ITT - Intensive Trail Therapy: Flapjack Lakes

One of the most frustrating things about being diagnosed with a stress fracture in my lower leg has been the fact that it's not that bad of an injury.  While painful for the first two weeks, to the point where I couldn't walk or even raise and lower my foot, my leg has felt pretty healthy since mid-June for day-to-day, normal use.  Of course, the PCT is not normal use.

Given that my recovery was happening in Washington, I opeted to reverse course and head south from the Canadian border three weeks after my initial diagnosis.  I was excited to get back out to the trail, albeit under different conditions from where I left it, but the call of the hike was pulling me out there.  Unfortunately it was too soon.

The details of my three day hike up to Canada and back from Hart's Pass in North Cascades National Park are for a later post, but the aftermath of the hike left me hobbled for another week, my lower leg still in pain though there had been none for a week prior, and now my feet, and knees aching from compensating for that pain.  I was a mess, and terribly defeated.  I returned to Olympia and my parent's house lost and ready to give up entirely.  I had no idea how to get back to where I was before my disasterous week in the Sierras.

I still wanted to hike.  My three days in the Cascades had inspired me more than anywhere before to photograph the beauty out there, but my body wasn't cooperating.  I needed a plan to get back.  I needed to find a way to be sure the pain wouldn't derail me again.

A week later I was feeling good again, but was wary.  In the month I'd been off trail I'd seen several other hikers forced to leave from injury, including my friend Eric, one of the Warrior Hikers who I'd grown close to since leaving Campo.  Eric had hurt his knee coming into Tahoe, and had himself been forced to return to Olympia to recover at his house not two blocks from where I was staying with my parents.  People were dropping like flies off the trail, but I was determined not to be away for ever.  I needed to get back out.

It was Eric who introduced me to the term ITT, Intensive Trail Therapy.  Looking to heal as he hiked, Eric's plan was to rest until he felt better then use the physicality of the trail to work himself back into hiking condition.  I liked the sound of it.

But first I needed to test myself physically, to determine whether my body could even stand up to the rigors of day hiking, let alone distance hiking.  My parents live an hour from Olympic National Park, one of my favorite places to hike, so I picked a trail not far from their house, a 15 mile out and back hike up to Flapjack Lakes, off the Staircase section of the Olympics, an area I've become very familiar with over the years, and a longtime nemesis of mine.

In 2012 I attempted my first distance hike up the North Fork Skokomish Trail, and was soundly beaten by the mountain on the way up.  I'd made it 18 miles into the trail when I gave up and turned around, and was so exhausted and beaten up by the experience I hardly moved for two days after.  The reasons for turning back: too much weight, snow, and pain in my knees.  These seem to be recurring problems for me.

Flapjack Lakes had long been on my list of destinations, though I'd always thought of it as an overnight hike.  Though only 7.5 miles from trailhead to lake, the Olympics have a way of exaggerating distances, whether through poorly maintained trails, high elevation gains, or weather, 10 miles seems like 20 in those mountains.  My choice of this 15 mile trail, however, was based on my confidence, or hubris, that that distance had been my minimum on the PCT, and I was hiking during the height of summer in Washington, when the weather was warm, the days long, and the trails abundant with berries (a deciding factor for me, for sure).

I set out at 11:30 from the Staircase ranger station, along the mostly level trail for about 3.5 miles til I reached the junction to the flapjack trailhead.  I felt good, strong, fast.  I passed day hikers and blew past them, and felt no small amount of pride at being a stronger hiker than when I'd hiked this section in the past.  The fact that these other hikers were old women and small children meant nothing to me, I was a strong hiker, damn it!

It took me an hour and a half to reach the junction, well ahead of my PCT pace, but I had no weight on my back beyond my tripod and camera, so I didn't read too much into it.  I turned up the hill, and was immediately confronted by the Olympics I knew and loved.  The trail climbed up several hundred feet right off the bat, up long switchbacks that drained my enthusiasm quickly.  Combined with the increasingly rocky, root-strewn nature of the trail, and I was starting to question my decision to hike up to the lakes, still some 4 miles away.

Thankfully the trail leveled out for a time, but not for long, and soon I found myself climbing one of the worst sections of trail I'd ever attempted.  To call some parts of it a trail would be generous, as I clambored over rocks and roots, and generally hated my life.  Oh there were highlights, a bridge crossing Madeline Creek, bumblebees on lupines, a waterfall that I spent far too much time (nearly an hour) shooting pictures of, but the trail was pounding my legs, and I still hadn't reached the difficult section of the trail.

After the water the trail rose precipitously, in some sections seeming to shoot almost straight up the mountainside.  I rolled my ankles and twisted my knees, and just when I thought I'd overdone it...the trail leveled out and I was rewarded with the most glorious possible reward.  Huge salmon berries, the size of my thumb and subtly sweet on my tongue, lined the trail, and I gorged myself on all I could find.  They were delicious, and though I was sore, and tired, I felt buoyed, pushed to get up to the lakes which couldn't be far away.

Sure enough, I reached the twin bodies of the Flapjack Lakes around 4:30, after another half mile from the berry patch, and was rewarded with an amazing view of the Gladys Divide, a craggy mountain spur along the southeast section of the Olympics, and took pictures along the lakes edge while eating mountain huckleberries straight off the bush.  It was peaceful and very rewarding.

I left the lakes at 5:30 and started my descent, and was pounded by the impact of my feet down the trail.  Everything ached and hurt, my feet felt ruined, my knees like jello, and my muscles were tight and burning, and I was regretting my life.

I pushed on, though, the thought of a burger pushing me onward.  All I wanted was to get to my car and to find somewhere where I could find a greasy, delicious burger and a milkshake to fill my belly.  It's the simple motivations that often work best.

By the time I reached the North Fork Trail, I was exhausted, and it took me another two hours to reach my car, seemingly far longer than it had taken to get up just eight hours earlier.  I passed two hikers on their way to the lakes as I descended, and felt sorry for the poor bastards and their 50+ pound backpacks.  I tried to warn them about what they were getting into, but they didn't listen.  Such foolish pride...

