The Scenic Route

May 8th, 2011

Warner Springs, Mile 109

Editor’s Note: All updates to this site, be they posts or design, are done via my droid phone. I’m only able to post at the mercy of cellular reception and battery life. Also, I currently have no way of transferring pictures from my camera to my phone, so all I can currently post are shots I take with my phone, which I typically don’t do. I may later update posts with pictures from the camera once a computer is available.

It’s now been a week of walking on the old dusty, and the routines of trail life are starting to set in. This stretch, and the next few hundred miles to boot, are through the desert and pretty rough. Technically very little of this is true desert, and for the upcoming Mojave we only walk about 12 miles of it and skirt around the outside for many more. Still, it’s been plenty hot enough for me, typically somewhere in the 100′s and 90 in the shade. To avoid baking all day, everyone out here wakes up anywhere from 3am-6am and walks in the cool morning pre-dawn until things start heating up around 10am. From here it’s a battle to find shade, where hikers will usually hunker down until 4pm-6pm, at which point things have cooled just enough so we can put in the rest of the miles for the day until dark. Alternatively, there’s night hiking, and while it is cool in it’s own right, you miss everything except for what your headlamp illuminates directly in front of you.

What has surprised me most about this first hundred miles is the variety we’ve seen in the flora. There’s been arid desert, pine forests, rolling plains, burned swaths of land, and a patch that reminded me of Australia complete with eucalyptus.

Out here the big essentials are water, of course, and shade to wait out the heat of the day. Water is, I’m told, quite plentiful this year in relation to prior seasons. There are many little streams that are typically dry this time of year, but their character is questionable. Often cows pollute the streams that they too drink from, and mice have often been known to fall in and drown in water tanks. Treating all the water is essential unless you’re looking for a case of the tummy grumblies.

Since there are often stretches upwards of 20 miles between water sources, there are some trail angels who supply water caches, bringing many gallons of water to especially dry sections of the trail to avoid having to carry 30 pounds of water between areas. Still, even though the angels may bring 100 gallons or more to a cache, once the herd (the large middle pack that constitutes the majority of hikers) comes through, it can be quickly wiped out and therefore hikers are told not to rely on them.

We’re currently somewhere in the middle of the herd, so there’s lots of people everywhere now until the different paces spread people out more. It’s easy to find people to walk and camp with, as everyone usually starts within a one month window and kickoff sees the biggest number of hikers off at once.

Almost everyone section hiking or thru-hiking takes on a new handle, known as their trail name. When introducing yourself to other hikers, trail angels, or even town folk, you use your trail name. There’s no hard and fast rules on trail names, they can either be chosen yourself or given by other hikers. If you don’t like one that’s given to you, you need to find a replacement quickly before everyone starts calling you “Thunder Butt” or the like.

While there are a few great trail names out there, mostly they are a result of some item that that person is associated with. If someone is cold one night and busts out their space blanket for warmth, they run the risk of inadvertently adopting it as their new moniker. My issue is that most people who don’t have a trail name are almost immediately appointed one by their fellow hikers, regardless of the quality.

As expected, my trail name came as a result of my ukulele. The name had been kicked around a little earlier, but when the trail angel Sugar Momma threatened to dub me Baby Face, I quickly took the name of Jamz. I’m not super jazzed on it, but it could be much worse. Most of the time when I introduce myself people hear James, but once they hear it right I get all kind of responses. Like kick out the jamz? Like the old shorts? Like jelly? Like NBA Jam? Yes, yes to all of the above.

I’m currently hiking with Crasher, SpoonMan, Cerveza, and recently left behind Low Card and Axel Rose (not a trail name). Some others that come to mind are Dirt, Backyard Boogie, Serenity and Three Times a Lady, Mowgli, Pinky, Soft Walker, Happy and Gigi. I think my favorite name I’ve heard thus far was for a rider on a gluten-free diet, the Breadless Horseman.

We’re currently staying in a resort in Warner Springs, where six of us packed into a room for a day of rest. When you take a day off entirely and don’t walk at all on the trail, it’s called a zero, as in zero miles walked. If you only walk a short distance before resting, like we did yesterday, it’s a nearo. It’s been a bit strange coming back to civilization after a week living in the desert with ridiculously stinky hiker trash.A flush toilet actually looks foreign. My friends look completely different once a week’s worth of filth has been washed off.

