Friday afternoon we hiked down the South Lake Tahoe thoroughfare to the post office to mail
the bear canisters back to the hiker who had loaned them to us (thanks Phil!). It's not that there weren't any more bears where we were going, but we were no longer legally required to carry the cans, and we were happy to get rid of the heavy, ungainly things. Our packs significantly unburdened, we managed a quick hitch up to Echo Lake Resort where we savored a last few luxuries (wine and cheese!) before hefting our packs in the drizzly afternoon. The trail followed the east shore of the lake, heading towards the Desolation Wilderness boundary where we could make our first camp of this section. The remaining cold and wind from the previous week’s stormy weather chased us into an early bed that night.
the bear canisters back to the hiker who had loaned them to us (thanks Phil!). It's not that there weren't any more bears where we were going, but we were no longer legally required to carry the cans, and we were happy to get rid of the heavy, ungainly things. Our packs significantly unburdened, we managed a quick hitch up to Echo Lake Resort where we savored a last few luxuries (wine and cheese!) before hefting our packs in the drizzly afternoon. The trail followed the east shore of the lake, heading towards the Desolation Wilderness boundary where we could make our first camp of this section. The remaining cold and wind from the previous week’s stormy weather chased us into an early bed that night.
Dan and Lisa arrived the next morning on the ferry from Echo Lake. Jan met them at the ferry dock a half mile from where we had camped at the Wilderness boundary while I packed up. The small boat containing our hiking partners pulled up to
the dock promptly at 10am and after a short greeting we set off northbound.
Aloha Lake shone serenely below the Crystal
Range, some of the last
granite sawtooth peaks on the northbound PCT until the Trinity Alps, some 500
trail miles north. Deep blue Lake Tahoe was
visible from time to time as the trail crested minor saddles and the forest
opened up. Dan is an experienced backpacker and
mountaineer who had already bagged many of the peak in the area. He proved to
be an excellent tour guide for this section, pointing out the highlights and naming the distant summits. We made a rather cozy camp above Fontanillis Lake, Dan and Lisa regaling us with news of the outside world while we ate dinner.
Our weekend companions departed the PCT at lunch the next day,
bound for Highway 89 and their normal life. We continued walking north on the
PCT, exiting the Desolation Wilderness and entering
the Granite Chief Wilderness (which, despite its name, is mainly volcanic in
nature). Our route ascended out of the dense pine and fir forests, crossing
under several ski lifts of Squaw Valley as the trail re-attained the crest, rewarding our climb with spectacular views to the
south. Many of the more prominent peaks and ranges from the previous weeks were
visible in the distance, and a few of the peaks and ranges we would be
crossing in the weeks to come shone dimly through the haze. Lake Tahoe
twinkled brilliantly in the late afternoon sun as a distant thunderstorm hovered massively, bedecked
in shades of violet, orange, white, and blue. Wind-gnarled pines
provided a measure of protection for our exposed camp high on the ridge below
Tinker Knob while the western sky put on a very memorable sunset display for us and the eight or ten fellow travelers who shared our little copse on the ridge.
We roused ourselves out of our sleeping bags relatively early, knowing that real food was only a half day away at Donner Pass. The miles zipped by and we soon found ourselves at the Donner Summit Ski Ranch, where Jan had learned to ski back when they still had a rope-tow and a T-bar. The smell of cheeseburgers powerfully attracted us to the lodge, but unfortunately our resupply was at the post office three miles farther down the road. I insisted on hitching into town, assuring Jan it would be easy; he stubbornly argued that in the time we waited, we could be simply walking the three miles. I refused yet another road walk with my pack. I suggested we go up to the ski ranch, set down our packs, and at the very least "slackpack" (hiking without your backpack) into town. Hiking with a partner is all about communication and compromise, but perhaps most importantly, you have to be able to recognize when your partner is getting hangry. Jan was a textbook case. Before I knew it, Jan had bellied up to the bar and ordered a cheeseburger and a beer. The ski lodge manager told me that he was headed to the post office, and my husband had volunteered me to go. I was so relieved that I didn't have to walk the three miles into town or deal with any low blood sugar crankiness that I didn't even scoff at being volunteered for the chore. I soon returned carrying three resupply boxes. One contained our expected resupply of food, one contained Jan's replacement boots, but what was in the third box? The return address listed Pennsylvania and neither of us could figure out who it was from. It was like Christmas! So exciting!
