig up in the lobby. We certainly didn’t fit the satiny purple dress code, but it was still nice to behold. To add to the frustration, it began to rain. Hitchiking would be really tough in the rain, standing in one place. Very fortunately, Vicki and Alan had stopped in for lunch and offered us a ride to Ashland. This was a huge victory.

In Ashland, 12 miles from the PCT, Alan dropped us off at the hostel. It would have been sweet digs for the night, but there was no vacancy, and almost no vacancy in town overall. Spillz and Norwegian had lucked out with the people that they hitched with. There was another hostel that we made reservations with, but later ditched. It was limbo for several hours. Not a good feeling for a very tired me.

Either way, I needed to get some things at the outdoor store. A sleeping bag liner that was advertised to add 14 degrees of warmth. A tent stake. Two rope lengths. A cord lock. And a titanium spork. Yes, a beautiful spork. In the store, we saw Ace. He tried to line up some floor space where they were staying, but the others weren’t into the idea. Ace was super cool for trying and I’m forever grateful for that. As Flyboxer said, ‘On the Appalachian Trail, there is always room for one more, no matter how crowded the shelter.’

There was some room at the Knight’s Inn, and that’s where we ended up staying. It was a 3 1/2 mile walk though through downtown Ashland and out to near the interstate. It stunk at the moment, but we got there after missing two turns. There was a sweet sunset over some abandoned railroad tracks. It almost looked like a pink floodlight shining toward the sky.

The Knight’s Inn was pretty great. A bed, a shower, Taco Bell closeby, and lots of cartoons for the 39-year old kidult living inside me. Too bad it was 8 when we got there. It could have been that stress-free, restful town stop that I had been dreaming of.

Thanks for reading!

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Day 110: (Friday, August 27): 1685.9 to 1712

The PCT was a great little camp with the wind howling the previous night. It was still blowing in the morning. Clouds filled the valleys. A cow with a cowbells around its neck was right on the trail. We didn’t have a stare down. We just kind of enjoyed the eachothers’ novelty.

Spills and Norwegian were camped not too far away. Together we continued on our ‘alien march.’ It’s not only Stack’s mom’s trail name, but really conveys the nature of this thru-hike. It’s foreign to most people the idea of hiking so far. It would be foreign to aliens if they saw it from a UFO. And it’s a march, a relentless migration northward that repeats day after day. One foot after another, sometimes in cadence, we slowly advance.

We reached the California-Oregon border today. It was a random swath of forest with a sign and a register. Spillz and Norwegian were there. Norwegian handed over a bottle of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey. I had two swigs. This time I didn’t faint.

We were all relieved to be there. I could not have picked a finer group of hiker trash to cross the border with. We had a strange conversation. It was a truth session. We talked about the miles we had walked, the uncertainty of the miles ahead, and even sections we skipped for one reason or another. For me, the twelve miles of Fuller Ridge that had been an avalanche and ice chute-ridden death trap of a section in the San Jacintos of Southern California. I had already done those miles anyway in 1996, with Andrew. These comments were not prompted by anything, so they had a very unique flavor. It was like the end of The Breakfast Club when they have a heart-to-heart, radically honest circle talk. As we were leaving, I yelled ‘Kalifornia, you are terminated. But I’ll be back!’ in my best Arnold Schwartzenneger as the Terminator accent.

The first Oregon miles were indeed easier. What a relief. It got colder right away. Almost immediately, in fact. We decided to cook early and walk late, but finding a sunny spot was difficult. Colder and colder it got. The wind became more intense. We crossed Wrangle Gap, and later, Siskiyou Gap. Finally, a little wind battered clearing in the woods appeared. Usually, trees block any wind when they plentiful. Not on that night. The north wind was able to penetrate even the thick woods. Setting up camp was a challenge in the wind and unusually soft soil. A cold night was on its way.

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Hi everyone!