I reached my car and collapsed in the driver's seat, taking off my boots and stretching my aching feet.  I was not ready for the PCT yet, my body was still not cooperating, but I figured out some important things about the causes for my pain.  My boots, heavy waterproof Merrell's, duplicates of the ones that had carried me from Campo to Kennedy Meadows, had so little cushioning that impacts (like those that had caused my stress fracture in the first place), sent shocks of pain straight into my legs.  Also, my lower leg was perhaps the only thing that didn't hurt, a signal that maybe the stress fracture had healed in the week since I'd retreated from the North Cascades.

As I drove back and pulled into Five Guys for a well-deserved burger (with everything, naturally, and cajun fries), I knew I wasn't ready, but found myself encouraged that maybe, just maybe, I could make adjustments to get me back on the trail in the not too distant future.

Starting Over

I sit and write this after a month away from this blog, feeling guilty that I haven't been more consistent, feeling determined to catch up one way or another.  The two and a half months I've been tackling this PCT adventure of mine have been full of literal and figurative detours, both positive and negative, that have put me in a place I didn't expect.  I'm hoping that all these detours have led me to a better point to tackle the next four months, but to be entirely honest, I have no idea what to expect between now and the end of the journey.

I initially started the Pacific Crest Trail with a grand goal of crafting a documentary about the experience of through-hiking from Mexico to Canada, filled with interviews of other hikers and footage of beautiful mountainscapes, flowers blowing in the wind, rain pattering on mountain lakes, and animals frolicking in glades and meadows.  It was beautiful as I'd laid it out in my head, almost dreamlike, and as it turns out, more dream than reality.  The rigors of the trail, the amount of time and energy I was investing into simply walking from point A to point B was alone too much to accommodate the kind of shooting I'd hoped to do, and the amount of solitude I was encountering, and eventually embracing, proved equally detrimental, if not more so.  I was not shooting a documentary, after a while, I was merely hiking, and taking photos, and enjoying every minute of doing so.  I figured this out early in the hike, but never admitted it to myself, and particularly not to anyone else, beyond expressing the most basic doubts that it would come together.

What I found instead of the documentary was a sense of discovering some primal side of myself that I relished.  Through the deserts of Southern California and into the lower Sierras, my basic needs became distilled to the simple act of moving and staying alive.  I developed a routine, simple though it was, of waking up with the sunrise, packing my tent, and walking 15-20 miles every day.  I would plot out my water needs, calculate how much I would have to carry between water sources, how much food I would need to eat and in what time frames, and figure out how to listen to my body, to rest before I was too tired, to understand what the aches and pains meant, and how to relieve them.  In one of the last stretches of the Mojave Desert, I came to understand dehydration and its affects, in the southern mountains of the High Sierra, I pushed my body further physically than I ever had before, as I stumbled into Kennedy Meadows, I came face to face with heat stroke and calorie deficiency, and overcame it.  I was learning to survive, in the most basic sense of the word, and I was loving it.

My first week in the Sierras was a disaster, pure and simple.  I had more go wrong for me in those seven or eight days than on the entire trail up to that point, and it wore on me.  I had pushed hard to get to Kennedy Meadows, around 250 miles in two weeks without a rest day, and was beaten down, mentally, physically, emotionally.  I was motivated only by the goal of getting to Mt. Whitney by the 6th of June, to see Susan, to finally get out of the desert and into a place where I wouldn't have to carry 10-12 lbs of water with me every day.  I had lost 20 lbs, my legs and back were consistently sore, my feet a painful ruin.  I'd developed an infection in my right big toe, and my heels were blistered and cracked, in some cases blistered beneath the cracks of quarter inch calluses.  I was a wreck, and I knew it, yet I pressed on.

I will get into the details of my first week in the Sierras eventually, it's a story for another time, but the end result was an injury that was brought about by my ignoring the very things I had learned to listen to in the months prior, the tell-tale aches, the need for rest, the need for consistent hydration and food intake.  I wore myself down, plain and simple, and suffered a minor stress fracture as a result.  My hike was now over, for a time at least, and I was left wondering what the next step was.

I find this has been a running pattern in my life up to this point.  I reach an impasse and have to pivot in another direction, completely separating from one direction in favor of another.  I've done it time and time again in the face of adversity, or restlessness, or unhappiness.  When I was struggling to feel useful my first year at the University of Iowa, I ran to New York and attended the NY Film Academy to get a fresh start and perspective.  When I finished my undergraduate studies at the Iowa and was stagnating in my career and my life, I moved to New Zealand, literally half the world away, in order to start over.  When I left New Zealand and a life I loved, but couldn't afford, I went to Los Angeles and enrolled in graduate school, then started working constantly to the detriment of my personal life.  When relationships unraveled and work wore me down, I embraced loneliness and started hiking and exploring the southwestern US.  When I got so sick of my job I could barely stand an hour of it, let alone 18, I decided to pack my life up and run away to the PCT under the auspices of making a documentary, but really just to escape.  It's a consistent pattern I've come to understand in my life, and one I need to break out of, somehow.

It's hard for me to admit, but I struggle seeing things through, and I have a fear, some sort of innate self-destruct button, that keeps me from finishing things.  I'm a dreamer, always have been, but the reality of tackling those dreams often eludes me.  As I was thankfully reminded during that first week in the mountains, though at the time it hurt deeply, I am directionless, planless, drifting aimlessly and constantly running.  I don't like this side of me, I don't want to run away anymore, and I don't want to quit before I'm done.  It's time to see things through.

It's the morning of my 35th birthday, and I sit in Olympia, Washington writing this instead of exploring the Yosemite back country as I'd hoped to be doing.  I feel old, I feel tired, I feel like I've lived a life filled with mistakes and missteps.  I'm ready for a change, but first, I have to finish what I've started.  The Sierras beat me two weeks ago, but I feel stronger in mind and body than I have since before Kennedy Meadows, and my leg has no sign of the pain that drove me from the Trail in the first place.

I'm ready to start over, this time with a new direction, literally and figuratively.  Starting from the Canadian border, I will hike south, ending my journey at Tuolomne Meadows, where I was supposed to wake up this morning.  The Sierras, depending on weather and trail conditions, may have to wait until next year, but I will beat them.  I'm going to complete this hike, and in so doing, I'm going to figure out what the fuck I'm doing with my life.  I will develop a plan, and I'll see it through for once, and I'll put myself on a path to living a happy and fulfilling life.  I'm tired of starting over, hopefully this will be the last time.

