Stumbling The Pacific Crest Trail: 

Non-poetic recollections of hiking from Mexico to Canada

 

               I have always had much difficulty deciding upon life's little questions. Choices between regular or "perfume and dye free" laundry detergent, or between catsup and ketchup never fail to drive me just short of insanity. The question, "What should I do tonight?" is usually more difficult than "What should I do with my life?"  Not to imply that I know what I want to do with my life, it is just that the question does not unnerve me.

               The decision to hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) was an easy one to make. It actually wasn't much of a decision. It just changed from something I could do into something I was going to do. This happened at some point in 1997.

In fourth grade I found a 1971 article about the Pacific Crest Trail among the thirty or so years of National Geographics found in every elementary school classroom. It detailed the trail and some people who had first hiked its entire 2700-mile distance. I had heard of the trail before, but the article was what first made me think that hiking it was a good idea.

               I am not sure what specifically made me decide to hike from Mexico to Canada. I was in my second year of college, I suppose I was looking for meaning in my life blah blah barf. Spending a summer in the woods seemed a classic way of soul searching (Jesus, I get nauseous just writing that), it’s the “Big Two-Hearted River” tradition.

The funny thing is that sometime between 1997 and when I started the trail in May of 2000, I stopped taking life so seriously. I was no longer looking for “meaning,” or whatever. My motivations may have changed a little, but the trail was still on. I would think of the trail while I was rushing off to work and my head hurt from too many Jagermeisters the night before. Maybe while stuck in a downtown Seattle traffic jam I would catch a quick glimpse of Mt. Rainier wedged between skyscrapers and I would remember the words of the great naturalist John Muir when he said, “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink, because they wake up in the morning and that’s the best they’re going to feel all day.”  I think that was Muir.

 

Casey Routh, a friend from high school and college, was to be my trail partner (I always feel homosexual when I use the word partner). At first I was skeptical about his dedication to the undertaking of hiking 2700 miles, because he rarely demonstrated much enthusiasm about the outdoors. But I slowly realized that this was something he genuinely wanted to do. This, I believe, is the only requirement of the distance hiker.

In the year preceding the trail I finished college and worked at Feathered Friends, a small climbing/outdoor shop. We geared up with help from my employee discount, physically prepared by running stairs a few times a week, and cluttered my basement with the 25 boxes of food and supplies that were to be sent to the small towns along the trail.

We read and re-read The Pacific Crest Trail Hiker’s Handbook by America’s (self-proclaimed) leading authority on lightweight distance hiking, Ray Jardine. For those unfamiliar with Jardine and “The Handbook”, he has hiked the PCT three times along with the other major US trails. The book describes his unconventional hiking techniques and because he is an asshole about his opinions and his abundance of trail experience, everyone takes him seriously. They follow his advice like little Jardonite sheep down the trail until the first time it goes above 9000 feet and they realize it was probably a good idea to bring some warm clothes. There is a certain amount of “crazy” involved in walking 2700 miles. Because he has done the same 2700 miles three times, everyone thinks he must know what he is talking about. I think it just makes him three times crazier.

Jardine’s book contains about 100 pages of good advice, such as wearing running shoes instead of heavy hiking boots and the importance of a general attitude towards lightweight equipment. However, the remaining 250 pages are filled with pure insanity. For example, in his diatribe about the inevitable fall of “civilization as we know it,” he writes,

 

“The people who survive will not be the ‘survivalists’ holed up in their retreats stockpiled with food and weapons. Retreats can be plundered. Food supplies will run out, and hunger will drive the ‘survivalists’ back to the maelstrom of the cities where, indeed, they will need their weapons. The people who survive will be the small, nomadic tribes, eking out their existence upon a stormy, dusty earth. These will be the distance hikers of the Brave New World.” 

 

So in other words, Ray believes that distance hikers will be the only ones to survive the coming apocalypse.