For those of you who don’t know, I love to surf. Surfing is not just about waves- it’s about the people you surf them with. Matt and I have been the closest of friends for about five years now- in and out of the water. He recently interviewed me as part of his NJ surf blog. Please check out the following link for for the second installment of “Surfer into the Wood: Part 2″ and consider visiting or subscribing to his blog, http://www.seasandsurf.com, especially if you’re a surfer. Matt, thanks a million!

http://seasandsurf.com/2010/08/28/surfer-into-the-woods-part-ii/

Here’s Part 1 in case you missed it:

http://seasandsurf.com/2010/05/13/surfer-into-the-woods-part-i/#comments

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Day 109 (Thursday, August 26): Mid-River RV Park 1662.1 to 1685.9

Seiad Valley has the ‘Seiad Valley Pancake Challenge’, which is eating a 5-pound pancake. Most PCTers take on this challenge. We passed this up, and breakfast entirely, just to get on the road early. We had almost 6,000 vertical feet to climb over the course of the day. This was one of the biggest climbs of the PCT. With temps as high as they were yesterday, there was no lollygagging or delays in the morning. Flyboxer and I took off by 6:30.

The PCT followed Hwy 96 for the first mile. Again, blackberry bushes paved the way. With more time, it would have been such a treat to gorge myself on them. A PCT marker waved us to the right side of the road where the trail immediately began to ascend above the Klamath River. The starting elevation was 1,371 and the ending elevation was 5,910. And that was just the first climb to just beyond Devil’s Peak. Within two miles, I reached Fern Spring and got destroyed by mosquitoes. Five miles later, the trail met Lookout Spring, Scott Williamson’s favorite spring in the PCT.

In hiking lore, Scott is a legend. He has hiked the PCT about ten times, and walked the entire trail south-north and north-south (yo-yo) in a single season. Guess what he did for their honeymoon a couple of years ago. Yes, the PCT.

After reaching Devil’s Peak and its amazing 360 degree view, the PCT dropped off to Kangaroo Spring, a little pond off trail which had a resident salamander living in it. Spills and Norwegian were there, procrastinating. The trail more or less delivered me to my lunch spot a mile later, a shady spot above Lily Pad Pond. Lily Pad Pond was almost entirely full of lillies. Seen from above it looked polka-dotted.

After lunch, the sometimes level and other times steep downhill PCT, I ended up at Cooks & Green Pass. Flyboxer was propped up against his sleeping bag. There, the temperature change was so dramatic. In the sun, it was baking hot. In the shade, it was in the 50s. After getting water from a spring just a tenth of a mile off trail, I was sweating heavily during the next 1,500 foot climb from Cooks & Green Pass (4,745) to Bear Dog Spring at 6,108. On the way there, Flyboxer was doing really bad impersonations of Bobcat Goldthwait, Goldfinger, and Sean Connery. I was expertly impersonating Sean Connery and Joe Lieberman/Alf’s dad/Doctor Zoidberg from Futurama. We were pretty loud. Loud enough to scare away a deer. A deer that a bow hunter had staked out for the kill all day. Two rifle shots were fired. We think they were Shutup Shots fired by a hunter, a warning. I mentioned it was hot earlier in the day. By the time we got up there, an arctic wind was blowing at about 20-25 mph. I mean arctic. Right from the north.

These weather shifts spook me every time. It was time to camp but the spots were nowhere to be found. Any spot on an exposed ridge was extremely cold and windy, basically uninhabitable. A sheltered spot right on the trail finally availed itself, and despite Flyboxer’s initial objections, that was the spot of the last campsite in California. With the clouds rolling in quickly overhead, the tarp went up too. What a relief it was to be out of the wind.

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Day 108 (Wednesday, August 25): 1639.5 to Seiad Valley and Mid-River RV Park 1662.1

Hello to everyone and thanks for joining me!

23 miles needed to be hiked by 4PM. We had our work cut out for us. It wasn’t going to be easy. My phone alarm went off at 4:30 AM, the earliest since SoCal. This was a golden opportunity to win some PM relax time and get the resupply done, IF we made it to the Post Office in Seiad Valley on time.

