Day 29: Detour(s)

(Mile 387 to 407 via Burkhart Trail detour.  This adds 1 mile.  3 accidental miles.  24 miles)

 

Gumby gettin' her rock hoppin' on.

Well, we were off to a good start this morning with the old endangered species detour.  The old detour is about 5 miles, missing 4 of the PCT; the new detour is about 18.  We chose the old reroute for obvious reasons.  (Though, we did meet Iron who accidentally took the long detour.  But he's well over 6 foot and didn't seem to be suffering.) 

The missed turn.

So, the shorter detour ... coupled with an accidental detour onto the closed portion of the PCT for about 1.5 miles.  We missed our detour turn -- a deep left we cruised on by partially because it's easy to miss and partially because we misunderstood Halfmile's directions.  It was a bit of a blow, hiking 3 extra miles.  But we stopped for an early dinner at our last water source of the day, then put in our headphones, and were off!  Gumby set the pace, and we raced to mile 407 where we had intended to stay.  We arrived before dark.  I did the math, and our mileage (errors and all) is 24 for the day!  A high for us.

We are beat up, tired, sore, and blistered; but we did it, and in good spirits.  Tomorrow brings another big day through the Station Fire burn area -- filled with Poodle Dog Bush and hot, hot sun.  Nearly 23 miles to our destination.  Think of us as you sip on a Coke in the AC!

Mystery scat. It's everywhere (prominent places)
and looks like tar when dried. No bones or fur or seeds ...

Day 28: Gettin' Into the Groove

(Wrightwood @ 369.5 to 387 = 17.5 miles)

Groovin' right along.

Well, we began two hours later than normal -- "slept in" and caught a hitch from Waterboy -- but we still managed a nearly 2 hour lunch, an hour and a half dinner/water stop, and were in camp with time to chat and be to bed by 8:30.  And hiked 17.5 miles.  4 of which were straight uphill to the summit of Mt. Baden-Powell at over 9000 feet.  (Scouts, this is YOUR summit!)  I realized when we kept a 2-mile per hour pace uphill and PASSED day hikers (!), that we may finally be getting our hiking legs under us!

Tribute to the founders of the Boy Scouts.

We admittedly struggled a bit in the beginning.  Nagging injuries, extra gear, nagging injuries ... so to be here today doing solid miles with substantial breaks is a big deal for us.  Oh, we're not as fast as the long-leggeds and 9 pound-packers in the front.  We will never be.  But to put in an easy 17.5 and arrive at camp relatively early AND relatively pain-free is very exciting.  It's as if we've moved into another level of hiking.  And indeed, I think we have.  Both in our physical ability and in our hiking relationship.  We're getting into the groove in both respects.  And we're thrilled.

Handstands for summitting Mt. Baden-Powell.

Kindergarten Cop took an extra day off to visit family for the holiday (right, the holiday ... we wondered why we ran into so many day hikers!), but we're sure he'll catch up.  I think he's meant to cross paths with us throughout the hike.  Maverick left town a day earlier -- it'll take some slacking on his part for us to catch him.  And Scallywag is right behind us.  He finally bought shoes -- he'd been hiking in Tevas (I thought of you, Dylan!) -- so, he'll catch us soon, too.  He's our official dual handstand photographer.  And hugger.  A great person to bump into.

Overlooking the Mojave Desert.

It's been a good day.  Tomorrow, a detour and more mountains, and then we move onto THE Mojave!  Eeek!  Nah, we'll be fine.  Early starts and afternoon siestas are in the plan.  That along with our official groovey trail legs should have us covered.

Scallywag, official dual handstand photographer and trail hugger.

Day 26 & 27: Birthday, PCT-Style

(Mile 354 to 369.5 at Highway 2 to Wrightwood = 15.5)

An icy Ruby.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I spent it in the clouds.  Literally.  We woke up to a blanket of clouds surrounding us.  Which was beautiful.  And chilly.  It turns out that clouds are cold and damp.  Of course.  Ruby, my sleeping bag, had a thin layer of ice on her when I sat up to rub my feet awake.  Everything was icy and soaked.  But, it was my birthday, and I was hiking the PCT, so I was happy anyway and celebrated with a Snickers for breakfast. 

Clouds surrounded our site.

