PCT Weekly Photo: Sand, scrub, and sky

This is part of my PCT Weekly Photo series. To see the other photos in the collection, click here.

PCT Weekly Photo: Desert flowers

This is part of my PCT Weekly Photo series. To see the other photos in the collection, click here.

Directionally Challenged

As an addendum to yesterday’s blog, I feel it necessary to relate an incident that occurred several times over the course of the trail. 

It always began in a forest in the mountains, near to a highway or trailhead. We’d meet some day-hikers at a crossroads and all stop to chat. They were always deeply impressed with us, and it was nearly impossible to keep our egos from swelling as we basked in the celebrity status of being a thru-hiker.

The conversation would come to a close. I’d heave up my backpack, swing it onto my back and snap down all the straps with expert dexterity. Then with a cool, “See you down the trail,” we’d strut back onto the trail and stride forcefully into the woods.

And realize half a minute later that we had taken the wrong trail.

This action would immediately be followed by us contritely shuffling back up the trail and taking the correct route this time, in between making sheepish jokes to the day-hikers about our lack of direction. It was always very embarrassing. It was always ego-deflating.

And it reminded us why we always carried a GPS.

~~~

PCT Questions: Did You Ever Get Lost?

Me: "Zach, point at the map and pretend that we're lost!" (Northern California, when we were hiking into an inferno)

Did you ever get lost, and when were you the most afraid of getting lost?

On one hand, I would love to pull an awesome story out of my hat at this point. “Well, you see, we were trekking over miles of snow in the High Sierra when we lost the trail and spent the next two weeks telling directions with a sundial and fighting the bears for huckleberries…!” 

One the other, more realistic hand, I’m really glad I don’t have any stories like that to tell. Zach and I came to the PCT not ever, ever wanting to get lost. We printed out all of Halfmile’s very useful and detailed maps, then downloaded his GPS tracks onto Zach’s phone (his phone’s GPS functions even when he doesn’t have cell service). We kept his phone off most of the time and brought a backup solar charger, so we never ran out of battery. Whenever we were the slightest bit confused, we whipped out that GPS and checked out location against the downloaded track. And finally, the PCT is, as a rule, extremely well-marked and well-trodden. In short, a lot of things would have had to go wrong before there was any chance of us getting lost.

This very helpful and happy reality makes all of our “dangerous PCT!” stories fall flat.

“There we were, standing at the crossroads of a massive network of trails, unsure of which one led to the PCT…” (And then two seconds later we saw the PCT emblem on a nearby tree.)

“We started following the footprints on the snow, but they disappeared and we were left in a trackless waste of glaciers!” (But we could see exactly where the trail ended up in about half a mile. We just ended up climbing down an almost-sheer cliff and post-holing around a lake to get there.)

“After a brief foray to go to the bathroom, we bushwhacked our way through the forest, unable to locate the trail again!” (We found it a minute later after consulting the GPS that Zach still had in his pocket.)

…Yeah, not very inspiring stuff.

But you know what? I’m okay with that. 

I knew from the beginning that Zach and I were “bad backpackers.” We weren’t in constant rapturous appreciation of nature. We hitchhiked past the trail closures while others dutifully road-walked detours. We sought to make our lives and our hike as painless as possible (believe me, it was made painful enough by our lack of cash!). And so, not having to worry about losing our way was a big load off my mind. It made the experience more relaxing. It was one of a thousand little reasons that we were able to finish the trail at all.

~~~

Have a question about the PCT or backpacking in general? Leave a comment!

PCT Weekly Photo: The beginning of the trail (Campo, California)

This is part of my PCT Weekly Photo series. To see the other photos in the collection, click here.

PCT Questions: Shoes

How many pairs of shoes did you go through?

Zach and I blazed through four pairs of shoes, with varying success. Not everyone went through as many pairs of shoes as we did— some people bought higher-quality shoes and only went through three, two, or even one pair. On trail, the overwhelming preference for shoe brand is Brooks Cascadia model. Practically everyone wore them and seemed to like them! But Zach and I were more interested in whatever we could find on sale.