The ridge we had camped on set us up for some downhill almost right away, right out of the sleeping bags. It’s always easier to start a morning this way, bestowing some kindness on the knees that they’re not used to. Early on, we passed the Norwegian and Spills, and also Buckhorn Spring. Then the switchbacks down began. I crossed several roads and large, shaded tracts of forest, eventually ending up on in the Grider Creek Valley. There were lots of springs coming down out of the hillside meeting the creek. I found Flyboxer at one of these, snacking away. It seemed as though we were on schedule to make the post office. Intent on the goal of 4PM, we separately made our way down Grider Creek, which was several miles walk down valley. The trail soon became overgrown with poison oak. The trail rose high above the creek sometimes and other times, crossed it on a bridge.

By about noon, we had hiked more or less 14 miles. Adding in lunch and a reminder from Norwegian and Spills, we had 7 more and about 2 1/2 hours to walk them. They were gone in an instant, then Flyboxer. I went down to the creek for water. This cost me some valuable time, as the log bridge had split in half. With the bark not too trustworthy on the rotted log sloping steeply toward the river, I pulled out my baby steps. As I would discover two minutes later, there was a third bridge over Grider Creek where I could have gotten water more easily.

After crossing the bridge and leaving the trail for a parking lot and a nexus of several roads, things got confusing. The trail markings were sparse at best. An old trail, the Old Grider Creek Trail, could have also been the PCT. Otherwise, it seemed like just roads, not trail. I consulted my maps for the first time and it seemed like a road walk all the way to Seiad Valley. How could this be? Wouldn’t Norwegian have mentioned it? There was only one sign pointing right but no PCT markers. Making a mistake here would be costly. Timewise, I’d miss the post office. This would mean climbing out of Seiad Valley, a 5000+ foot climb, in the heat of the day. And today, it was 106F, and the sun was at its evilest.

I turned right onto Grider Creek Road. At the final crossing of Grider Creek on the road, I checked the orientation of the bridge: northeast. I consulted my map to check: northeast. This was the PCT. Not believing myself, I continued to walk, every step more skeptical than the last. Where were the others? I thought with my speedwalk, I might have caught them. No sign of anyone, just curtains of heat smacking me around. Finally an SUV came along. It was the PCT the young lady confirmed. I asked her if she had seen anyone ahead on the road. She had not. Where were the others?

Flyboxer came down the road just as I was leaving a note for him, Spills, and Norwegian. He had taken a hike on the wrong trail for about 5 minutes, sensed it was wrong, and then U-turned. We PCTers definitely have a sense for our path.

With about 4 1/2 miles and one hour and fifteen minutes, Flyboxer and I continued on the 6 1/2 mile road walk to Seiad Valley. Let me tell you this: it was the hottest day of the year in Seiad Valley. The temp was 106F. Walking down the blacktop road took me right back to the two road walks we had done and of the hottest days in SoCal. The pressure was on, though.

The Klamath River runs right through Seiad Valley, and we walked alongside it. Blackberries were growing in huge brambles right next to the road. Speedwalking past them did not last. It couldn’t. Despite the time crunch, we stopped and began to look for the blackest of the black berries. They are entirely sun-baked, and if you know anything about berry selection, those in direct sunlight are the sweetest. These were super sweet. There was a sprinkler along the way too. This too earned a pitstop, an opportunity to cool off temporarily. I noticed another trend also. Signs, which stated “NO MONUMENT-KS WILD”. There is a movement to protect the local mountains from development and mineral extraction. The proposed monument would be the Siskiyou Monument and KS refers to Ken Salazar, Department of Interior Secretary.

This is not only the West, it’s Northern California, and not only that, it’s the State of Jefferson. Different rules apply. Well, that mythical would-be state only exists in the minds of the people, on T-shirts, and on post office walls. Yes, there was a failed movement here about 50 years ago to secede from the State of California.