By second breakfast (birthday cookies from my mom that tasted like muffins --yum), things had warmed up.  And then I met June and two others slack-packing the other direction (you have someone shuttle your pack and hike a section nearly pack-free -- a luxury, but it can be hard to put that pack back on), and she fed me birthday Oreos.  Third breakfast on a saddle overlooking the valley (real food this time), and all was wonderful.  I was happy as a clam listening to the wind in the pines, watching the clouds, and running ridges.

Morning views.

After another corner or two, it got a little chilly, and I added my jacket.  It was getting colder and windier.  In another couple of miles, I found Maverick huddled behind some sheet metal structure, adding layers.  I believe we were at Guffy Campground,  but honestly, the wind was blowing so hard and the clouds so thick, that I couldn't see a thing.  I donned my warm hat, my rain jacket, and my gloves.  Gumby strode in like a popsicle, and I dug out a few layers of hers.  The wind was picking up and little cloud icy balls were pelting us in the face.  

Birthday cookies!

We left our sheltered haven and headed out.  Gumby was blown 8 feet off the trail by a gust.  I was walking at an angle.  It was a little ridiculous.  We spent the next couple of hours like this.  I eventually added my rain pants.  We stumbled onto Highway 2 by 2 pm, having completed 15.5 miles.  We caught Maverick, and we quickly picked up by a local woman out driving in the rain to clean her car.

If I didn't know better, I would have thought Scout had been through.
He ate the heads first. Sorry, Marlene!

The thing was, though, as foul as the weather was, it was perfect.  As we were putting on our layers, I had a huge grin on my face.  I was thrilled with the way my birthday was going.  I love wind.  And, being a Midwesterner, I kind if like the cold.  Leaning into the wind only reminded me of how, when I was a kid, on the windiest winter days, I would put on my snowsuit and a garbage bag and go down to the shoreline and, face into the howling wind, I would lean in and howl, too.  I don't know why.  But I can remember how excited I was to get out there to the beach and how happy I was hollering into the wind.  Yes, I was a weird kid.  Just ask my mom. 

Holy smokels! It's cold!

So, between the great weather, a quick hitch, and a fantastic chicken sandwich at the Wrightwood Yodeler, I had a pretty wonderful birthday.  Made better by a visit from Kindergarten Cop and Viper, a party-in-a-box in my resupply package (along with socks, chocolate, cards, and candy!  Thanks, Beth and Guy and whoever else sent treats!), tons of electronic birthday wishes, and a NeoAir that will be on its way soon.  I could not have asked for a better day.
 

Still bundled with Maverick and Gumby.

And now we're tucked in bunk beds at the Methodist Camp who has opened their doors (beds, flushing toilets, and showers) to thru-hikers.  We'll head out early tomorrow.  Baden-Powell, a climb and a peak, awaits us.  We'll see, it might just be another day in the clouds.

Lodging thanks to the Wrightwood Methodist Church Camp!

Day 25: Homeless at McDonald's

(Mile 335 to 354 = 19 miles)

7 miles by 8:30; we were ready.

This morning we hit McDonald's.  THE McDonald's.  The one everyone talks about in Southern California.  We made 7 miles in 2.5 hours, which is fast for us.  When we arrived, Maverick, Dyno, and Texas Chill were already there eating breakfast, stuff spread out all over a corner of the place. 

Me?  As soon as I walked in the door, I started scouting the place for outlets.  (My solar charger adapter is on the fritz, and my phone isn't charging.)  I found one behind the trash cans.  That done, I ordered the first of what would be two breakfasts.  When I opened my first bacon egg McMuffin, it was about the size of my fist.  There was no way one meal deal was going to be enough.  Two meals and two drinks later (I wanted coffee AND Coke), I finally stopped to put my feet up (reduces swelling) and looked around.

Yes, it has come to this. Handstands for McDonald's.

What did I see?  People with CLEAN clothes.  Khaki pants without dirt!  Polo shirts with creases!  I found myself looking at the women's hair and admiring how oil-free it all was.  And then I looked down at my own pants.  Milk that leaked, mashed potatoes from dinner two days ago, oil from some plant, dirt streaks, the bleach spot from the Laundromat.  And my shirt!  Blue.  Brown where my backpack straps sit -- crusted with a white salty outline from sweat. 