We roused ourselves out of our sleeping bags relatively early, knowing that real food was only a half day away at Donner Pass. The miles zipped by and we soon found ourselves at the Donner Summit Ski Ranch, where Jan had learned to ski back when they still had a rope-tow and a T-bar. The smell of cheeseburgers powerfully attracted us to the lodge, but unfortunately our resupply was at the post office three miles farther down the road. I insisted on hitching into town, assuring Jan it would be easy; he stubbornly argued that in the time we waited, we could be simply walking the three miles. I refused yet another road walk with my pack. I suggested we go up to the ski ranch, set down our packs, and at the very least "slackpack" (hiking without your backpack) into town. Hiking with a partner is all about communication and compromise, but perhaps most importantly, you have to be able to recognize when your partner is getting hangry. Jan was a textbook case. Before I knew it, Jan had bellied up to the bar and ordered a cheeseburger and a beer. The ski lodge manager told me that he was headed to the post office, and my husband had volunteered me to go. I was so relieved that I didn't have to walk the three miles into town or deal with any low blood sugar crankiness that I didn't even scoff at being volunteered for the chore. I soon returned carrying three resupply boxes. One contained our expected resupply of food, one contained Jan's replacement boots, but what was in the third box? The return address listed Pennsylvania and neither of us could figure out who it was from. It was like Christmas! So exciting!
In one of the more surprising turns of the trail, an old friend and bandmate of Jan's, with whom he hadn’t spoken in nearly nine years, had sent us a care package containing Mountain House meals, Pro Bars, Snickers, and whiskey – all solid trail gold. By now we were eating close to four thousand calories per day and still not getting enough, so this surprise box was welcome indeed (thanks Jon!).
As we were each devouring two brownies a la mode, some hiker friends rolled up. There was talk of whether to get a cheap room at the ski ranch and take advantage of the bar. After a brief moment's thought we opted to hike on. If we weren't careful, we would get sucked into what PCT hikers call “the vortex”: a powerful combined force of inertia, food, and booze that traps unwary hikers in town for days. The best defense against it is hiking on as soon as possible, so we wished them well and got back to the trail.
We crossed under Interstate 80 and put down some fast miles to get back into proper wilderness before setting up camp -- the noise of the freeway traffic wasn't much for making this pretty section of trail particularly peaceful. The roar of the interstate faded to a gentle whoosh and then ceased entirely. We passed a couple days of pleasant hiking through the Tahoe National Forest on our way to our next resupply at Sierra City.
The Sierra City General Store was lousy with "hiker trash"
(a term of endearment for the rag tag gangs of dirty hikers that virtually take over small towns up and down the trail during the hiking season). Jan went inside to investigate the deli as I sorted through our latest resupply box, all of us crowded under the thin strip of shade on the porch of the general store. When Jan returned outside, he informed me that he had ordered a “Gutbuster" - a solid one pound burger. Hungry though I was too, that sounded somewhat terrifying and intestinally distressing. I watched him destroy it in five minutes. Impressed, I asked him how he felt afterwards and he said "Good! Let's get ice cream!" Prudently, I suggested we hold off for an hour or so.
Having achieved Step 1 of all town stops -- post office and food, we were ready for Step 2 -- showers and laundry. Jan walked up the one street in town and found a room at the charmingly named Red Moose Inn (there are no moose within several thousand miles of Sierra City, but hell if it didn't seem quaint!). After showers, laundry at the RV park, ice cream while waiting for our clothes to dry, and beers with some fellow hikers, a group of us gathered at one of the two restaurants for dinner. Jan's burrito was the straw that broke the camel's back. He went to bed groaning with indigestion. I comforted him, recalling my own same experience back in Lone Pine with some excellent chocolate chip cookies from the local bakery, an affogato from the local cafe, and Chinese take-out while we watched TV in our room. Such was the risk and reward of civilization.
Having achieved Step 1 of all town stops -- post office and food, we were ready for Step 2 -- showers and laundry. Jan walked up the one street in town and found a room at the charmingly named Red Moose Inn (there are no moose within several thousand miles of Sierra City, but hell if it didn't seem quaint!). After showers, laundry at the RV park, ice cream while waiting for our clothes to dry, and beers with some fellow hikers, a group of us gathered at one of the two restaurants for dinner. Jan's burrito was the straw that broke the camel's back. He went to bed groaning with indigestion. I comforted him, recalling my own same experience back in Lone Pine with some excellent chocolate chip cookies from the local bakery, an affogato from the local cafe, and Chinese take-out while we watched TV in our room. Such was the risk and reward of civilization.