 

A few days before leaving for the trail we had a going away party. I can’t really write much about the party as I don’t remember particularly much of it. The theme was the “Pacific Beer Trail” for which you were to drink a beer from each of the two countries and three states that were part of our hike (Starting with Corona and ending with Labatt’s Blue). I think I drank the trail two and a half times, and Oregon was a 6.7% state.

On May 3, we flew out of Seattle for Southern California. The flight took about 2 hours. It took us about five months to walk back.

We spent a few days in San Diego and Los Angeles with some friends. On May 7 we got a ride out to the southern terminus of the PCT about 80 miles east of San Diego on the US/Mexico border. We took a few minutes at the boarder monument for some obligatory photographs and such. I stood there looking north, non-poetically trying to comprehend what 2700 miles meant.

The PCT had hitherto been an abstract; now I was about to take the proverbial first step of a thousand-mile-journey. But I must stress the non-poetic feel of the experience. It is difficult to write about without some level of barfy sentimentality, indeed that is the curse of outdoor writing. It is the desire to assign meaning to what you are doing. Climbing Everest does not particularly “mean” anything special. Neither does hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. Realistically, our first steps from the Mexican Border did not mean anything more than the other millions of steps we took over the summer. We were not undertaking “a journey”, just a really fucking long walk.

 

We left the border around 11:00 AM. It is hot in the desert at 11:00 AM. The land was characterized by distant, unexciting horizons speckled with dry bushes and an occasional oak tree. A few rattle snakes, cacti, and giant asparagus-like plants accented the barren landscape.

 

So we were finally walking. And after about 45 minutes we got bored of talking to each other. Thankfully, Casey and I are experienced outdoorsmen familiar with the “Ten Essentials” of wilderness safety equipment. Actually there are only four essentials:  Walkman, headphones, batteries, and tapes. Everything else is expendable. We quickly learned how important tape players are on the trail. You see, walking 15 hours, day after day, can get a little, how should I say, uhh … boring. Throughout our entire hike we maintained our sanity listening to music, books on tape, and National Public Radio. At first we got some scoffs from other hikers on our “luxury” as we were practically the only ones with music. By Washington, however, about 80% of the thru-hikers had acquired some form of portable music.

The term “thru-hiker” refers to someone intending to hike the entire distance of the trail in one season. Section-hikers, on the other hand, piece together the trail by doing various sections, in any order, over multiple seasons.

About three hours after leaving the border we met our first fellow thru-hiker. Doug boasted about his 70 commercial sponsors for his fund raising hike and was proud to share that he was carrying a 60-pound backpack (it should be noted that a heavy pack is not something to brag about). He showed us his laptop computer, cell phone, and GPS that he used to update his web page. Noticing my Feathered Friends hat, he began to rant about my boss being a prick for not giving him a free sleeping bag sponsorship for his hike. I explained that, as an employee, I didn’t receive a free sleeping bag with which to hike the PCT, so it would be a lot for him to expect as much. He insinuated the importance of his hike regarding the children with cancer he was raising money for or something like that. What a jackass.

Doug, along with several other fund-raising hikers, suffered from the fatal misunderstanding that anyone gives a shit about your hike. They have web pages where one can make penny-a-mile donations to their charity. Giving to charity is all fine and dandy, but as Casey put it, “They’re hiking the trail under the ruse of a grown-up jog-a-thon.”  It is the desire to assign importance to an unimportant endeavor. We said goodbye. He never caught up.

Our first day of hiking we managed to knock off over 20 miles. Not so bad for day one, but due to our late start we had to hike until around midnight in order to get our miles done. And because we were up so late, we slept until 10:00 the next morning. And because we slept in, we were hiking until midnight the next day. Casey and I never really broke this cycle the whole summer. We gained the reputation for passing people with flashlights in the night, then being stepped over early in the morning as we slept right on the trail. Considering that most hikers started around 6:00 AM and finished the day before dark, our schedule was unorthodox. But when asked the question, “Why do you hike so late?” we would ask with the same bewilderment, “Why do you wake up so early?” 