Day 22 - Big Bear and Beyond

It was a dusty, windy dirt road that led up to the trail from Big Bear, and it took some time for Susan and I to make it to the trailhead, though I found I would've given anything for it to last a little longer.  I was saying goodbye again to her, and had already said goodbye to my family, and was once more setting out into the solitude of the trail.  It was surprisingly hard, but I was also looking forward to the sights to come.

I had spent the three days off with my family and Susan, going out to dinner, looking over my photos for the first time in three weeks, going to dinner and watching movies, and generally enjoying myself.  Though I'd taken time off in Idyllwild, this was my first real experience stepping away from the trail for a time.

My parents had rented a hotel room near Big Bear Lake, the resort town on the west end of it's namesake, and, being a few days ahead of schedule, I found myself enjoying the restful atmosphere the town had to offer.  After San Jacinto, Susan and I had agreed to meet the following weekend to attempt a summit of Mt. San Gorgonio, the tallest mountain in Southern California, and a longtime goal for both of us.  On the way up to Big Bear I'd been laughed at many times by other hikers for hiking on my day off, but I didn't care, it was a chance to hang out with Susan for another day, it was worth it.

My dad, excited to be caring for Smeagol, had taken to carrying the little guy in a mesh pocket hung from a cord around his neck, where his body heat helped keep the mouse comfortable.  He fed my little hitchhiker milk from a small syringe, and doted on her (as he soon deduced) endlessly.  Smeagol went everywhere with us, to dinner, to the store, to the movie theater.  I was happy because she was saved, as I'd hoped she would be upon getting her to my Dad.

Hiker hunger had set in upon getting to Big Bear, or more accurately the day before I arrived.  There is a profound need to eat copious amounts of fatty, greasy, not at all healthy food when one hikes for any great length of time, and I found myself burying my face in huge bacony burgers, buffalo chicken calzones, breakfast pastries, ice cream, and any number of things that ordinary people try to eat in moderation.  There was a scale in the bathroom of our hotel and I'd lost 12 pounds since my arrival at Campo, the calorie sucking hike was doing its work, and I was starving.

On my second day in town I ran into Stacey and her friend Just Jules, a hiker from New Zealand who I immediately gravitated toward.  Having lived in Wellington for a year, I find myself immediately drawn toward the kiwi accent, or even the chance of talking about the islands.  I need to go back one day, for certain, but that's a future adventure.  Stacey was happy to see me again, as we'd only briefly talked in Idyllwild on my day off there before going our separate ways.  She'd come down San Jacinto the day after I left Ziggy and the Bear's, and found herself trapped by the oppressive heatwave that I'd fortunately just missed.  Temperatures in the Palm Desert were hitting 105, and with no shade and little water for large sections of that trail, I could see why it had proved too daunting for many a hiker.  Over a dozen hikers had left the trail from Ziggy and the Bear's, and Stacey and Jules had taken the offer of a ride from Legend, a Trail Angel I'd yet to meet, and bypassed the 50 miles up the mountain to spare themselves the pain.  I didn't blame them, and as we sat eating ice cream and discussing life and the trail, it all seemed to have worked out well for us.

Susan arrived early on Saturday morning, and I was beyond excited to see her again, though it'd only been a week.  We hopped in the car when she arrived and grabbed a quick breakfast before making our way down to the start of the San Gorgonio trail, a large, waterless canyon that sat at the base of the nearly 12,000 foot peak.  There were signs all around warning of a need for a special backcountry permit to access the summit, which we did not have, but we persevered, climbing out of the wash for nearly a mile of rock strewn switchbacks, which left both of our legs burning.  We were sore, and neither of us were particularly enjoying the process, so when we came upon a ranger at the National Forest boundary, who asked us pointedly to see our permits, we politely apologized and reversed course, no harm, no foul.  The summit would be there another day.

So my third day in Big Bear was spent exploring with Susan, and it was wonderful.  We had lunch with Mama Goose, newly arrived in town, and my parents came to join us.  We grabbed fudge at the local fudge shop (a real gem of a place, and one I'll be revisiting for sure), and explored the surrounding mountains by car.  Susan and I are suckers for abandoned places, so when we discovered an abandoned boy scout camp, we were excited to explore it, wandering a sage-covered meadow, laying in the grass of an archery range looking for shapes in clouds, and generally enjoying each others company.  We met my parents for dinner and spent the night joking and telling stories (mostly at my expense), and it was lovely.

But all good things must end, and I found myself stepping out of her car, fully laden pack on my back once more, kissing her goodbye and fighting tears that didn't want to be held back.  We said goodbye, under the assumption that we'd see each other again in three weeks, and I set out, putting some distance between us before I was slammed by a wave of emotion I'd not expected.  It's hard saying goodbye to people you love, even for a time, and Big Bear had reminded me of that love, of it's presence and the reasons for it, and now I was alone once more.

The trail was easy, thankfully, and I turned my attention on putting in miles in the 7 hours I had left before dark.  I hiked through the pines of the mountains to the north of Big Bear Lake, looking down on the water and town I'd just left.  There were wildflowers in abundance along the trail, and lizards everywhere, and soon I was happy to be back out and walking.

I wound along the mostly level trail, slowly descending from the ridgeline.  A few miles in I passed the meadow Susan and I had found the day before, and was hit again by a wave of emotion, but I pushed it down and soldiered on.

The area north of Big Bear was marked by a series of large burn areas, from the all too frequent wildfires that hit the area.  Soon I was out of the trees and hiking down a barren and rocky hillside, catching my first glimpse of the San Gabriel mountains to the west, the mountains that stretched north of my home in Los Angeles, and was again confronted with a powerful emotional reaction.  In a week I'd be the closest to home I'd been in a month, it was exciting, and I was anxious to get there.  I descended into Little Bear Camp and used the surprisingly well maintained toilet there, a solar affair behind a wood plank wall, a luxury out on the trail, and continued on, until I got to the dirt road crossing near Holcomb Creek.