We’re back off to the trail now, which I don’t mind in the least. This bed is much too soft.

April 28th, 2011

Lake Morena, Mile 20.6

Yesterday marked my departure to the trail and my official departure from city life. After moving away from Portland I spent 2 weeks in Florence preparing, during which I saw probably 5 people with the exception of a few friends right before leaving. Portland isn’t much of a city life, and then I spent my preparation time almost exclusively in isolation to make everything work. Once I bumped down to San Francisco to visit my sister though, I moved to the far end of the spectrum compared to the lifestyle I was about to adopt.

I always feel like a rock star when I go and see Caitlin and Wesley. Their apartment is right in the middle of downtown with a view looking out over the bay and the hills. They wear fancy designer clothes and usually coerce me to do the same, borrowing from Wesley’s wardrobe so I’m not such an embarassment when we go to five star restaurants. Caitlin was quite perturbed when she found I was only taking one t-shirt and did her best to persuade me to take a spare. Nothing doing.

Eating out every meal and going wine tasting in Sonoma valley could not be much further from what I’ll be doing for the next few months, but it’s certainly diverting. This will be missed.

Early Thursday morning I took the train out to a suburb where I met Tim, a fellow hiker and PCT enthusiast. Tim plans to hike the final 300 miles of the trail into Canada early this fall and hopefully a full thru-hike soon.

There’s something very special about the long distance hiking community. They will routinely do anything, truly anything, to help out a hiker with their trek. Money, food, rides, gear, lodging, advice, they will do everything in their power save carry you to help hikers reach Monument 78, the final marker before crossing into Canada. These people are affectionately known in the hiking community as trail angels.

Tim could hold such a title. Despite having to stop for gas 3 times during the 8 hour drive, he refused to let me contribute anything toward gas money. When we stopped for lunch, he insisted on paying for my food. Along the way, he constantly offered me food, drinks, to let me sleep, to stop whenever I needed, and anything else at all. Not only was I saving money on a plane or train ticket, I was practically getting paid.

Despite the troublesome often omen of a swarm of a couple thousand bees suddenly congregating in front of the California Pizza Kitchen as we dined, we made it to Campo unscathed and in very reasonable time. Once we arrived, we found a few hundred single person tents spread across the campground and even more excited hikers. Tim dropped me off right at my site and I met some of my fellow thru-hikers for the season. Axel and Cody from Los Angeles, Nathaniel and Pellet from Tennessee, a couple of Danes, and later a fellow from Washington. We were all under 28, which may have been intentional as most thru-hikers are at least 30, often 50 and upwards. Why there are so few in their twenties hiking the trail I still don’t understand. I’ve met countless people who say they’d love nothing more than to hike the trail, but when it’s actually proposed they say there’s no way they could make it work. There are a few older folks who you can tell, and who will readily admit that their trek is a result of a mid-life crisis.

Despite the demographic being much older, the atmosphere closest resembles that of a summer camp. Beers are handed out freely, food is everywhere, and the excitement could power a small city. Every time a former thru-hiker finds out you’re making an attempt of your own you’re met with “I’m so jealous.”

Amongst all the excitement, beer and ultra-light gear are information sessions, which cover topics ranging from hiking through the Sierras to water reports to bears. This seems to be the most beneficial aspect to new hikers aside from meeting their fellow dirtbags for the season, while the older crew spend their time catching up with old hikers and eating and drinking.

While it’s a great time, it’s a little cliquey. The older hikers tend to keep to themselves, and while they’re incredibly generous and welcoming, there’s not a whole lot of inter-generational fraternizing. The event is supposed to be for the year’s thru-hikers, but it’s really the old guard that are the ones who are partying hard. Just as well, I suppose. Walking 20 miles hung over would be truly miserable.

Everything is free for the year’s hikers and payment is refused. Beers are often promised but hard to find. So while it would have been nice to associate more with the older hikers, it’s difficult to complain.