 

The desert was hot, as deserts tend to be, and water sources were often over 20 miles apart. We stopped for dinner our second night at a small creek and cooked some instant mashed potatoes. As we were finishing, two Mexican immigrants came up the trail. My Spanish is good enough to carry a decent conversation, so we found out that they had crossed the border the day before and had farming jobs lined up in a nearby town. They were trying to find a road but had no maps or flashlights. We offered to hike with them for the next five miles to Mount Laguna, our first resupply. We got to a campground near Mount Laguna around midnight and wished the immigrants good luck. We had done 45 miles in our first two days.

The next morning we got up and had microwave burritos for breakfast at the small country store, met some other hikers, received our first supply box, and headed back on to the trail.

Water proved to be the primary objective of the next section. The crisp mountain streams that I associate with my backpacking experience in Washington do not exist in the desert. We got water from horse troughs, muddy streams and occasional caches that anonymous kind souls leave for hikers. After four of the most brutal days of the summer we got to the small town of Warner Springs. The only restaurant was a grill at an upscale golf course. Coming directly off six days of dusty trail with no running water, we were not properly attired for the stuffy country club. But we had really gotten our asses kicked on the last section; my knee hurt, Casey’s calf hurt, and blisters blisters blisters. So fuck if we were going to let some dirty looks from golfers prevent us from getting some real food. We got cans of Miller Genuine Draft (The official beer of The Pacific Crest Trail) and hamburgers. We sat outside in the shade cheerfully rejoicing in our location when Casey suddenly exclaimed, “Wait, quiet!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Shhhhh!” Casey lowered his ear to his unopened beer can, paused for one second, and … PTSSSK!  “Oh yeah!” then took his first sip.

That evening we walked, or limped rather, about a mile out of town to a campground. My knee was seriously starting to hurt and Casey was using a large walking staff due to a strained calf. We were accompanied by Lora, a solo hiker who’s feet were blistered, bloody, and losing toenails. As we were leaving town, we passed the private hot spring resort associated with the country club. Casey walked up to the gate and exclaimed, “There must be a way in. A local maybe, or a resort employee, I am sure we can find a way.” 

“Forget it,” I said, “Let’s go get some sleep.” 

This turned out to be a foreshadowing of a long summer of Casey’s motivation to get “hooked-up” in random situations and my initial pessimism, maybe even annoyance, followed by us undoubtedly getting hooked-up and Casey saying “I told you so.”

And so, just as we were about to leave the road and cut across the field to the camp site, I’m not making this up folks, a beautiful young woman named Camie rides up to us on her bike. “Are you guys hiking the Pacific Crest Trail?’ 

“Yes.”

“I live around here. Do you want to go to the hot springs?  I can get you in.”

“Yes,” we answered in unison.

Before we entered the hot springs Casey and I decided, due to our physical conditions, it might be prudent for us to break into the first aid kit and take one of the emergency prescription pain-killers. The label on the jar warned, or advised rather, that “Alcohol may intensify the effects of this drug.”

“Hmm,” Casey pondered.

PTSSSK!  “Oh yeah!”

So needless to say, the hot spring experience was awesome. We thanked Camie a thousand times, who turned out to be another foreshadow as we were generously helped by some very kind people over the entire summer. We woke up the following morning, resupplied our packs and left Warner Springs. We were pushing 150 miles.

 

The next section did not get easier, but we did start to establish a routine: Wake up, break camp, hike a few, stop for breakfast (preferably at a water source), hike all day with breaks every few hours, eat dinner around sundown, make coffee or caffeinated tea to keep our eyes open, continue hiking for a few more hours until we couldn’t move any farther, then fall asleep on the nearest flat spot.