I had seen the truck parked at the road as I came down from the mountain into Little Bear Camp, a white pick-up that I presumed belonged to some local out for a day of hiking, off-roading, or hunting.  I found myself nervous as I approached it.  Though I had no reason to doubt the intentions of anybody on the trail, thoughts nevertheless sprang into my head of redneck shenanigans, and harassment from locals.  Whether it was due to some inborn prejudice (it was) or just general social anxiety from a month removed from society (it was), I was filled with a decidedly anxious feeling as I approached the dirt road.

Compounding my anxiety was the fact that I couldn't see where the trail led after the road.  I stepped onto the well graded dirt and pulled out my phone, scanning the map and trying to judge where the trail picked up again.  The white truck was to my right, not 10 feet away, the driver sitting quietly watching me, the idiot hiker, lost and filled with nervousness.  As I looked at the trail, and my map, he rolled down his window.

"Looking for the trail?" he asked, and I said yes, nervously laughing off my lack of route-finding ability.

"It's about a 100 yards up the road, past that fenceline and down along the creek.  Just walk up that way and you can't miss it," he said.

I thanked him and he smiled, starting to roll up his window again.  As he did I asked if he was out hiking.

"A little yeah, just got back to my car.  I was out saying goodbye to my dog."  He said, stopping his window halfway up.

This was one of the heaviest hitting, and most beautiful moments I'd come across on the trail, and I offered my sympathies.  "How old was he?" I asked, knowing the pain of losing a pet, and having just helped Susan through her own loss not 6 months earlier.

"Fifteen, but he was strong til the end," the man said, and continued.  "I'd bring him out here all the time, he loved hiking this section.  He'd always jump right out of the car and run straight into the creek, it's really cold water, especially on days like this.  It'd take hours to get him out."

I listened, entranced, as he finished.  "We buried him last week, but I kept his collar.  I figured it would be nice to leave a piece of him here in his favorite place.  I hung the collar on the fencepost next to the sign up there, you'll see it when you hit the trail."

I again offered condolences and thanked him for his help.  Not for the first time, nor for the last, were my preconceptions proven completely wrong upon talking with someone on the trail.  As I walked on, and past the collar, hanging from the trail sign as I stepped down away from the road, I was buoyed by the beauty of the moment, and it both lifted my spirits and opened my eyes to the sights on the trail ahead.

I followed the creek, past large, placid pools, dammed by beavers, it seemed, the cool dark water calling me.  I considered jumping in, but left it alone, instead filling my water bottles and pushing forward.  The sun was getting low, and I wanted to get a few more miles in before stopping.  There was a crossing not three miles ahead, and reaching it would set me up perfectly for a hike into Deep Creek the next day.

I walked through another burn area, big boulders dotting the landscape, and new manzanita and wildflower growth lining the trail to either side.  I stopped for some time by one manzanita, in full bloom and covered in bees, and took pictures far longer than I should have, but it was peaceful, and I felt inspired to capture the beauty of the moment.

The sun was almost down by the time I hit the crossing of Holcomb Creek, and I set up my hammock quickly before eating dinner.  It was disappointing to be back on trail rations, but there was nothing to be done for it.  I dressed for bed and climbed into my hammock, and went to sleep as the full moon rose over the small canyon.  It had been an eventful first day back on the trail, but I was happy to be back out.

Day 18

For once I woke with the dawn and was out of camp by 7, a great victory for me, though I was nevertheless still passed by a few hikers, including the sisters from Portland, who said hi as they hiked passed me.  I put on my pack and soldiered on after them, happy that, with less food, the weight on my shoulders was finally somewhat manageable.  Smeagol, cold and barely moving, lay snug in his bed of toilet paper high in my pack, I feared he wouldn't make it, but if I could get him to my dad that evening, there was a chance.  I had to get to Big Bear that evening.

Bee on a Yucca
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In Flight
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Yucca Pollination
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The sun crested the eastern edge of the canyon quicker than I would've liked, and the heat of it was beating down on me already.  My calves and arms had been heavily burned from the previous two days of desert hiking, and I had an open, blistered sore on my right hand, where the skin had peeled then been burned anew.  It hurt, and looked terrible, so at my first stop, the true last crossing of Mission Creek, I filled my water and wrapped my hand with a gauss bandage, looking like I'd taken a grievous wound.  A few other hikers had camped alongside the creek here, including Nails and Butt Plug, and they all commented on my injury, worried that I'd severely hurt myself.  I shrugged it off, but secretly entertained the idea of playing it up to make myself seem cooler.  It was sad, and I wasn't proud of myself.

Once I'd filled my water, and downed a liter for good measure, I started uphill along what to that point had been the toughest incline of the trail, a 4 mile, 4000+ foot climb to the high ridge leading to Big Bear.

As I left the creek I encountered several stands of Poodle Dog Bush, a notorious and dangerous plant that was all the buzz on the trail up to that point.  Several hikers I'd talked to were worried about the plant, with rumors and stories of its extreme toxicity bolstering everyone's fears and feeding them to a ridiculous level.  I'd heard stories of whole hands and arms blistered and ruined by a single glancing touch of the plant, of its similarity to poison oak, though more extreme by a measure of exponential degrees.  There were a few hikers who shrugged it off as nothing, I was not one of them.  I danced around every shaggy, smelly bush I came across.  There is a sickly sweet scent to Poodle Dog, distinct and pungent, and the first mile of the up climb was absolutely thick with the stuff.

My legs burned from the exertion of the uphill, but I took the Belgians words to heart and told myself that the mountain was only that from the bottom.  I made concerted pushes, eyeing upcoming ridges and forcing myself to reach them before stopping for a breather.  Along the way I was passed by Speedy, who I'd not seen since Paradise Valley Cafe, and chatted with him for a time.  His knees were sore, he said, and he was planning on a light day, which for him was still close to 20 miles, further than I'd hiked yet to that point.  He left me in his wake, hurt knees and all, and I soldiered on, huffing and puffing and forcing myself up and up, my quadriceps and calves burning, my shoulders and back aching.

The desert canyon transitioned out of the scrubby sagebrush and junipers to gnarly oaks, the twisted trees offering blessed shade from the pounding heat of the morning.  As I climbed, I felt like I was slowly leaving the desert behind, and it spurred me on.  I was ready for the change of scenery, longed for it, and as the pine covered ridge ahead loomed ever closer, I felt buoyed onward, forward, ever upward.