I went to the restroom three times while I was there (nearly 3 hours); each time, my hands splashed the whole sink a dirty brown.  I looked in the mirror -- a tan, sunburned face surrounded by a frizzy braid smiled back.  I looked happy.  I looked down.  I looked happy and homeless.

Wile E. Coyote territory.

I went to check on my phone.  I emailed people while leaning over the edge of the garbage cans.  Did I mention that I smell like skunky jerky?  A few people recognized us as hikers and talked to us ... I always started with an apology for my stench.  And then I found myself brushing my shirt or tucking my hair behind my ears -- as if either made a difference. 

When I left, I felt a little defeated.  I had my water, my Gatorade, Fritos, and Starbursts from the gas station, a full belly ... but I had not washed my underwear.  I desperately wanted to wash them in the bathroom sink.  Oh, I knew it was totally inappropriate, but I still wanted to do it.  I wouldn't, but I wanted to.  It struck me then that I not only look homeless, but I feel homeless.  And, as a matter of fact, right now, I am homeless.

Gorgeous purple fields of awful Poodle Dog Bush.

Three miles later and away from civilization, I felt comfortable again.  Dust flying up at my legs, sweat dripping down my nose, and the wind blowing my odor a different direction.  I'd forgotten about the underwear and the Starbursts.  I was at home once again.

Gumby and Maverick relaxing at a water cache. Lounge lizards.

Day 24: No Whining. Crying Permitted.

(Mile 316 to 335 = 19 miles)

We caught up with Gumby's boss from Michigan at
Silverwood Lake. She brought us pop!

My first day of my college geology course, Dr. Tom Fitz went over the syllabus and class expectations.  The syllabus was what you would expect, but the course expectations were a little more.  I remember there were ten, one of which was the expectation that we take care of ourselves -- sleep, eat, ect.  Nice, I thought.  Also on that page was the word WHINING in caps and bold with a circle and a slash over it.  Dr. Fitz would not take whining.  He wrapped up that part of his introduction by saying, "You're a student, it's your job, just do it."

Silverwood Lake. We would,
of course, swim.

This was about 8 years ago.  I still remember his talk.  When I need to do an enforcement contact at the park that I dread, I tell myself, "You're a ranger, it's your job, just do it."  On the trail, it's, "You're a thru-hiker, it's your job, just do it."  It doesn't work for everyone, but I am a tough-love kind of person.  It works for me.  And whining does not.  Legitimate complaints and comments are welcome, but a pure whine?  Only if it is three seconds long and followed by a possible solution.  Crying, on the other hand is totally permitted.  What is there to cry about?  Plenty.  I have been thinking about this all week.  Here are the reasons I have come up with.  (And by cry I don't mean bawl, but tears running down the face, under the sunglasses, and quickly wiped away.)

We cry because we are in pain.  20 miles a day on the PCT is tough, and it hurts.  Pain mixed with exhaustion, fear, and/or frustration in any combination will make you cry.  I cried four times when my stomach pain radiated to my back and had me doubled over.  Mostly, because I didn't know what to do.  And I wanted my mom.  And she wasn't coming.

We cry because we are scared.  We are, at some point, pushed to what we believe is beyond our skill set.  This is extremely scary and can produce tears.  It hasn't happened yet this trip, but on my 77-day Outward Bound course, I remember crying before a whitewater rapid I was expected to run in a solo canoe.  I was sure I would be maimed if not killed.  I ran it and was fine.  I still look back 13 years later and know I overcame something that afternoon.

Heck, yes!

We cry because what we were able to run from in the regular world, catches up to us out here.  There is no hiding from anything on the PCT.  When Kindergarten Cop and I hiked together, amidst talking about everything from yoga to bacon, he asked me something about my dad.  I don't quite remember what because I instantly burst into tears.  My dad was going to do this section of the hike with me, but he has had some health issues they're still trying to figure out.  He's okay; it just isn't resolved yet.  And apparently, I am pretty upset about it -- I was just able to block it out before

We cry because we are happy.  Joy can be overwhelming, too.  It may come in the form of trail magic, stunning beauty, an accomplishment, or a kind word.  When my great aunt visited us in Big Bear and shared stories of my grandmother, I welled up with happiness.  And then hid my tears behind my giant iced tea.