Over the next few days my knee situation got worse. It slowed our progress to around 16 to 18 miles per day. Despite this, it was a pretty interesting section. We got into our first real mountains, the San Jacinto Wilderness near Palm Springs. The trail reaches around 9000 feet elevation, we were actually cold a few times. There was a windstorm that blew clouds over the ridge we hiked along that was strong and cold enough to encase the trees and shrubs with a thin layer of ice. We marched through the storm to the tune of Bolero from a nearby radio station; it was a sublime experience.

Our next resupply was a small mountain town called Idyllwild (I just realized how easily it is going to be to overuse the sentence, “Our next resupply was a small mountain town called …“). Casey, Lora, and I checked into a hotel with the intention to take our first full day off of the trail. We deserved a rest after more than 300 miles without a bed, full service meal, well-stocked grocery store, or television. I also figured this would solve the knee issue.

We sat down in front of the TV and stared mindlessly into the bright flashy lights. Ahhhhh, not walking, being entertained, such simple pleasures. If someone tried to say something it was usually met with a, “SHHHHHH!” followed by a finger pointed at the screen and a, “TEEE! VEEE!” 

Lora, who lives by herself on a sailboat in the Los Angeles area, was perhaps the most pop-culturally-illiterate person in the world, having not owned a TV for several years. The isolation of the trail was not quite the social or cultural shock as it was for Casey and me. The television, however, was. She was in total disbelief as we watched in succession The Tom Green Show and The Howard Stern Show; quite possibly the two most offensive half-hours in the history of television broadcasting. “Oh my God, is he actually…”

“SHHHHHH!  TEEE! VEEE!” 

I had thought that the day off was going to heal my knee, but the situation only seemed to get worse. Just walking around town with no pack was excruciating. There was a point when I realized that I could not continue hiking unless the issue was solved. Three years of waiting and months of physical and emotional preparation were going to result in me quitting after 300 miles of trail. It was very frustrating and totally unforeseen; I had never had knee problems before. But I suppose that this is the kind of thing you have to accept as part of trail life. We met a hiker that badly sprained his ankle on his first day on the trail, I can’t even imagine how pissed I would be.

               Just a few hours before returning to the trail for what I knew was going to be a very painful, if not impossible, section to Big Bear City someone recommended I try a knee brace and hiking poles. I think I said, “Knee brace and hiking poles, eh?”  And so it was that the knee problem was immediately solved and we can continue telling the story of Casey and Toby’s Crazy Adventures on the Pacific Crest Trail.

              

               We left Idyllwild with Lora and our newest companion, Ed. Ed was an “organic farmer” from Humbolt County California. When I found that out I said, “Organic farmer from Humbolt County California, eh?”  Those of you who are, or have spent more than 15 minutes in the company of, stoners will also find that suspicious. We later got the truth out of him.

               The next day we dropped out of the mountains and back into the desert. The desert is often romanticized in art, film, and cheesy songs by the band America. It is in many ways an inspiring place and I understand the fascination. But I think that, “naa NAA na na na na, na na na, NAA NAA,” is generally sung by people driving through the desert in air conditioned cars. It’s really not all that romantic when you are there in the shit of it. Like when it is over 100 degrees and you only have a few sips of hot water left and it is miles until the next water source and the sun is beating down and you can’t wipe the sweat off your eyes because your hands are just as sweaty and it is so hot that you can’t remember your name ‘cause in the desert there ain’t no one for to give you no … Dammit! 

               By 9:00 AM it was already unbearably hot. We passed a trail register near a road, all the entries were something like, “Wow, it’s really hot!”  I wrote, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”  There was not a real water source for the whole day but it ended at White Water River. The river was a hiker oasis, there were at least ten of us there resting from the exhausting day. Casey had fully lost his mind, while everyone else was sitting in the shade he was laying out in the sun with his coat over his head. “Hey Casey, there is some shade over there.”