I hiked the first 700 miles with New Balance lightweight trail runners. The fragile fabric ripped within the first day, and I had to deal with sand leaking into its gaping holes for over a month. Still, their internal structure was sturdy, and it was nice to have such light shoes for the hot desert. Zach wore a pair of super-cheap Walmart-generic-brand trail runners. They were completely trashed by the time we reached Kennedy Meadows, but he made them work. 

When we took to the High Sierra, I switched to a pair of men’s Asics trail runners (Gel Scram 2, I believe). They were sturdier, warmer, and had much heavier tread, although still lightweight. Let me just say that these shoes rock! They’re pretty cheap for trail runners, but they held up to a ton of abuse, including post-holing through ice, “sledding” on my feet down boulders, and scrambling over sharp granite for miles at a time. To be honest, I can’t remember what pair of shoes Zach wore for this and the next section. They were more expensive trail runners, though I can’t remember the brand. They held up great, though!

I got a new pair of Asics Gel Scram trail runners in northern California, and put them through another round of even tougher abuse: volcanic rock of all kinds as we entered the Cascades. In northern Oregon I tried to replace them with some lightweight hiking boots, and that was a disaster (never ever EVER wear hiking boots when you go hiking. Just don’t!). I wore my Asics for another few hundred miles until I could order some more trail runners online. 

While I was waiting for new shoes, Zach switched to “waterproof” shoes by Lowa. The sides ripped out after a week of use, making the waterproof technology useless. They were also heavier than his other shoes. He wasn’t quite miserable enough to buy a new pair, but someone who had more money than we did sure would have!

The last four hundred miles of the trail, I wore a slightly different style of Asics trail runners (Asics Gel Venture 4, men’s), which held up beautifully. I now wear them on a daily basis in normal life. 

~~~

Have a backpacking (or PCT-related) question? Leave a comment and I’ll answer!

Est-ce réel? Est-ce imaginaire?

A couple days ago, my husband Zach and I were taking a walk, which we hadn’t done in over a week because we’ve both had a horrible cold. It was a mild day, and as we walked by the Missouri River, it gleamed silver and a fresh breeze washed over us. It was a fine day for a walk. It was a fine day to be alive.

Without warning, I burst out, “Zachary, we need to hike another trail!”

He chuckled. I grinned sheepishly. I weighed my motivation and found it similar to the way I would always say, on trail, “I wish I could go home.” It was a temporary feeling, one that I couldn’t help but express— but, ultimately, I didn’t mean.

I didn’t really mean this either.

I think.

~~~

PCT Weekly Photo: View from the Southern Terminus, near Campo, California

At Least I'm Not in the Desert (and an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress)

I have a cold right now. A bad one. The last five days have consisted of a familiar pattern: 1) Wake up feeling like my head is going to explode. 2) Hack and cough violently and take a shower. 3) Feel much better and think that I’ll be able to go to work today. 4) Realize that I am actually weak and still coughing and sound like a chain-smoker when I speak. 5) Sadly call off work and spend the evening drinking herbal concoctions and watching Stargate: SG-1. 

Contrary to what some might think, it’s not been that fun. But no matter how miserable I feel, I keep reminding myself, At least you’re not in the desert.

Because the last time I had a cold, I was. 

It was a bad cold then, too. We had nothing in our first-aid kit to combat it except water, and that was in short supply, because, as previously mentioned, we were in a desert. Not just the pleasant rolling hills speckled with pine trees that comprised most of the California desert Zachary and I traversed. On the day when my multi-day head-cold came to an unpleasant climax, we were caught in a section of trail that resembled more of my desert stereotype than anything else: blinding heat, perfectly flat, no water sources, sand blowing in the wind among tangled leafless bushes, cacti, and strands of barbed wire. 