Penstemon. Beautiful.

We cry because we are crazy.  Seriously, we can get a little crazy.  Spend a few weeks in your own head, and you can make up some pretty wild things.  I was hiking one day and realized my mate was supposed to have summited Mt. Hood around that time.  And then I realized that I had been out of cell service for days.  And then I wondered if something had happened.  How would they get ahold of me?  How would I get home?  What would I do?  In ten minutes, I had worked myself up into tears.  It took another twenty to settle myself down.  Hollywood impressive, isn't it?  Nothing had happened.  Everything was fine.  I completely made it all up.

We all tear up occasionally in our regular lives.  Something out here, perhaps the intensity of every moment, makes life a little more raw, brings the tears a little closer to the surface.  It makes you feel a little like an emotional boob, but I do think it amounts to growth over time.  You just have to embrace it.  And get good about stealthily wiping your eyes and boogers before anyone notices.

This bug (beetle?) is everywhere - usually
with its rump in the air and face in the sand.
Now on Gumby's pants.

Day 23: Tortoise or Hare?

(Miles 297 before Deep Creek to 316 on a ridge = 19 miles)

Interview with a snake and lizard. Both alive and kicking!

Today was a pretty great day, for it was a day in Deep Creek Canyon.  I love canyons.  And if the canyon were not enough, there was a hot springs I stopped by for four and a half hours (Gumby got there about an hour later -- we lounged around for awhile, it was too hot to make a move early.)  And now we're camped in a gorgeous spot overlooking the desert and some sort of town.  Just a sliver of moon and the bright night stars.  Warm breeze.  This is the life. 

Hot spring handstands. And 300+ miles!

So today I was thinking about our old story of the tortoise and the hare.  And the lesson -- which is, of course, that slow and steady wins the race.  I have always agreed.  But today, I thought the hare might be on to something, too.  Wouldn't it be great to hike fast and lounge around at breaks for longer?  Move faster to enjoy more stops?  What's wrong with a nap mid-race?  And the tortoise, he doesn't get to stop for anything -- just keeps on truckin'.  So, is it really better to be a tortoise?  Or would a hare be better in the PCT?  Jury is out here.  I'm sure the answer is somewhere in between.  I'm just not siding with the tortoise yet.  Even though my pace is that of one.  Perhaps that's why.

Sunset from my bed.

Oh!  One last thing from today.  Well, a few.  1)  Talked a bit with Scallywag -- we had the tortoise and hare debate.  He's for the tortoise.  A good guy.  I enjoyed his company.  And he's a young buck!  2)  Interviewed a garter snake eating a lizard this morning.  It was incredible.  I eventually moved on because I think I was interrupting.  3)  We were buzzed four times by helicopters in the canyon.  Looking for a hiker.  (They called down to us with some sort of megaphone.  Of course, they used her real name, and none of us know each other's real names.)  Keep an ear out, we have no idea what happened.

Day 22: Gumby Has Fledged!

(Mile 278 to 297 = 19 miles)

Deer hike the PCT, too.

 So, I don't know if I had mentioned it before but this trip is my cousin's very first backpacking trip.  Ever.  I know, it's a bit of a crash course, starting your backpacking career with the PCT, but she's doing it!  And today, she did it on her own.

When we started this trip, I put together a loose plan for our progression.  I figured the first week was going to be slow, figuring out our routines and getting our hiking legs broken in.  I hoped by the end of the second week we would be through with the major aches and pains and moving forward with miles.  By the end of the third week, I figured it would be time for a little solo time.  And so it was.

We talked in Big Bear about splitting up during the day and catching up at night.  We did that part of yesterday, and most of today.  I'll admit, I was a little worried about her, but when she showed up at our water stop using her maps and her water report, I knew we'd done the right thing.  Before this, I had done all of the leading and navigating.  But it couldn't go on forever.  I am a driver, and I'm sure it's too much after not too long.  And leading all of the time is exhausting, as much as I like to drive the herd.

My first wild rose of the year!