               “Oh, OK.”  Then he got up and went to the shade. The next night he was somewhat sick from dehydration. He was complaining about a headache and didn’t have the energy to get out of his sleeping bag to eat dinner. While he was sipping some water we suggested he drink some Gatorade. “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Casey said, then he reached into his sleeping bag that he was laying in and pulled out a bag of Gatorade mix. We all look at each other with that confused “OKAYYY” look. “Ummm, what else you got in there dude?” I asked.

               A few days later we got a hotel room in the resupply town of Wrightwood. The lore on the trail is that the majority of people who quit do so before this point, so it was somewhat encouraging, but no one really knew where that statistic came from. We watched TV, ate take-out pizza and drank some well-deserved beers. Now there are those, such as America’s (self-proclaimed) leading authority on lightweight long distance hiking Ray Jardine, that feel beer is not well-deserved on the trail. He writes: 

 

               “Hikers who fail to eat adequate portions of corn pasta and other nutritionally beneficial foods can find themselves constantly driven by hunger. Almost every thought is focused on food, and the urge to reach the next waypoint of civilization can be almost overwhelming. … 

               “So they arrive at the store profoundly depleted. And it is here that they are most vulnerable to the sudden shock of junk food binge. They imagine these powerful cravings are the normal result of hard work …  So they celebrate their ‘success’ with a six pack of beer.”

 

               Why did he put the word success in quotations?  Is it to imply that if after hiking 100 miles through the desert, without a real meal or a cold drink, I want to drink a cold beer I have not actually succeeded. What a jackass. Hey Jardine, screw you and your “book”.

               When it was time to leave Wrightwood we had two extra 24 ounce cans of MGD. We couldn’t leave them, so we reluctantly packed them for the trail. Later, when we had our first on-trail beers, we realized that beer isn’t really that heavy when compared to its value, especially when you get to drink it in front of other hikers who are fanatical about pack weight. And so a new page was turned for Casey and me and we rarely left town without a couple cans of beer in our packs. We got a few scoffs from other hikers, but keep in mind that as they were “scoffing” we were “drinking beer.”  One high and mighty hiker exclaimed in a condescending manner, “How much does that weigh?” 

               “A lot more than your beer, motherfucker.” I mumbled under my breath.

 

The high desert continued on, through the next section we heard rumors of Donna Saufley’s place in our next town Agua Dulce. Donna is known as a “Trail-Angel” among hikers. While I find the term “Trail-Angel” a little obnoxious, trail-angels themselves are great people. Most towns have a few locals who generously help hikers with the logistics of the trail and being in town such as rides to stores, places to sleep, showers, etc.

Donna Saufley is perhaps the nicest person to ever exist on the planet. She is so nice that just to be around her makes you feel like a jerk because she is so much nicer than you are. The Saufley’s let dirty smelly hikers stay in their house, use their showers, do their laundry, drive their car, watch their TV, and basically just freeload for a day or so. There are rumors of hikers staying for over a week. Not only is it a great resting place, but it also the staging ground for the upcoming Mojave Desert stretch, which was the hottest and driest section of the trail.

I took a shower and sat down in front of the TV with a beer to watch a movie, I was still in that partially uncomfortable stage of being in a strange home. Donna came in and said in a motherly nagging voice as if we were doing something rude, “You guys…”

“What?” I thought panicking, “Take my feet off the table?  Use a coaster?”

“I really need you to eat some of the food in the fridge, OK.”

 

The movie we were watching was the horrible 1980’s climbing film, K2. Being a climber I have, of course, seen the movie before and I soon met the other climber in the room because he was the only other person, besides me, complaining about how unrealistic it was while reciting all the lines with the movie. “Nice penji. Sweet belay.”  “We’re at 26,000 feet already?”  “Welcome to the Death Zone.”  Why is it that every climber gripes about how hideous that movie is, yet we’ve all seen it ten times?