The next day’s hike promised a five-thousand foot climb out
of the Yuba River valley up to the Sierra Buttes to regain the Pacific Crest. Lucky for
us, trail angel and Appalachian Trail
thru hiker Spirit Bear offered to drive a number of our packs up to the summit so that
we could slackpack the climb. About eight of us gladly took her up on her
offer, and after breakfast, the nine mile climb took only three short hours. There is a fire lookout tower perched on the very top of the Buttes
that affords a 360-degree panorama, where on clear days you can see south to the
Crystal Range above the Desolation Wilderness, and north all the way to Lassen
Peak, well over one hundred miles away. On this day, however, smoke and thick haze whitened
the sky, so we were content to skip the 1½ mile uphill detour to
the summit. We collected our packs from Spirit Bear’s van and followed the trail as it stayed high on the northward
trending crest, but this time in thick reforested stands of Douglas Fir and Jeffrey Pine.
We made camp on a densely forested ridge and enjoyed our
dinner on a small outlook with impressive views to the northeast. We watched
two distant towering cumulus clouds slowly turn from white to orange to pink and at last
dark purple as the towering cloud tops caught the last rays of sunlight an hour
after the sky had gone dark. After dinner we were drawn back to the lookout for
the evening performance as the two thunderclouds dueled with silent explosive lightning. It was long past “hiker midnight” (nine o’clock) by the time
we finally turned in.
Two days of hiking the crest-top brought us into Plumas National Forest and to the deep canyon of the Middle Fork Feather River. Abruptly our trail began a steeply switchbacked descent. The Jeffreys and Douglas Firs changed to Ponderosa and White Pine and soon these gave way to Black Oak, Manzanita, and Mountain Hemlock. Also making a reappearance to the trail were poison oak and rattlesnakes, two nuisances we had left behind as we climbed into the southern Sierra a month previously. We surprised one large rattlesnake (and he surprised us!) as we hurried down the path into the thickening heat, but he was satisfied to slither off into the undergrowth after giving a short warning rattle. The river is straddled by a magnificent arching steel and wood equestrian bridge that takes hikers one hundred feet above the rapids. We took an extra-long lunch break by the river, reluctant to leave the cool riverbank and begin the steep hot climb out of the canyon.
After regaining the crest and hiking a day through dense forest, recent clear cuts, and decades-old clear cuts now overgrown with
Manzanita, we again gave up our altitude, this time into the canyon of the
North Fork Feather River and the town of Belden. Again we passed out of alpine elevations and into chaparral and oaks. At the bottom of the climb the
trail crossed the Union Pacific tracks and a joined a dirt road. Massive tangles of ripe blackberry brambles
grew below the railroad grade, sunning themselves like inviting barbed wire. Braving the thorns, we tore into the berries,
staining our fingertips and mouths black with the sweet-tart fruit.
A few steps down the road and we began to see the detritus
of the previous weekend’s festivities. Belden’s main claim to fame is that every
weekend of the summer they host a massive rave attended by thousands of
half-naked, dancing hedonists tripping their balls off on electronic music,
booze, and heroic doses of psychotropic drugs. The brightly colored inflatables (now sadly flaccid)
and empty bottles were being policed up half-heartedly by a small team
of partied-out young men. We were very glad we had showed up on a Tuesday
and not over the weekend.
We cleared out of the glorified trailer park /
campground and across the river to the trailhead parking lot, hoping for a sign of somewhere else to stay. An older but fit
woman in a white Toyota
pickup was there, seemingly waiting for something. Two hikers were waiting patiently in the cab with her, so when she leaned across them and cheerfully shouted for us to walk faster, we did. But before this trail angel would give us a ride back to her
hiker hostel, she laid down the rules: “No drugs, no alcohol, no intoxication.
If you have a problem with those rules you can pick up your resupply package and hike on.” A quiet sober afternoon sounded like exactly what we needed, so we
hefted our packs into the bed and squeezed in beside the other hikers.
The Braatens are a couple of avid hikers who bought a
house in Belden with a separate wing just to accommodate thru hikers. Brenda Braaten has also published a well regarded book on long distance hiker nutrition and
gives a talk every year at the PCT kickoff celebration. There were fresh fruit
and vegetables from their impressive garden, freshly baked wholesome cookies and muffins, and piles of resupply boxes. They didn’t charge a dime for any of this. They only asked that hikers respect their house and follow the rules. We quickly stuffed some money into the donation jar after chowing down on fistfuls of garden fresh green beans. Our resupply package was located at the Caribou Crossing General Store, about quarter mile down the highway along the river. We walked past modern day prospectors working
their dredges in the river, sucking up the gold rich sediment and sifting
out the flakes of gold. No one ever got rich
mining this way, but there is still a very dedicated group of people bringing gold out of the hills that gave California
its motto.