The climb seemed interminable.  I stopped for breakfast under a large oak, the shade welcome, the breeze coming off the mountain cool.  I pulled Smeagol from my pack and looked at him, he was barely alive, it was looking dire for the little guy.  I gave him a little more cheese, and put him back in my pack, hoping that he'd be able to at least suck a little sustenance from the morsel.  He needed milk, I knew, but I had none, and it was the best I could do.

Some two miles into the climb I hit the last spring for the next twelve miles, and filled my bottles, watching my steripen die as I finished sterilizing the water.  There would be no more filtering of water for me before Big Bear, increasing my need to make it there that evening.  I had to reach a road and signal my parents, who were arriving that evening, to come and pick me up, for my sake now as well as my little hitchhiker's.

Everything was hurting as I crested each successive uphill push, only to see more and more up ahead of me.  The ridgeline was blessedly closer, but seemed so much higher than where I stood.  I checked the elevation chart frequently, and saw myself progressing, albeit slowly, but it didn't make the climb any less daunting.

Lone Sentinel
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I passed through a wide burn area, and then the oaks transitioned into pine forest, the smells of the trees, the carpet of needles and cones on the ground, the cool air of elevation, all signaling the impending conclusion to the accursed climb.  My calves and hips ached mercilessly, each step was laborious, painful, exhausting.

I reached Mission Flats campground around noon, and collapsed in a heap under the pines.  Speedy was there, had been for an hour or more, similarly resting and eating his lunch.  There was supposedly water nearby, but I still had several liters, and no way of sterilizing it, so I contented myself with a few trail bars and pleasant conversation.  Speedy was hurting, and debating staying at Mission Flats, but I offered him a ride into town if he could push on ten more miles, to the spot I'd arranged for my own pick up.  He was thankful and we agreed to meet up in ten miles so that we could both get a ride into Big Bear.  I was glad to help.

We both left, Speedy quickly overtaking me despite me leaving before him, and I pushed along the now fairly even trail, lined by pine trees and huge boulders, and it seemed I'd stepped into a place completely different from the one I'd started that morning.  Gorgonio loomed over it all, it's snowy pinnacle poking through the trees around each bend, behind me now, but ever present, the looming reminder of my hike with Susan now just two days away.  Beautiful vistaend, edees greeted me at each turn, San Jacinto and Palm Desert stretching out in the distance to the south, Joshua Tree National Park and Thousand Palms off to the east, and to the north, the rolling San Bernardino Mountains, covered with trees and blocking from sight the town and eponymous lake of Big Bear.

Still Standing
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Along the way, I ran into Nails and Butt Plug and several other hikers, taking a break beneath a large pine, eating and joking.  As I rounded the bend they stopped me and asked me, out of nowhere, where the most interesting place I'd had sex.  I was not expecting the question, but I answered as well as I could in the moment, though my answer, on a picnic table in my favorite national park, paled in comparison to others, including a gas station bathroom, on top of a fast food restaurant, and several other decidedly seedy, unappealing propositions.  It was funny though, and the topics of conversation flew quickly.  I offered my most unfortunate encounter, one involving poison oak in places poison oak should not be, and was quickly beaten there too.  I left the conversation feeling decidedly unadventurous sexually, and wondered if I was too much a prude for my own good.  Of course I hadn't been completely honest and open, and had held back some important and racier details, so I decided maybe I wasn't as saintly as I feared.  All in all, it was funny, and one of the better interludes I've had on the trail.

The trail rose and fell, but mainly stayed level the rest of the way to the road where I would meet my parents.  There was a minimal uphill, and corresponding downhill, right before the road, but I was making good time, and hit the road around 6:30, with half an hour to spare before my ride was to get there.  Speedy was there, laying on the side of the road, and greeted me as I arrived.  I left my pack near where he lay and decided to wander up and around the "private zoo" just off the trail.

I'd seen the marker on the map for the zoo, and my trail guide promised a chance to see lions, tigers, and bears, and I thought "Oh my..."  I walked up to the animal cages and bore witness to the single most depressing thing on the trail, either before or since.  The "zoo" was a circular enclosure, surrounded by high fences, with several small cages, though small is a generous term in this instance.  There were bears, two large, sad looking grizzlies, who barely moved as I approached, and at least two lions, who seemed to be sleeping.  I circled the enclosure, taking pictures and thinking of ways that I could save the poor creatures from their imprisonment.  When I reached the far side, a large tiger stood watching me from his cage.  He was active, pacing back and forth in a cage barely large enough to allow him three steps in any direction, and watched me expectantly, as if I offered him something.  I took a picture of him, and said goodbye, before walking back to the road.  It was depressing, and part of me wished I hadn't gone to see them in the first place.

Sad Tiger
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When my parents arrived, Speedy and I loaded in, and my parents cracked the windows.  We both smelled like hikers, that is to say, bad, but it was good to see my family again, and as we drove to Big Bear, I handed Smeagol over to my dad, who took him out, identified him as a her, and a pocket mouse, and then held her the whole drive in.  She was alive, though barely, and in good hands finally. I'd done my job.

Day 17 - the Taming of Smeagol

I woke up with a start in my sleeping bag alongside the whitewater river, the sounds of other hikers leaving pulling me awake.  The Germans were packing up their tent, but KC was crossing the river and waving goodbye as I rose, the sun already cresting the hills to the east.  I had hoped to beat the heat of the day up over the next series of up hills before my descent into Mission Creek, but I'd failed miserably.

Still, when I'd finally packed up and filled my water bottles, I was not too far behind the crowd, and still ahead of the major heat for a time, so I made good progress.  I crossed the river and made may way through the gravelly wash to a small ridge, which I climbed relatively quickly, despite the still significant weight on my back.  As I crested the rise I got my first clear look at Mt. San Gorgonio, the tallest mountain in Southern California and the target of my next adventure with Susan the following weekend.  There was a scattering of snow on its rocky summit, and it didn't look too imposing, though it towered over the surrounding mountains, but I knew it would be a beast to climb, but that was still four days away, I had to get to Big Bear first.