The first day’s hike was amazing, starting at the southern terminus about 30 feet away from the border fence. Border patrol cruised up and down the fence while we took pictures and signed the register. I was expecting to be hiking through nothing but desert all day, but we passed through a small forest, down through canyons and marshy land, an area scarred by fire, and a rocky climb up a mountain before descending back down to Lake Morena. Even though we were slackpacking, it was a great introduction to the trail through a surprisingly diverse area. When we took the trail back down into camp to complete the first 20.6 miles, everyone back at camp cheered when new hikers returned. Here’s hoping all the next way points are as welcoming.

Dear Mom,

A little over a year ago, I was hiking around Arthur’s Pass in New Zaneland (official name change still pending) and spent the night at the town’s campground shelter. I crawled out of my bivvy and was greeted by a fellow American accent. Brian was visiting New Zaneland® for a few weeks in between thousand mile hikes in Australia and stopped to admire my Tyvek rain fly, popular among ultra-light backpackers and carpenters. After a bit of chatting we decided to do some tramps together (that’s kiwi for hikes) and spent about two weeks backpacking around the south island. During our hikes Brian spoke repeatedly about the Pacific Crest Trail and how incredible it was. Having hiked it twice, along with the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail (making him a “triple crowner”) and virtually every other long distance trail you can think of and many you can’t, Brian is something of an expert on thru-hiking, or walking a long trail from start to finish.

After parting ways with Brian, I continued to hike the south island for several months and eventually came to the conclusion that hiking the PCT was next on the agenda. After coming home I landed a job at an outdoor store which helped tremendously with subsidizing the cost of new gear (ultra-light equipment is not cheap) and after a lot of research and planning, decided that this would be the year to do it.

After my time in Portland was up, I packed up my car and was driving down I-5 to my folk’s place. I looked east towards the mountains and then it really dawned on me: I’m going to be walking those mountains. Here I am driving 65 miles an hour down the highway and it’s still taking me a long-ass time to get home. I can’t even walk half that fast. And as I drove the signs and the hills around me quickly passed and faded into specks on the rear view mirror, but the mountains, the route I would be taking, loomed off in the distance and hardly seemed to move the whole ride. The gravity of the situation I was soon entering suddenly became much more real. All the questions I’d been asked for months now demanded answers. How long is the trail? How long will it take you? How many bears are you going to fight? 2656 miles. Between four and five months. Two, maybe three.

I’d said I was setting out to walk from Mexico to Canada so many times that it almost became an afterthought, and now the path was whizzing by me at about 22 times faster than I can walking and it seemed as though I may as well have been standing still. If this hadn’t ever seemed like a crazy, hopeless endeavor before it certainly did now. The plane ride to California should be fun.

While I never considered backing down, the thought of how much enjoyment this trip would actually bring did come into question. This is beyond your average backpacking outing, this is a new lifestyle. I traded in my gig at a desk and a computer for a backpack and a pair of trail runners. Walking is my new job. Sounds great, but when you’re looking to put 20 miles between where you wake up and where you lay down for bed every day, that’s a bit daunting. My confidence in myself and this trip was shaken, and for a moment I wondered if going ahead with this was me being strong willed or simply acquiescent. But in my last two weeks of preparations, I came across a short ‘final thoughts’ passage in my planning guide that changed my outlook again. It read, “Do not view this trip as a walk to Canada. That’s a LONG way. Looking at the big picture can be overwhelming, especially when you’re in the Mojave, it’s hot, you’re carrying six liters of water, you feel like you’ve been on the trail forever, then you realize that you have TWO THOUSAND more miles to walk. No, no, no. Don’t look at Canada as your goal. If you want to go to Canada, get on a plane and fly there… When you go to bed at night on the trail, think about where you woke up yesterday morning. Think about how many miles, how many passes, how many ridges, how many fords, how many friends, how many conversations about everything and absolutely nothing, how many beautiful views happened in those two days. You’ll experience more in two days on the trail than in an entire month at home. THAT’s why we do this.”

There’s too many platitudes for me to remember which could all encapsulate one aspect or another of these sentiments; of life on the trail, the beauty and simplicity of nature, of undergoing an arduous journey starting with a single step. My favorite is a German saying which I came across scribbled inside the wall of a long drop toilet. “Der Weg ist das Ziel!”