The Caribou Crossing store had outstanding milkshakes, laundry facilities, a small resupply selection, and air conditioning, so we comfortably passed a few hours
there to collect our sundries and wash our clothes. After, we headed back to the Braaten’s private sandy beach along the river.
The water was the perfect temperature for an afternoon swim and we passed
several more hours swimming and laying on the warm sand. A river otter swam up,
barking at us and diving to the river bottom to pull up freshwater mollusks. A bald eagle carrying a trout in its talons whooshed past up the river. This, we
said in characteristic understatement, did not suck.
Unfortunately, the heat didn't abate with sunset, and it was oppressively hot that night in the tiny bedroom at the Braaten's hiker house. We managed to get a few hours of sleep, but by 5am we were up and ready to go. The
climb out of Belden is the longest continuous stretch of climbing on the entire
PCT – thirteen miles and seven thousand feet. We intended to get started before
the sun was up to minimize the time we would have to spend climbing in the
blazing heat of the lower altitudes.
Climb we did. The grade wasn’t steep – Brenda
had called it a “handicap ramp” – but it was relentless. Up and up we climbed,
out of the chaparral and oak, then oak and incense cedar, and finally back into alpine forests. To make matters worse, the last few miles of this section of trail had not been
maintained in several years and a couple of major windstorms had turned the
forest into a war zone of fallen trees and branches. Every hundred yards we
would have to climb over a tree in the path, or detour up poor tread around deadfall that was too large to climb over. Such hiking is exhausting and frustrating, but we
eventually made the summit and began to contour near the summit as we crossed
into the Lassen National Forest. We came upon a huge
tree that had fallen across the trail, obstructing it in three places. A crew
of maintenance volunteers on horseback sat considering the massive obstacle.
They eventually decided the challenge was too great even for their horses and
chainsaws, and decided to refer the problem to the Forest Service.
The quality of the trail improved markedly after we passed the crew, as they had been making their way south from Lassen clearing the trail. Finally, after our longest day of walking (twenty-six miles!) on our longest day of climbing, we reached our day’s goal and set up camp on an elevated saddle with views of Lassen Peak and the surrounding valleys.
The quality of the trail improved markedly after we passed the crew, as they had been making their way south from Lassen clearing the trail. Finally, after our longest day of walking (twenty-six miles!) on our longest day of climbing, we reached our day’s goal and set up camp on an elevated saddle with views of Lassen Peak and the surrounding valleys.
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| The Staghorn Lichens mark the average winter snow depth - here it is about twelve feet. |
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| Lassen Peak (the big roundish one) and Brokeoff (on the left) |
By now we were walking about 25 miles a day as a matter of course. We swiftly crossed into Lassen National Park. With stronger hiking stamina, we even opted to take a short detour to see Terminal Geyser. So far we had mostly decided against detours in order to save the time and our legs for the PCT, but we had to see the steaming, sulfur-reeking vent,
which is not actually a geyser but a fumarole. A few miles on we passed dead, mint green colored Boiling
Springs Lake.
All this hydrothermal activity gives testimony to the fact that Lassen Peak is still very much volcanically active. The last
eruption there was in 1915 - this event precipitated it being protected as a National Park.
We camped that night near Lower Twin Lake, very close to a
section of trail that we had backpacked several years prior. On this trip, however, we
wouldn’t have time to relax by the lakes. The next morning (a Saturday),
we needed to get to the Old Station Post Office by three PM or we would be
stuck there until Monday morning at eleven when they reopened. We had
sixteen easy downhill miles to go, so we took our time with breakfast but hiked fast. We shared the trail that day with fifty or more horses in groups of three or
four as they walked a weekend endurance ride. We easily made it into Old
Station in time, where we resupplied and enjoyed ice cream cones. Walking a few
miles further up the trail, we made a pine needle cushioned camp within a
quarter mile of the only diner in town and Subway Cave,
a huge lava-tube just off the PCT. Our plan was to eat dinner and breakfast
at the diner, check out Subway
Cave, and then hitchhike to Burney, skipping a thirty mile waterless/shadeless hike across Hat Creek Rim. We’d already walked through two deserts, thankyouverymuch.
We found a ride to Burney within ten minutes and enjoyed
the rest of our day off eating pizza, drinking beer, and catching up with other
hikers that had also found their way into the pizza joint.