Whitewater Wash
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I descended from the ridge, enjoying the downhill, and was watching the trail when I almost stepped on a baby mouse, it's eyes closed and gait wobbly.  It was clearly helpless, driven from its burrow by some disturbance, and was sure to die either from the heat of the upcoming afternoon, or by the jaws of some passing snake.  I dropped my pack and pulled out the plastic tub I'd eaten the applesauce out of the day before, and scooped the little guy up.  It's eyes were closed, and it was too skinny, but I hoped, if it could survive the next few days, I could bring it to my Dad, who had a long history of caring for animals, particularly mice and rats, through his career as a behavioral researcher.  I pored a little water in the tub, and some gravel for it to feel comfortable, and tucked the little guy away in the safety of my pack, where I hoped he'd be sheltered and protected from the heat and jostling the upcoming hike would undoubtedly bring.

Smeagol on the Trail
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I felt proud of myself, though I knew it was a long shot to get him to survive.  At my next stop, a mile or so in, I sat beneath a juniper and ate breakfast, tossing in a bit of cheese for my little hitchhiker and even showing him off to The Portland Sisters, who passed me as I ate and played with the little guy.  We chatted about their ordeal on the mountain, of which they seemed slightly and understandably embarrassed, and my little friend, who I had named Smeagol, because he looked like the character from Lord of the Rings.  They continued on, and I packed up my breakfast and followed a short time later.

Gorgonio Looms
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The trail led up another ridge, which offered beautiful views of San Gorgonio and San Jacinto, and even Palm Springs in the distance.  I took several photos, of course, and found cell service at the top, a welcome chance for me to check in with my family and look at the upcoming weather.  The temperatures were due to rise drastically over the next few days, and I was glad I would be in the mountains before the desert heat rose over 100 degrees.  I pushed down the other side of the ridge, into what promised to be a rare luxury on the trail to that point, a twelve mile stretch with regular flowing water.  I was beyond excited at the prospect.

Twin Summits
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I hit Mission creek and took a break under the welcome shade of an overhanging cottonwood, possibly my favorite tree, because of the life sustaining water it invariably represents nearby.  The creek was small, barely a trickle at some points, but it was clear and cool, and part of me wanted nothing more then to sit with my feet in the water and let the day pass me by.  I was passed by several hikers, most who I'd run into before, including The Engineer, Nails, whose name came from her multiple lost toenails, and Butt Plug, who got his name from an unfortunate case of constipation some days prior, and was dealing with some other unfortunate and uncomfortable issues that had him considering the name Butt Trouble.  I showed them little Smeagol and we chatted, and as soon as they moved on to find a shady spot of their own, I pushed on, knowing that I'd never make it to Big Bear if I didn't keep walking.

The trail wound along the creek for a several miles, occasionally climbing above it to show off the winding green snake of its riparian, tree lined banks, often dipping down along and sometimes in the creek itself.  It was easy to lose the trail at several points, and the rocks and mud made it slow going, as I slipped and tripped my way up the increasingly narrow creek bed.

The creek itself was vibrant and welcoming, and the narrows of the canyon u walked through was beautiful, white sandstone rising above the willow and cottonwood lined creek bed in gnarled and craggy outcroppings, the mountains in the distance towering over it all with their piney crests.  I kept ascending, but it felt an easy, if time consuming, walk.

Bend in Mission Creek
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I passed a trail crew as the afternoon grew long, and stopped and chatted with them, thanking them for their hard work to clear and maintain the trail.  I'd come to appreciate the efforts of the PCT trail crews to that point, from the experience on San Jacinto, where the side trail had been rocky and hard to make out in comparison to the easy to follow PCT, and my knowledge of other trails in Southern California, few of which I would consider to be immaculately maintained.  The hard work of the volunteers that help keep the PCT such a lovely and easy trail to follow should be commended, and I was happy to have the chance to thank these few in person.

Afternoon Light on Apricot Mallow
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The sun began to sink below the mountains to the west as I pushed further upstream.  I took a break and checked on Smeagol, and found him cold, wet, and lacking in energy.  I took him out and cleaned his tub in the creek, before building a nest of toilet paper for him and tucking him in.  I hoped he would at least be warm and dry in the coolness of the upcoming night, though I was starting to have my doubts.

Prickly Pear in the Canyon
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I pushed on, filling up my water bottles at what I was told by another hiker to be the last crossing of the creek (it wasn't), and kept walking until it got too dark to see where I was going.  I set up camp in a small wash, and put smeagols tub in a nest of my dry clothes inside my tent.  I went to sleep with the moon shining brightly through the fly of my tent, apprehensive about the impending climb the morning would bring, as I ascended over 4000 ft over the next four miles to the ridge line that would take me to Big Bear.

Days 15 and 16

Following our unfortunate and aborted attempt to summit San Jacinto the day before, Susan and I took the following morning to relax and enjoy ourselves, eating continental breakfast and laying in the hotel room, talking and enjoying each other's company.  It felt good, it felt peaceful, it made me not want to return to the trail that afternoon.

We went to the store, and I bought my resupply for the coming hike to Big Bear.  I was due to meet my parents in three days near Big Bear Lake, where they were coming to spend time with me on the trail and get a taste of acting as trail angels.  I was looking forward to seeing them, but more importantly, I was eager to get into the mountains and away from the impending heat that was due to hit the Palm Desert in a few days time.

The storm from the previous day had passed almost without evidence, though the slopes of San Jacinto above Palm Springs were noticeably whiter than I'd seen them last.  A few clouds remained high above Gorgonio Pass and Cabazon, but largely the sky was clear and the wind blew clean.  We stopped for date shakes and In n Out burgers in Cabazon, I shuffled through my pack and figured out my resupply (I bought far more food than needed), and we picnicked underneath the infamous plaster dinosaurs alongside the freeway.

When it came time for me to return to the trail, and for Susan to return to LA, she drove me to the trail, and we said goodbye.  It was hard to do, even knowing we would see each other the following weekend for another summit attempt, this one up Mt. San Gorgonio, but I still had a difficult time as we hugged each other and she drove away.

Alone again on the trail, I walked the mile up to Ziggy and the Bear's, a trail angel house that offered a place for weary hikers to stay before heading to Big Bear.  My pack, heavy with far too much food, pulled at my shoulders, and though I debated pushing further past the house, the chance for a nice place to stay proved too alluring.