45 minutes. Two miles. Highway 96. Over the mighty Klamath. Hot, hot road. Hot. Hot. A 4-H welcome to Seiad Valley sign. A banner advertising Seiad Day on August 28. We made it with 14 minutes to spare. And my resupply box was there.

Seiad Valley is teeny tiny. Just a post office, store, cafe, and RV park. Everything was close together so we walked over to the luscious lawn of the Mid-River RV Park. Sure enough Spillz and Norwegian were there ChillAXIN! Norwegian was lying down reading the Herald News of Bristol, TN and Bristol, VA. Spills was reading a People-type mag. Both had beers in hand. Both were setting a good example on the elusive essence of relaxation that so often evades me.

Flyboxer and I worked on our resupply. It was more relaxing than usual. I got goodies, like Vienna Wafers, Mentos, and Slim Jims. The rest was expected. I even got a laminated photo of one of my nephews, Mattei. This was a pretty awesome surprise. The grass session ended with the owner bringing out his pooches to run the grass. We went into what is affectionately called ‘The Manger.’ It’s an enclosed area with half cement and half hay where hikers are allowed to camp. There was also a little flat screen and a fridge, which I hoped to make use of. People often look in at us ‘farm animals’ lying around on the hay.

At 6, we went in search of dinner at the Seiad Store. The selection was workable. Burritos were there. And Heet, my stove fuel. Spills and Norwegian hung around doing their resupply and left at around 8. Flyboxer and I stayed, deciding that 22 miles had been enough for one day. This turned out for the best. We chose out of a large binder of DVD’s and picked ‘Goldfinger’ with Sean Connery. I had never seen the entire movie, just up to the lines ‘Do you expect me to talk?’ (007). ‘No, no Mr. Bond. I expect you to die!’ We couldn’t have picked a better movie, considering we imitate Sean Connery most of the day, every day. And sleeping in a manger full of hay was a new experience too.

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Day 107 (Tuesday, August 24): Cub Bear Spring at 1614 to 1639.5

Here begins another day’s worth of walking in my quest to walk from Mexico to Canada on the PCT. And my greetings and thanks to you for joining me!

Flyboxer and I have been flim-flamming a bit….. Sleeping late, taking long breaks, stopping early. These are all proven strategies for failing to make it to Canada, so we resolved to get up early and do more than 25 miles.

We started at 6:45 AM. This was much better than usual. In fact, it was near miraculous. Maybe my hot chocolate/coffee mix helped me get up. I’ll admit that there was some grumbling and plenty of complaining. At least the weather was clear.

Some new people were just up the trail from where we slept: Two Step and Ace, Jenny, Ninjay. We leapfrogged with them in the morning. Hojo and Wide Angle were up there somewhere, but we never caught them, unfortunately. This is the reality of the Marble Mountain Wilderness of Klamath National Forest. There’s not an easy mile the entire way.

The trail took a nasty turn from OK to brutal. I remember looking out north before we got to Etna and seeing jagged peaks ahead, and nothing but jagged peaks. We were in the heart of them now. Going up steeply, over a saddle with Man Eaten Lake to the South, as blue as Tahoe. Just after a steep downhill, there was a steep uphill punctuated by obscenities.

During the afternoon, an incredibly brilliant white mountain came onto the horizon. It looked completely out of place. One side of it looked like a battleship. The other was a cliff and below it looked like 1000 feet of dried ice cream running down the mountain. It would take me at least a half day to put 2 and 2 together, that it was Marble Mountain. Made of white marble. We got hella close to it and eventually walked beneath it. In getting there, I had my head down as I was digging in uphill, and the trail took a super sharp left. I almost missed it, and in my deep concentration, almost walked off the cliff like a pirate off a gangplank.

At around 4:30, we were stopped at a water source with Spills and Norwegian. They were saying they were going to try and get to Seiad Valley before the post office closed the following day. So me and Flyboxer decided to try to attempt the same. It wouldn’t be easy. It would mean doing about 9 more miles tonight and 22 tomorrow before 4PM. Our track record gave no reason for optimism. Still, we decided to go all out and try.