The next morning, we hitch hiked up to the trailhead. After a few miles walking down the warm and very
dusty track we came upon a gaggle of hikers clustered around a PCT trail angel
station. The angels had built a pantry filled with emergency supplies, a solar
panel-driven charging station, shower stall, dart board
and some chairs for hikers to relax in, right there in the middle of the trail. Unfortunately, we had just
resupplied and were stuffed to the gills from breakfast and so had no excuse to stay and enjoy the amenities. Onwards we pressed towards Burney Falls,
the temperature steadily rising as the fine red dust stuck to our sweaty
legs. We startled another rattlesnake sunbathing by the trail. This one refused to yield. We made a wide detour around it and continued on.
Past the Pit River dam and
up a hill we climbed in alternating exposed chaparral and black oak until we
came upon a bridge over deep Rock Creek, the last good water for some miles. We
took a break to lounge in the cool water of the creek. Sitting in the shade of the bridge, talking to the other hikers, it was hard to get moving again. But soon the sun sank lower and the trail started to get some shade from the uphill side, so we hiked on to take advantage of the cooling hours.
The next few days got progressively hotter, even at our six-thousand feet elevation. We continued to follow the ridgelines north and to the west, sweating in the 90+ degree heat and dust. Mt. Shasta was our constant companion and a mirage of sorts with its snow-covered flanks. Then the trail rounded a ridge, turning to the west, and we were greeted with our first views of Castle Crags. The sharp granite peaks and spires beckoned us across the valley through the haze of multiple wildfires. We knew it would be a sweaty time descending into the summer inferno in order to get there.
Indeed, the next day we hiked down into Castella and 100+ degree temperatures. We were hellbent on getting our resupply and hiking right out (and up!) as soon as possible. It was not to be. We stopped at Ammirati's Market, the general store attached to a Chevron gas station and the only thing in Castella. We picked up our box, the biggest yet. Sent by our friend George (thanks George!), it was stuffed to the gills with the best junk food you could imagine. As we pulled out package after package of goodies (Double Stuff Oreos, Reese's PB cups, Snickers, Doritos, Pirate's Booty, beef jerky, almonds, PB-filled pretzels, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's), we delighted in figuring out how we were going to fit it all in our packs. The best problem!
Jan went inside Ammirati's to purchase an ice cream and a canister of fuel for our stove. He returned with only the ice cream. They didn't have any fuel. Isobutane is easily the most common kind of canister fuel used by backpackers. Ammirati's is the last, and only, stop along the trail until Ashland, Oregon -- 200 miles away. They had PopTarts and ice cream and sandwiches and sodas and beer and soap and cereal and toilet paper... but no fuel? It was a cruel joke. 100 degrees suddenly seemed like 150 as we fumed and fretted in the boiling shade. I got my own ice cream as a consolation prize and considered cold-soaking all our meals for the next week. It sounded unpalatable and the heat was making us both cranky. The nearest towns were Dunsmuir and Mt. Shasta, both known for having good outdoor outfitters and actual amenities, but that meant a long and difficult hitch. The PCT Class of 2015 Facebook Group had been blowing up with warnings of impossible hitchhiking in this area, and in fact there was an electronic billboard posted over the 5 Freeway (which runs directly through Castella, Dunsmuir, and Mt. Shasta) warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. It was beginning to look like we were totally hosed.
Clearly we had to come up with a plan for our last week of meals, but the heat and the stress of the situation had us both mentally blocked. We opted to get some beer, hike over to the Castle Crags State Park, and camp the night in relative luxury (flush toilets! coin showers! a designated PCT hiker campsite for only $3!). This would give us some time to at least rest and if not come up with an alternative solution, accept our fate. So off we went with armfuls of snacks, our six pack of beer sweating in the heat, and a mission to wait out the afternoon swelter. We set up camp and washed down both bags of chips with a couple of beers each. At this point, Jan got it into his head to walk along the train tracks to Dunsmuir and get us some fuel there. If it meant I didn't have to move in the heat, I was game. So I took off the top part of my backpack (which converts into a day pack), stuffed it full of water and snacks, gave him a kiss good luck, and he walked off into the heat waves. While I read my book and tried not to let any of my limbs touch, Jan walked through six miles of Hades into Dunsmuir, sustaining himself on the abundant blackberries that grew alongside the railroad tracks. Once in Dunsmuir, we were to be damned again. No fuel anywhere! Five outfitters later and another six miles back to camp, it was clear that if we were going to continue on we were just going to have to eat a lot of energy bars, trail mix, and a few cold-soaked meals. It didn't sound great, but ending our trip on this note sounded a hell of a lot worse. So we cracked open the bottle of Jack Daniels, shared it around the hiker camp (which had since accrued about ten other hikers), and made the best of the situation. All was not lost, however! Luck would have it that one of the hikers was getting off the trail the next morning, so he gave us the last of his fuel. There wasn't much left in the canister, but we were confident that at the very least we could heat up enough water each morning for coffee. Priorities!