Their house stands a short distance from the trail, the American flag whipping above their yard and PCT emblem on their backyard gate beckoning hikers to join them.  When I entered I saw a dozen other hikers already there, and introduced myself to Ziggy, who asked me to wash my hands and then join her at the picnic table on the back patio.  Once I'd done so, she gave me a gatorade and set to outlining the rules of staying at her house.  It was very orderly, unexpectedly so, but I appreciated it, even admired it.  Given the sheer number of hikers each year that came to camp in their yard, I was certain that so many rules were necessary to keep the house intact, and to enable Ziggy and the Bear to continue helping hikers down the line.

San Jacinto
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Once I'd finished talking to Ziggy, I saw Rain Man, Dundee and Narwhal, and said hi to them.  They'd been caught in the storm the night before, and had horror stories to tell of hiding under rocks to get away from the rain, losing the trail, and dodging blocks of ice falling from overburdened tree limbs above.  They told me of the sisters from Portland, Rebecca and Marisa, who had, soaked to the bone and freezing, called search and rescue and spent the night in the nearby fire station.  There was talk of hikers lost on the mountain, day hikers, we were all told, not PCT hikers.  The sheriff even came by to ask us whether we'd seen one of them.  It was scary, and I was more and more certain, the more I heard, that Susan and I had made the right choice the night before.

I set up my sleeping bag and fell asleep under the stars, eager to get back on the trail in the morning, hopeful to get out early enough to avoid the heat of the day.

I had no such luck.  Though I was up and packed early, I loitered at Ziggy and the Bear's for close to an hour, chatting with people and thanking my hosts.  I ate an apple for breakfast, and drank orange juice, one of my chief cravings on the trail to that point, before setting out around 7:30 toward the Mesa Wind Farm.

This was one of the highlights of the trip going into it for me, a location I'd starred long before stepping foot on the trail.  Back in 2009, I shot my graduate thesis film under those very same windmills, and had often come back to them for photography purposes in the years since, not knowing that the PCT cut a path right through them.  It was an important place to me, but as I walked through them that morning, all I could think about was how hot it was, and how heavy my pack was.

I had packed too much food, I knew this, and as the elevation increased, and my will to continue decreased, I had to stop.  I crawled underneath a small bush and opened my pack, disgorging it of all my food.  I had set out with the intention of doing no-cook meals for the 3-4 days it would take me to reach Big Bear, both due to the presumed lack of water through this section, and the fact that my resupply box never made it to Idyllwild.  No-cook, I was finding, was significantly heavier than the dehydrated meals I'd been carrying to that point, with tortillas and cheese alone weighing over 2 lbs, and the homemade applesauce (raspberry honey, so tasty) that Susan had brought me probably weighed that much alone.  I'd doubled up on meals, I carried enough instant potatoes to feed me for a week, and snacks and candy that would last me close to two.  I'd overpacked, and I was now paying the price for it.

And so, sitting in the modicum of shade provided by the small juniper, I set to thinning out my load.  I ate a quart of applesauce, probably not the best idea, and half a pint of peanut butter.  I ate two Clif bars and an Epic Bar.  I shoveled trail mix into my mouth and when I couldn't eat anymore, I put the rest of my food away and downed a half-liter of water.  All told I cut down about 3 lbs from my pack, but I didn't feel at all good about my methods.

Out of the Wind Farm
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As I tackled the next uphill, a thousand foot slope that felt like 4,000, I felt the fullness of my stomach, the nausea from overeating, the still significant weight pressing down on my shoulders, and the oppressive heat from the late-morning sun, all wearing me down.  When I reached the top, out of breath and exhausted, I realized, with immense sadness, that I'd only gone 3 miles to that point.  It was sad, no, it was depressing.  How was I going to make it to Big Bear?

Desert Hills
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I pushed on, thankful for a downhill slope that lightened the strain on my aching knees and back.  The trail meandered through golden brown slopes and through a craggy ravine to the Whitewater River, and thankfully, to a flat stretch of trail that, though devoid of shade, at least enabled me to walk at an easy pace.  I stopped a few times, hoping to get another 5-6 miles in, but taking every opportunity for shade the meager foliage along the river offered.  I was hot, tired, beat up, and generally over the experience.

To Whitewater
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I reached the crossing of the Whitewater and took off my boots, plunging them into the cold water, vestiges of the minimal winter snowmelt, and leaned back against my pack.  The water was soothing, calming, and my feet were thankful for the reprieve from the hot sand and rocks of the trail up to that point.  As I sat there, I met a German couple, section hiking for the second year in a row, intending to hike the trail for a month at a time until they finished.  We chatted and soon another hiker, KC, joined us, taking the opportunity to soak her own feet before making camp.  We chatted about the trail, about our reasons for being out there, our pasts and the cougar prints I'd found not five feet from where we sat.  It was lovely.

Whitewater River
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Amidst the cool water, the good company, and the sinking sun, I decided to stop for the day, after only ten miles of hiking, and set up my sleeping bag for my first night of cowboy camping on the trail.  I gathered wood and built a large fire, and we all sat by it talking until it got too dark.  We turned in, the Germans to their tent, KC and I to our bags under the stars, and I fell asleep, once again thankful to be out on the trail.

Day 14

I woke up at 5am, tucked away in bed in the house the warrior hikes team had rented, snug and warm, but restless for what the morning would bring.  It had been exactly two weeks since Susan had dropped me off at the southern terminus of the PCT in Campo.  I had pushed myself hard to make the 179 miles to Idyllwild because I knew that she was coming to meet me on this day, and we would hike Mt. San Jacinto together.

I was eager to start the day for a number of reasons.  First, the chance to see Susan alone had me giddy at the prospect, but more than that, the two years we'd been together had become defined by the hikes we did as a pair, the adventures we took on weekends to strange, off the beaten path locales, the ridiculous situations I got us into.  We'd often discussed hiking San Jacinto, often as part of her six summits goal to train for climbing Mt. Whitney, which we plan on doing the first week in June, and here was our chance.  It didn't matter that it would be cold, or cloudy, or raining.  We are going to climb that mountain if it killed us, though I prayed it wouldn't come to that.