And try we did. We walked right to the top of a ridge by twilight and camped where cows most likely lie during the day, judging by all the cow pies. All things considered, especially the vicious heat and difficulty, we did pretty good.

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Day 106 (Monday, August 23): Hiker’s Hut in Etna to 1606.3, Somes Bar-Etna Road, to Cub Bear Spring at 1614

Sleeping in a bed is no guarantee of good sleep. Last night, I had chaotic dreams. Then, when I woke up, the computer’s screen saver, the one that looks like space, where the little stars fly toward you…it looked like it was as big as the entire room. It freEAKed me out! Walking toward the bathroom on a flat floor is foreign also. I’m so used to bumpy ground that I stumble on the flat ground. Toss in some sleep apnea and I had a solid headache when I woke up.

I decided to pass on breakfast, opting for extra sleep. Things changed at around 7:30 when Hiker X came into the Hut to drive us to breakfast at Bob’s Family Restaurant. With a ride, it would have been silly to refuse.

Bob’s was a neighborhood restaurant. The counter, which had bar stools to sit at, had that long, classic look, with a Formica top. We grabbed a table in the corner. Coffee all around. There was no shortage of things to talk about; Sammy was returning to Georgia, Hiker X was heading back out, and the usual hiker chatter that never seems to bore me or anyone else on the PCT. My tomato, bacon, and avocado omelette really hit the spot.

After breakfast, I went back to the Hut and began to tie up loose ends. I ended up moving my flight from October 6th to the 13th, just in case. I also ordered a new jacket for the wet weather we’ll likely hit in Washington. I took a shower. Blogged. Reorganized. Packed my things. Watched You Tube. And the time just seemed to disappear. It was already afternoon before I left the house in search of denatured alcohol stove fuel and some lunch. Spills, Hojo, and Norwegian were already sticking their thumbs out for a ride near the pharmacy. I was able to get their leftover fuel from the hardware store for free, which was a big bonus.

For lunch, I went all out… Two bean burritos, strawberry flavored milk, and a 1-pound kielbasa. Flyboxer threw in an appelsauce and a pudding that he didn’t want. It wasn’t until about 4:30 when we finally settled up the bill and loaded our stuff into Dave’s Explorer. I’ve gotta give it to him- he was so patient waiting for us to get our act together at the Hut. I hope I can be so understanding and soft spoken someday.

Dave dropped us off at the PCT junction at the pass, Etna Summit. We probably milled around there for fifteen minutes before finally shouldering our packs. I guess we weren’t sure if we wanted to go. Towns can easily turn into a sort of vortex that is hard to escape. But we did.

We made it seven miles to Cub Bear Spring, which was about 1/4 mile off trail. And so began Section Q., 55 miles from Etna to Seiad Valley.

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Day 105 (Sunday, August 22): Paynes Lake Creek, 1600.4 (Paynes Lake campsite off-trail) to 1606.3, Somes Bar-Etna Road, hitchhike to Hiker’s Hut in Etna, CA

Paynes Lake was a beautiful place to throw down yesterday. The cold that I felt there probably could not have been avoided anywhere on the mountain. There was no escaping it. Hopefully it’s just a cold front and not the normal climate. I finished the last of my granola from inside my tent.

On our way out, we ran into Spills and the Stumbling Norwegian. We hadn’t seen them in about a week. They had arrived around 9:30 the night before. Flyboxer unveiled Spills’s aviator sunglasses and bug net I had found and he had carried from Castella, thinking he’d run into them there.