And so I spent the first four hours of the day alone!  Well, without people, anyway.  I pished up an armful of birds at breakfast, praised the lupines sprouting up everywhere after the Willow Fire of '99, fussed over my first wild roses of the year, tracked a deer and Shutterbug, and admired the boulders the fire bared.  It was just what I've needed.  Some of what I set out to do out here must be done alone.  I didn't get far, but I get the sense that I'm on the right path.

And Gumby?  She's thrilled that she did the day on her own!  In her own words, she's "fledged."  Perhaps I have, too.

The nicest pit toilet ever.
And a lizard standing guard.

Trail art.

Sunset from our campsite.

Day 21: The Things They Carried

(Big Bear, 266, to 278 = 12 miles)

My favorite stuff sacks.
Non-waterproof.

If I remember right, that's the title of a book or short story that we read in one of Ms. Ruth Michaud's high school English classes.  I don't remember it well, but I know the title referred to the personal items that soldiers kept with them during times of war.  This is not a war, but we have those kinds of things on trail, too.  And on today's easy breezy hike, I was thinking about mine.

But first!  I must explain that many of us know what each item in our pack weighs to the tenth of an ounce.  We carry as little as we are comfortable with.  My base weight (without food, fuel, and water) is around 17.  I have sent home extra socks, my mug and replacement mug, my belt, the lid to my pot (made one of foil), an extra sports bra, insoles, extra batteries, extra bandages, Tylenol, an emergency blanket, the Data Book, my journal, and a T-shirt.  All of this to shed ounces that turn into pounds.  And yet.  I carry a handful of items of no physical use and would never consider sending them home.  Here they are:

A little flare on the outside of my pack.

I have two gorgeous and unnecessary stuff sacks that a friend got in Guatemala.  I love the colors, and I use them to store my electronics, which are not so beautiful.  I think it gives them better energy.  I also keep my mp3 player in a small Jazzercise sack that my Jazzercise ladies gave me.  I don't need any of these sacks really, but they make me happy when I see them.  My store-bought stuff sacks are great, but they have no meaning.

I have ribbons clipped to the outside of my bag with an alligator clip.  The clip is from Jazzercise.  The ribbons were on a gift from Ann Maureen Scully, one of the female rangers I work with and deeply admire.  They are what I hope this trip will be -- light, bright, happy, colorful, and springing with energy.

Scout's mouse and my
stuffed animal for the trip.

I have a dead mouse from my late kitty, Scout.  That stuffed mouse has been killed too many times to count.  Scouters was my little boy and my best bud.  He was a little over a year when he was hit and had just turned from the cute runt with huge paws into a handsome, athletic, full-grown cat.  I still miss him terribly and find myself replaying all moments up to finding him in the road.  When the going gets rough, I reach into my pocket and squeeze that mouse.  Scout and I had a shared passion for the outdoors.

And last but not least, I have the written word.  A couple of poems, cards, and quotes from friends.  Two letters from my mate.  (Who, it turns out, has a wise old 80-year-old inside him, too; and this side comes out in letters.  The wise old 80-year-old lady inside me is also in love.)  All of these I turn to as needed or reflect upon as I hike down the trail lost in thought.  I have read most of them enough that I can just pull out lines and turn them over in my mind.  There is plenty of time to think out here.

We all have things like this in our life ... little bits and pieces that usually have no monetary value or physical purpose, but that we would never get rid of.  The values are intangible and cannot be measured.  They do not count against the base pack weight of life.  For they are what make the burden bearable.

The view over Big Bear Lake.

Day 20: Big Day in Big Bear

My first Joshua trees!

(260 to 266 = 6 miles)

It was a nero (near zero miles) in Big Bear Lake today.  Which is always pretty wonderful.  Showers, laundry, out for lunch, random shopping, and reconnecting with fellow hikers.

But today's highlight wasn't any of those.  No, it was meeting my mom's Aunt Jo and Uncle Flarry.  Long lost Brown family relatives that I've never met.  They live "close" to Big Bear (an hour and a half!) and came all the way over here to have dinner with us.