Another hot, sleepless night later, we woke up early to hit the trail and get to a higher and hopefully cooler elevation. Ten miles in, we hadn't yet climbed up Castle Crags much, but the oak forest was shady and offered the occasional stream. This was the last pleasantry of the day. Soon we were climbing up an exposed, rocky trail that felt very much like the Sierras all over again. But this time it was easily 100 degrees. With heat exhaustion creeping up on me with every step, tears sprang to my eyes. This hateful heat! This hateful climb! Why the hell were we doing this?! Jan recognized the signs of a meltdown approaching and got me to stop in the shade to cool down. I could see our day's hiking group coming up behind us and my feminist ego wiped away the tears and stepped back into the wretched torment. I would not let those guys see me cry!
Six miserable miles uphill, we arrived at the first decent rest spot since the shady oaks far below. Some water, some shade, and the end of the steepest part of the climb was good excuse to set down our packs and cool off for a while. The last of our group dragged in absolutely drenched, wrung the sweat out of his bandana and pronounced, "That was dumb." It could not have been expressed better. It was five o'clock in the afternoon by the time we continued moving. The heat abated a little. There was more shade and the steep grade had leveled a bit. We practically skipped up the rest of the mountain, leaving Castle Crags farther and farther behind us. We stopped for the night on an exposed ridge, tucked into a tiny circle of low-lying Manzanita. The wildfires' haze had intensified and through all the smoke we couldn't see the surrounding ridges, but we did get a magnificent sunset. Seemingly no sooner than we fell asleep, we were roused by the flashes of nearby lightning and some rumbles of thunder. At around midnight, we were forced out of bed to cover our packs, but we quickly fell back asleep to the gentle tapping of light rain on the tent. Pure exhaustion from the day eased any concerns we would normally have about camping on an exposed ridge during a thunderstorm.
The next day was even hazier, but what we missed in views was made up for in cooler weather. Intermittent rain showers cooled us off further as we hiked. We crossed into the Trinity Alps Wilderness the following day, and our mood was downright celebratory. The weather was perfect, the views had cleared a tiny bit, the landscape was familiar, and we realized that it was almost a year ago to the day that we had decided to go on this crazy adventure, in this very place. Serendipitous! Just before we reached the Russian Wilderness, we were treated to wild raspberries lining the path. We tucked in, feeling like our luck had finally turned around. Cold-soaked food wasn't that bad when you had the sweetest sun-warmed raspberries to eat!
But as the trail goes, nothing lasts forever. We had heard of the Russian Wilderness' beauty, and it would remain only hearsay as the winds changed direction and we were hiking through a dense smokey haze. Our eyes and lungs burned, we couldn't see anything, and even the forest turned to apocalyptic blackened spires. This was an odd confluence of past and current fires with zero visibility and eerie surroundings. We passed the time by talking extensively about our "celebrity exceptions" and what we were going to do when we finished the trail in a day. When we made camp that night, we selected the only flat spot in a ten mile stretch. Soon enough, our camp became a group camp and we were delighted to have some trail friends arrive as we were eating dinner. They knew the end was near for us and we candidly spoke of our relative relief and jealousy. The trail is a mixed bag of emotions. As excited as we were to get off the trail and return to our "regular lives", this had become our regular life. We wanted to continue walking with them. They wanted to get off the trail with us. We wanted to go home. They wanted to finish at the border of Canada. All of these opposing feelings existed at the same time.
That night, Jan made a good campfire and sat alone into the night with his thoughts. I laid in my sleeping bag, staring at the stars and unable to fall asleep. My heart was heavy and I longed for sleep, yet I was so anxious to get off the trail that I couldn't settle down.