As we were nearing our first creek, I spotted a chipmunk engaging in a heinous act. It wasn’t the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth or the awkward stance he was in. It was the perversely guilty look in his eyes. He was engaging in an act of cannibalism in what appeared to be another chipmunk. Maybe it was his brother, or cousin, or Alvin. Regardless, it was a perversion of nature and an abomination! We had caught him mid-nibble. Vile it was and horrify us it did, indeed. As it scampered away with what should have been an acorn, our conversation turned to instances of cannibalism in popular culture. Had it been a the members of a Chilean rugby team in a plane crash in the Andes, OK. Had it been Mr. Donner during a failed crossing of Donner Pass in the winter of, OK. Had it been Alferd Packer his doomed winter trek from Colorado City to Gunnison, Colorado, OK. But not a chipmunk! And NOT IN AUGUST!

A mile into the morning we met Hojo, a thru-hiker I had met in Echo Lake, and Wide Angle, a German who carries an SLR camera and apparently takes really good pictures. I, of course, told them about the chipmunk and then enjoyed their company walking along toward Etna.

Six miles to Etna would seem so easy, but in that short time, we had a climb, and then generally walking with the shivers. Getting closer to the highway at Etna Summit revealed layers of very rugged terrain ahead in the Marble Mountains. Etna would be a welcome stop and provide for some badly needed R&R.

We passed by a bow hunter, who put a human face on this hunting thing that I was ranting about yesterday. He was genuinely nice, and interested in our long trek. From there, it wasn’t much farther to the road where we hitched from, Somes Bar-Etna Road. There wasn’t much there other than parking and a big pile of gravel. Growing in that pile of gravel, I saw a gorgeous specimen of Giant Blazing Star (pictured).

We had barely waited 10 minutes when the hunter we had spoken to pulled up and offered us a hitch to Etna in the open bed of his Ford. It was a dream. A half an hour of cruising along with Hojo and Flyboxer, whistling around the tight corners of the banked road. In most places, hitchiking is illegal. Lucky for us it’s alive and well.

We were going to go to a local college which used to offer dorm rooms for ten bucks. I preferred the Hiker’s Hut, but we heard it was closed for the season. We got dropped off near the Etna Microbrewery, picked some blackberries, and began walking toward the college. In fact, it was the college that had closed. Not really sure what to do, and making that pretty obvious on the roadside, we were pretty thrilled when Hiker X showed up with Sammy, his girlfriend visiting from
Georgia. They had us dump our packs and hop in for a ride to Hiker’s Hut, which was open.

Dave and Vicki Harrison greeted us with open arms. They own the Alderbrook Manor, a quaint and inviting bed and breakfast in Etna. They host weddings as well as guests. As I told Dave, in the extremely unlikely event that I ever got married, I would love to have my reception at a place like that. On the side of the house, in a garage converted into something that screamed out ‘ultimate bachelor pad’ was the Hiker’s Hut. This is it’s ninth year in operation. There are four comfy bunks, couches, kitchenette, shower, computer and TV. If there was ever a place that I should be able to chill at, this was it.

Early on, I met Double Check, who had just turned 21 the night before. He had never touched alcohol in his life and decided to keep that streak. My first decisive move was to take a shower. It was the LEAST I could do to reduce the miasma (bad air). I got some key loaner clothed- a cotton tee and cut off jean shorts. I mean short shorts. They repulsed even me, yet some members of our female contingent seemed to say that they worked on me. I had nothing else to put on, as everything was in the laundry. There’d be time to hang out later at the microbrewery, so I gathered my energies for my resupply.

I walked through downtown Etna, a tiny town. Every building, nook, and cranny is photogenic: the diner, the hardware store, the lodges, the old-fashioned malt shop, and every house. It was like a real life movie set. Since it was Sunday, everything save the supermarket was closed. Ray’s Food Place had a decent selection and very reasonable prices. The selection made it near impossible for me. I only had to buy food for two days, yet it took two hours. By the time I lugged my half gallon of ice cream and my groceries back, it was time for dinner. It was 5:30. I had barely even made a phone call. I made time to dive into my dessert before my dinner.