My whole head felt congested, but my mouth dried out mercilessly in the desert wind. I stumbled along behind Zachary, half-dragging myself with a trekking pole, feeling exhaustion and pressure in my head like a sea of quicksand all around me.

This is what I wrote about my experience in my PCT journal (which is the memoir I’m working on right now, derived from my notes): 

We trudged across a long plain, studded with cactus, barbed wire, and brush. At last we were hiking in the area that looked most like the desert I had imagined. Little pink ribbons fluttered on the bushes, marking the path. We slogged through the sand, and by the time we reached the overpass of the road, I felt dizzy and exhausted. We also found a nice water cache there, and sat down next to it. We debated hitching into the town of Julian, but a guy there said it was a hard hitch. We shielded our stove from the whipping wind and cooked some pasta with cheese for lunch. 

We ate our food and sat glumly side by side, grateful that at least we had a shady spot to rest. My head pounded and my ears remained stubbornly plugged. Soon we were joined by a trickle of people returning from Julian. They all seemed ridiculously happy and well-fed: apparently the store in town gave out free food and pie to hikers. But I was already swollen with food (at that point we could barely eat our huge meals). We had missed the pie, and there was no going back for it. I felt even glummer.

Another troupe of people came under from the highway. They were three men and two women, all middle-aged, with the kind of Southern accents that I usually find familiar and nice-sounding (my extended family is from the South). But they were using their pleasant voices to brag.

“The PCT is so easy.”

“Yeah, it’s not even like hiking!”

“On the AT you’re just hiking on rocks all the time, straight up one hill and down another, all day long!”

“…With thunderstorms!”

“Not like this— nice and dry and so flat.”

“So easy!”

“Most people on the AT can only do three miles on their first day.”

“We did 15 miles on our first day.”

“FIFTEEN.”

“It’s great that this trail is SO EASY!”

I almost burst into tears.

After a while, we had had enough. We groaned, shouldered our packs, and stumbled on.

The trail continued across a desert plain, headed toward the San Felipe “Hills” (they looked like mountains to me!), rocky and barren. Once we were alone, I cried a little bit. I cried because we hadn’t gotten any pie, and I was feeling horrible, and my blister had grown to the size of a nickel. Then I stopped crying and gutted it out. 

By the time we crested the murderous climb and began cutting a straight path that wound through the steep mountains, I had calmed down. Then we met a man hiking southbound toward us. He was older, tanned to leather, wearing sunglasses, blocking our way. “Do either of you have blisters?” he asked. “I’m a certified nurse and have a lot of experience with blisters. I’m hiking south on the PCT so I can meet hikers and help them out.”

I glanced at Zach, who shrugged. “Well, I do have a blister,” I said.

“I’m Bipolar, by the way,” he said. 

It took me a second to figure out that was his trail name.

“Would you like to step into the nurse’s office?” he asked, gesturing to a flat rock. “I can pull a thread through your blister if it’s too big.”

I hesitated, wondering about the safety of allowing some dirty stranger to stick needles in my foot. But years of traveling had made me willing to take risks, even if something didn’t sound appealing at first. I sat down on the rock and took off my sock and shoe. We saw that the blister had popped, leaving behind a painful patch of deflated skin. I was a bit relieved, and Bipolar told me just to keep treated it with disinfectant.

After that, he began rambling about anything and everything. He finally settled on the topic of women hiking the PCT. “Women have a leg up on us men in long-distance sports,” he said. “The PCT speed record’s held by a woman, you know. She did it in 59 days. It’s like they say: ‘Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, just backwards and in heels.’ I’ve been to plenty of Ironman competitions. After the men finish, they drag themselves over to the first aid tent for some Gatorade. When the women finish, they pull out their cell phones and ask if little Johnny has finished his homework yet.”

His speech, while not entirely unbiased, made me somehow feel like things were going to be all right. I had the advantage— Bipolar had told me so. And in the end, it turned out to be true.

~~~