BLT on sourdough with fries and two Cokes.
We were there for two hours. :)

See, I grew up in Michigan with the Kwaiser families all relatively nearby -- Grandma and Grandpa were right next door.  But the Browns were spread out all over the country, and we only saw "Brown Grandma and Brown Grandpa" about once a year.  Brown Grandma passed when I was fairly young, and I never had the chance to know her as an adult.  But, when we moved to the small town in Iowa where my Brown aunts and uncles grew up and my grandmother had been the school nurse, I did start to hear the stories.  Arlene Brown was a strong woman and had quite a presence.  I knew that even as a child.  Women like her earn stories, and everyone has one.  I waited tables at the local mom-and-pop restaurant, and so I would catch bits and pieces from the regulars who had known the Brown family.  I loved those stories and always wished I had been around her for more.  To meet my grandmother's sister and her sister's husband today was an unexpected treat.  Better than any other trail town pleasure. 

And so I have my food for thought for the next couple of days.  Thanks for making the trip, Great Aunt Jo and Uncle Flarry!

Day 19: A Day with Kindergarten Cop

(242 to 260 = 18 miles)

Trail-side show!

This morning, in my hurry to warm up, I caught up to Kindergarten Cop.  And we hiked together the entire day.  The terrain was fairly easy, and, with the constant chatter between us, the miles flew by.  Kids, parenting, parents, police work, ranger work, religion, Eastern medicine, swimming, hiking, horses, horse manure, dairy farm ice cream, books, snap judgments, cooking, jewelry ... we were all over it.  The man has a million stories, and I love listening to them.  And exchanging police/ranger war stories is always a pleasure -- great chance to learn from someone else's successes and mishaps. 

 

Trail magic.

 It's more than just that though.  It's finding a kindred spirit.  You know the feeling.  Those people with whom long explanations are unnecessary but long stories are welcome and sought after.  We don't get to bump into these people all that often.  To spend a day hiking along side one, well, that's golden.  Add a little trail angel magic, a bear, and çell service to call loved ones, and you have the makings of a great day.

A gorgeous little desert flower.

Handstands for 250 miles!

Kindergarten Cop can do handstands, too.
Yes, he was a gymnast among other things.

Day 18: Guess What??

Our canyon water source. Yum.

(226 to 242 = 16 miles)

Today was a pretty ho-hum sort of day.  We spent the first half in a canyon and the second half climbing out of it.  We roasted, and now we're feezing.  Seems to be the way of things.  Gumby and I are hunkered down on a saddle; Kindergarten Cop is standing guard.  (I'm thrilled we stayed up with him, though sometimes I'm pretty sure he waits for us.)

What I did realize today (and many of you probably already knew this -- however, I may not have) is how much I want this.  All of this.  Every minute of this hike, I have been working towards for the last two years.  This IS a big deal.  I know you know, but I didn't really have a chance to think about it.  This could be a once in a lifetime experience ... and I get to do it right NOW.  Unbelievable.  I am pretty damn excited.  And lucky.  And grateful.  Yes, this did not really strike me until this morning.  No, I don't know what I was thinking the past 3 weeks.

A fire made the canyon extra hot and shadeless.

While we're at it, I also just realized that I'll turn 34 on the trail in 8 days.  Guess what I'll be doing to celebrate?  Hiking the PCT.  :)  I cannot wait.

Gorgeous. Some sort of coral root? Earl?

Day 17: All Things Come In Threes

Gumby and me with icy pops!

(Mile 205.6 to 226 = 20.4 miles!)

My friend Carol is the one who taught me that.  We worked at Silver Falls together, and it was usually bad things that happened in threes (emergencies, injuries, etc).  But today, good things happened in threes!

The first was icy cold pops under Interstate 10.  It had been an awful first 4 miles, and when we got to the underpass, there were coolers full of pop!  I had a Coke, a Diet Coke, and hummus and chips for breakfast.  I do love that about trail life.

Gumby in the cabana Mesa Wind Farms built for hikers!

The second was a cabana, AC, cold water, and ice cream at the Mesa Wind Farm.  Our last water stop before crossing over the other side of a range in the afternoon heat.  (It was 93 degrees at 10:30 am.)  The guys invited us right in.  It was wonderful.

The third was hitting Whitewater River at the very moment our brains were roasting.  We totally submerged in the cool, clear water.  It was better than any bath I have ever had.  It made our day and carried us through the next 6, ungodly long 6, miles to our site by another river.

So here's to trail angels, Mesa Wind Farm, and rivers. And good things coming in threes. Night!

Kindergarten Cop in Whitewater River. We'd replace him.