Somehow, the morning came and we ate our cold oatmeal with reasonable enthusiasm. Only nine miles to go! I set my usual blistering "town pace" and got us to the road in record time. Our dear friend Brian (thanks Brian!) pulled up in our car and produced a bottle of bubbly with which we toasted to our success and the end (for now) of our adventure. We had hiked over 1,600 miles from the bottom of California to the top - through the deserts and the southern mountains, through snowstorms and heat and thunderstorms, over pass after pass, across cold creeks, and ever northward. Along the way we lost a little weight, but gained dozens of new friends. Most importantly, three months of living on the trail had whittled away the chaff of modern life, revealing to us what was truly important for our happiness and success back in the world. That wisdom gained can be distilled down to a simple phrase - even the most difficult problem can be solved, if you take it one step at a time.
The next few days got progressively hotter, even at our six-thousand feet elevation. We continued to follow the ridgelines north and to the west, sweating in the 90+ degree heat and dust. Mt. Shasta was our constant companion and a mirage of sorts with its snow-covered flanks. Then the trail rounded a ridge, turning to the west, and we were greeted with our first views of Castle Crags. The sharp granite peaks and spires beckoned us across the valley through the haze of multiple wildfires. We knew it would be a sweaty time descending into the summer inferno in order to get there.
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| Shasta |
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| Shasta by sunset |
Indeed, the next day we hiked down into Castella and 100+ degree temperatures. We were hellbent on getting our resupply and hiking right out (and up!) as soon as possible. It was not to be. We stopped at Ammirati's Market, the general store attached to a Chevron gas station and the only thing in Castella. We picked up our box, the biggest yet. Sent by our friend George (thanks George!), it was stuffed to the gills with the best junk food you could imagine. As we pulled out package after package of goodies (Double Stuff Oreos, Reese's PB cups, Snickers, Doritos, Pirate's Booty, beef jerky, almonds, PB-filled pretzels, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's), we delighted in figuring out how we were going to fit it all in our packs. The best problem!
Jan went inside Ammirati's to purchase an ice cream and a canister of fuel for our stove. He returned with only the ice cream. They didn't have any fuel. Isobutane is easily the most common kind of canister fuel used by backpackers. Ammirati's is the last, and only, stop along the trail until Ashland, Oregon -- 200 miles away. They had PopTarts and ice cream and sandwiches and sodas and beer and soap and cereal and toilet paper... but no fuel? It was a cruel joke. 100 degrees suddenly seemed like 150 as we fumed and fretted in the boiling shade. I got my own ice cream as a consolation prize and considered cold-soaking all our meals for the next week. It sounded unpalatable and the heat was making us both cranky. The nearest towns were Dunsmuir and Mt. Shasta, both known for having good outdoor outfitters and actual amenities, but that meant a long and difficult hitch. The PCT Class of 2015 Facebook Group had been blowing up with warnings of impossible hitchhiking in this area, and in fact there was an electronic billboard posted over the 5 Freeway (which runs directly through Castella, Dunsmuir, and Mt. Shasta) warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. It was beginning to look like we were totally hosed.
Clearly we had to come up with a plan for our last week of meals, but the heat and the stress of the situation had us both mentally blocked. We opted to get some beer, hike over to the Castle Crags State Park, and camp the night in relative luxury (flush toilets! coin showers! a designated PCT hiker campsite for only $3!). This would give us some time to at least rest and if not come up with an alternative solution, accept our fate. So off we went with armfuls of snacks, our six pack of beer sweating in the heat, and a mission to wait out the afternoon swelter. We set up camp and washed down both bags of chips with a couple of beers each. At this point, Jan got it into his head to walk along the train tracks to Dunsmuir and get us some fuel there. If it meant I didn't have to move in the heat, I was game. So I took off the top part of my backpack (which converts into a day pack), stuffed it full of water and snacks, gave him a kiss good luck, and he walked off into the heat waves. While I read my book and tried not to let any of my limbs touch, Jan walked through six miles of Hades into Dunsmuir, sustaining himself on the abundant blackberries that grew alongside the railroad tracks. Once in Dunsmuir, we were to be damned again. No fuel anywhere! Five outfitters later and another six miles back to camp, it was clear that if we were going to continue on we were just going to have to eat a lot of energy bars, trail mix, and a few cold-soaked meals. It didn't sound great, but ending our trip on this note sounded a hell of a lot worse. So we cracked open the bottle of Jack Daniels, shared it around the hiker camp (which had since accrued about ten other hikers), and made the best of the situation. All was not lost, however! Luck would have it that one of the hikers was getting off the trail the next morning, so he gave us the last of his fuel. There wasn't much left in the canister, but we were confident that at the very least we could heat up enough water each morning for coffee. Priorities!