And so I lay in bed, wide awake and eager, while the other hikers in the house slept soundly.  I got up, and put everything into my pack, then sat on the couch, ready to spring into action as soon as she arrived.  It was there the other hikers found me at 7am, awkwardly sitting on the couch fully dressed and booted, my pack loaded and ready to be slung over my shoulder.

It was 7:30 when Susan finally arrived outside the house, and I hurried out to the car to say hi.  I asked if she'd be willing to meet the other hikers and she agreed, laughing at my excitement to see her.  We took her dog and i introduced the pair of them to Mama Goose, Eric, Anne, and the others who were drinking coffee in the living room.  It was the first time my trail life and my life off the trail had come together.  It was a strange feeling.

We left the house and stopped by the bakery for cinnamon rolls and coffee, and tore into the gooey pastry once we got to the car before driving up to the trailhead at Humber Park.  Along the drive I saw several other hikers, Rain Man and Dundee, Narwhal, Rebecca and Marisa.  Miso Strong was also supposed to leave that day, as were several others, and I pointed each out in turn as we passed them.  I felt bad we had no room to help them get to the trailhead, but with the dog and our packs, the car was already quite full.

We parked and I lightened my pack, knowing we'd be returning to the car after summiting the 11,000 ft mountain.  It felt like cheating, and it was, in a way, but I wanted to have a good day hike with her, not lug all 40 lbs of my pack up several thousand feet of elevation gain if I didn't  have to.

We set out on the trail, under the towering pinnacle of Tahquitz peak, up switchback after switchback into the clouds that swirled up ahead.  The clouds were thick and white, and there were patches of blue sky, and I grew optimistic that we would have fairer weather than was predicted, enough so that I even put on my sunglasses on the way up.

That optimistic outlook lasted only a few minutes, however, until the dark grey storm clouds began to roll in, and the sun was lost to sight entirely.  We reached the junction of the Pct and Devils Slide Trail, which we had just climbed, and set off toward the summit some 5 miles on.

Heavy winds whipped at our jackets and drove wispy clouds across the trail.  We walked through a dense fog, the air damp and cold, pine trees lining the trail distant ones appearing as ghostly shadows amongst the gray of the clouds.

We made slow progress, talking and fighting the wet and cold.  Susan, just two days from donating blood and having not hiked in a while, set a slower pace than I was used to from her, but I didn't mind, it gave me more time to take photos and talk with her, catching up after our two weeks apart.

We hiked on, the dog leading the way, and eventually reached the junction where the summit trail left the PCT, and took it, ascending the mountain with each step.

The rain started a mile into the summit trail, and we hurriedly donned our rain gear, trying to protect ourselves from the icy drops that misted around us.

We walked through an erstwhile meadow, it's once vibrant ferns now wilted and browned, laying flat against the ground like spidery tentacles from some alien plant.  It all looked a bit like War of the Worlds, as if the Martians had been seeding the mountainside with the blood of the conquered humans.  It was creepy and eerily beautiful, and it was really starting to feel like a John and Susan adventure.

Blood Grass
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We passed a small grotto, and Susan noted the icicles that hung from the upper lip.  We took pictures and failed to process that we were still some two thousand feet from the summit, and that, if there were icicles here, what would it be like further up?

We continued, passing and being passed I turn by several pct hikers and day hikers who had come up from Palm Springs that morning.  Many of the day hikers wore shorts and tshirts, and Susan and I laughed how blatantly ill prepared they were, somehow ignoring our own lack of proper weather related attire.

As we pushed higher, the rain started to freeze, and we found ourselves hiking through compacted layers of snow along the trail that was in turn becoming increasingly difficult to follow.  Thin layers of ice coated rock and tree root alike, and thick ice crystals began to form on my hat and the ends of Susan's hair.  Even the dog had ice forming on her whiskers and along her back, though the way she ran through the undergrowth it didn't seem to phase her at all.

Freezing rain and hail pelted us and the air grew colder and colder.  We stopped to eat something, hoping the calories would warm us, but the act of stopping only made us colder.  When we tried walking again, our steps felt leaden, our pace inexorably slow.

We only made it another two hundred yards when I turned to Susan and voiced my concern that, should we press on the final half mile to the summit, we might find ourselves in serious trouble.  My rain gear, meant for far lighter conditions than this, had failed, and my down puffy coat and wool base layer were soaked clean through.  I had started to shiver uncontrollably, and saw that Susan had too.  We had threshed a point where our adventure had turned to legitimately dangerous, and I insisted we turn back.

"Sometimes you beat the mountain, sometimes the mountain beats you," I said, though neither of us liked that the latter had happened in this instance.  We walked downhill, trudging through the cold and the rain.  It was already 1 in the afternoon, and we had eight miles back to the parking lot at Humber Park, so I set a fast pace, insisting that we hurry to warmth and safety, knowing we didn't want to face the mountain at night.

It took us four hours to return to the car, and by the time we did we were both exhausted, freezing, and drenched to the bone.  We grabbed what clean clothes we could from her car and dressed hurriedly in the restroom in the parking lot.  We ran to the car and turned the heater to maximum.  I had always mocked her seat warmers, but as we drove back through Idyllwild I relished their toasty heat on my bottom, and vowed never to mock them again.

Idyllwild was awash with rain water, thick rivulets coursing down the streets and into gutters.  Nobody walked the streets, and few even drove in the downpour that assailed the small mountain town.  We agreed that neither of us wanted to get out of the car in such conditions, so we decided to head to Palm Springs for dinner and a warm hotel, off the accursed mountain and into the desert where I could pick up the trail the next day after drying my gear and taking a hot shower.

We ate that evening at a Japanese restaurant in downtown Palm Springs, in the shadow of the mountain that had just defeated us.  We slurped from huge steaming bowls of ramen and let the heat of the dashi warm our insides.  It was good, made all the better by the fact that it was warm and comforting.

We stayed that night in a holiday inn in Indio, one of the few available rooms in the area due to the influx of people for the Stagecoach music festival.  We laid out our wet clothes to dry and took a hot shower, and I slipped and fell in the slick tub, hurting my knee, wrist, and finger in so doing.  We went to bed and talked for a time, until we both were too sleepy to stay awake.

When we finally fell asleep, her nestled into my arms for warmth, I thought to myself, today was a good day...