Dinner at the microbrewery was right up my alley: good company, good grub, and good beer. The company and beer were stellar. The food was average at best. It was Spills, Norwegian, Flyboxer, Wide Angle, Hiker X, Sammy, Double Check, Hojo, myself, and two southbounders, Cassandra and Jason. Hiker X and Sammy treated with two pitchers. Sitting in the sun and with no lunch to help metabolize the alcohol, I felt comfortable right away. So did everyone else. We definately drowned the place in laughter. Someone bought two cakes for Double Check, and singing Happy Birthday was fitting.

Dinner didn’t satiate anyone. We all went directly to Ray’s Food Place to get more food. Two thru-hikers, Medic and Flyboy, were outside on the concrete doing their resupply. Flyboy was thought lost by Medic near the Whitewater River north of the San Jacintos. He freaked out and called for help. A helicopter search and rescue team was dispatched, found Flyboy less than a mile away, made him get on the chopper, and dropped him off with Medic. That’s their story.

I got two burritos to eliminate my hunger. Flyboxer got a 4-pack of Drumsticks ice cream. Spills had a craving for Swanson’s TV dinners and ended up getting two chicken pot pies (respect). Flyboxer and I really wanted to watch a video or something, but it never happened. He had his stuff to do, and I blogged, all the while listening to an oldies station that normally would have driven me nut, but seemed to work this time. I got my blogging done in the wee hours, which was about when I conked out. In a bed. In a bed. In a bed. My first bed in about a month and a half, since Bishop.

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Day 104 (Saturday, August 21): Bloody Run Trail Junction, 1577.8, to Paynes Lake Creek, 1600.4 (Paynes Lake campsite off-trail)

Welcome back dear readers and welcome to any new readers! I hope you enjoy!

Cold is not a good motivator unless there’s hot chocolate or piping hot coffee to draw you out of your sleeping bag. Nothing of that sort is going on. Camped out at around 7,000 feet in the Trinity Alps, cold is pretty likely. If all the wives tales are true, I will get
sick from being cold any day now.

By 8AM, Flyboxer and I went about our separate ways, both northbound of course. We continued where we had left off the night before, in the Scott Mountains. Warming up took a lot longer than usual with the cloudy skies overhead.

It was the opening day of bow hunting season. We saw a couple of hunters on top of a ridge dividing Trinity and Siskiyou counties. They were hoping to kill both a deer and a bear. This got my blood boiling, and Flyboxer’s as well. This is the wilderness after all. There are barely any animals as it is. Besides chipmunks, deer, birds, and a few bears, there isn’t much. Flyboxer put it best “They’re out here hunting, trying to do for one weekend what the deer does every day- survive.” We both felt more kinship with the deer and the bear than the hunters. Later on, during our break, some horse people asked us ‘Any luck yet?’ Flyboxer answered ‘We’re not trying to kill anything.’ That pretty much sealed the conversation.

At the South Fork of the Scott River, we met a southbounder named Machine. She was fresh and clean out of Etna, a sunny blonde herself, but heading in the opposite direction of course. We got some good info on Etna, which we would reach the next day. Not long after, we crossed Hwy 93 at Carter Meadows, a remote, windey forest road.

After crossing, we began a climb that would last several hours. This climb took us into the Salmon Mountains of Klamath National Forest, and soon after, the Russian Wilderness, where the Russian River is born. Most of the climbing took place on a long traverse on a steady grade. It reminded me a lot of the Sierras. I had first heard about the Russian River from a reggae festival that takes place there- Reggae on the River. I never got to go, but wanted to. It left an image of good music in a truly wild setting imprinted in my mind.

The cold persisted. The clouds grew. Icey cold breezes would pass through creases in the mountains. I reached the summit of the climb, and Flyboxer, at around six. At this point I was scrounging to get any remaining sun to warm up for the next three miles. Finding a place to sleep was not easy. In fact, it took three miles to get to that spot at Paynes Lake. There were several groups of people there, all of which were friendly. It looked like it was going to rain, and on top of it, it got progressively colder. Yikes.

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