Another hot, sleepless night later, we woke up early to hit the trail and get to a higher and hopefully cooler elevation. Ten miles in, we hadn't yet climbed up Castle Crags much, but the oak forest was shady and offered the occasional stream. This was the last pleasantry of the day. Soon we were climbing up an exposed, rocky trail that felt very much like the Sierras all over again. But this time it was easily 100 degrees. With heat exhaustion creeping up on me with every step, tears sprang to my eyes. This hateful heat! This hateful climb! Why the hell were we doing this?! Jan recognized the signs of a meltdown approaching and got me to stop in the shade to cool down. I could see our day's hiking group coming up behind us and my feminist ego wiped away the tears and stepped back into the wretched torment. I would not let those guys see me cry!
Six miserable miles uphill, we arrived at the first decent rest spot since the shady oaks far below. Some water, some shade, and the end of the steepest part of the climb was good excuse to set down our packs and cool off for a while. The last of our group dragged in absolutely drenched, wrung the sweat out of his bandana and pronounced, "That was dumb." It could not have been expressed better. It was five o'clock in the afternoon by the time we continued moving. The heat abated a little. There was more shade and the steep grade had leveled a bit. We practically skipped up the rest of the mountain, leaving Castle Crags farther and farther behind us. We stopped for the night on an exposed ridge, tucked into a tiny circle of low-lying Manzanita. The wildfires' haze had intensified and through all the smoke we couldn't see the surrounding ridges, but we did get a magnificent sunset. Seemingly no sooner than we fell asleep, we were roused by the flashes of nearby lightning and some rumbles of thunder. At around midnight, we were forced out of bed to cover our packs, but we quickly fell back asleep to the gentle tapping of light rain on the tent. Pure exhaustion from the day eased any concerns we would normally have about camping on an exposed ridge during a thunderstorm.
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| Shasta with no snow |
The next day was even hazier, but what we missed in views was made up for in cooler weather. Intermittent rain showers cooled us off further as we hiked. We crossed into the Trinity Alps Wilderness the following day, and our mood was downright celebratory. The weather was perfect, the views had cleared a tiny bit, the landscape was familiar, and we realized that it was almost a year ago to the day that we had decided to go on this crazy adventure, in this very place. Serendipitous! Just before we reached the Russian Wilderness, we were treated to wild raspberries lining the path. We tucked in, feeling like our luck had finally turned around. Cold-soaked food wasn't that bad when you had the sweetest sun-warmed raspberries to eat!
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| Lassen is just visible center right on the horizon, about 140 miles to the south. |
But as the trail goes, nothing lasts forever. We had heard of the Russian Wilderness' beauty, and it would remain only hearsay as the winds changed direction and we were hiking through a dense smokey haze. Our eyes and lungs burned, we couldn't see anything, and even the forest turned to apocalyptic blackened spires. This was an odd confluence of past and current fires with zero visibility and eerie surroundings. We passed the time by talking extensively about our "celebrity exceptions" and what we were going to do when we finished the trail in a day. When we made camp that night, we selected the only flat spot in a ten mile stretch. Soon enough, our camp became a group camp and we were delighted to have some trail friends arrive as we were eating dinner. They knew the end was near for us and we candidly spoke of our relative relief and jealousy. The trail is a mixed bag of emotions. As excited as we were to get off the trail and return to our "regular lives", this had become our regular life. We wanted to continue walking with them. They wanted to get off the trail with us. We wanted to go home. They wanted to finish at the border of Canada. All of these opposing feelings existed at the same time.
That night, Jan made a good campfire and sat alone into the night with his thoughts. I laid in my sleeping bag, staring at the stars and unable to fall asleep. My heart was heavy and I longed for sleep, yet I was so anxious to get off the trail that I couldn't settle down.
Somehow, the morning came and we ate our cold oatmeal with reasonable enthusiasm. Only nine miles to go! I set my usual blistering "town pace" and got us to the road in record time. Our dear friend Brian (thanks Brian!) pulled up in our car and produced a bottle of bubbly with which we toasted to our success and the end (for now) of our adventure. We had hiked over 1,600 miles from the bottom of California to the top - through the deserts and the southern mountains, through snowstorms and heat and thunderstorms, over pass after pass, across cold creeks, and ever northward. Along the way we lost a little weight, but gained dozens of new friends. Most importantly, three months of living on the trail had whittled away the chaff of modern life, revealing to us what was truly important for our happiness and success back in the world. That wisdom gained can be distilled down to a simple phrase - even the most difficult problem can be solved, if you take it one step at a time.