The next night we had a barbecue and drank 40 ouncers of MGD. I had been somewhat vegetarian for several years before the trail but the physical strains of hiking over 20 miles a day produced a kind of hunger that cannot be satisfied by anything other than bacon burgers. In one sitting, I ate more meat than I had in the years 1995-1999. Ed, who had been vegetarian for 15 years, was tearing through T-bone steaks with his bare hands and had a carnivorously determined look on his face as he ate as much meat as possible.

We decided to head back out to the trail that night. Donna offered to drive us back out to where we left the trail. Everyone was ready to go except for Casey who was still busy with this or that. In the many years I have known Casey I have come to be very patient with waiting for him to get ready to go anywhere, even if I am 30 minutes late picking him up to go skiing he will still take 45 more minutes to get his shit together. There is nothing you can do to speed him up so I have come to accept it as a prerequisite of being friends with him. As we were waiting for Casey to pack some last items Donna asked, “Is this common?”

“Yes,” I  answered, “it is invariable.”

“My son is exactly the same way.”  Donna sympathetically said. Then a few seconds later added, “Only with him it is a diagnosable medical condition.” 

 

We decided to take a road walk directly though the Mojave Desert. The “official” PCT follows the Los Angeles aqueduct on a network of roads to avoid private land. Casey and I felt we couldn’t be bothered by such pedantry as “Private Land” so we decided to cut straight through. At first we had some concern about leaving the PCT for an alternate route, but it soon became common practice among most thru-hikers. If there are two routes to the same place and one has a hot springs, better water access, a waterfall, or some other superior amenity, it seemed illogical to take the inferior one just because it has the little PCT blaze on it. Of the 50 or so people I knew who set out to hike the entire official PCT, I only knew one who had not taken a single alternate route upon reaching the Canadian border. Everyone defines their own hike, some people hitch-hike sections that they don’t want to walk, some walk on the interstate for days to short cut hundreds of miles. Casey and I had defined our hike as a continuous walk from Mexico to Canada on or very near to the Pacific Crest Trail while maintaining a drunken state at least 1% of the time.

We started our 20-mile road walk across the Mojave discussing how we had already met so many nice people like Donna and Camie. Growing up in the city you are taught to be skeptical of nice people, the “don’t take candy from strangers” deal. When someone is nice to me the first thing I want to know is what they are selling; God, Amway, better long distance service, whatever. The people we meet on the trail were genuinely nice people, Donna didn’t make us say prayers or sign up our friends to earn a sales bonus. As we were remarking over this an older couple pulled up beside us and handed out a bag with ice cream sandwiches and Pepsis. We chatted for a minute, they wished us luck and drove off. We absolutely could not believe it, I am sure that Casey and I are the only two PCT thru-hikers to eat ice cream sandwiches in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

As we ate our ice cream I told Casey that I needed to start being nicer to people, you know that whole karma thing or whatever. Moments later the couple drove back up and gave us free samples of an herbal energy pill and a muscle pain cream. They also gave us an informative pamphlet about the product which described its “Multi-Level Marketing.”  That being a fancy way to say “Pyramid Scheme.” “There’s my number, call me if you need more!” the man said as they started to drive off. So they were selling Amway, they were still good people.

 

The desert road walk took us to the 500 mile mark. It is hard at times to know your exact location but we were within a mile or two of 500. I was listening to the radio and, I shit you not folks, that cheesy Proclaimers song came on with the chorus, “I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more …”  Even weirder, a few minutes later on a different station it came on AGAIN!  I had not even heard that song for several years and then I hear it twice on the day I had actually walked 500 miles.

 

               Most thru-hikers are at some point given a trail name. This is a fun tradition but I always found it weird when people would introduce themselves, "Hi, my name is Bald Eagle,” or “Just call me Summit Seeker.”  “Nice to meet you Summit Seeker, I’m known as … Toby, and my friend here, some call him … Casey.”  I did however have a trail name that I sometimes used in the trail registers, Catch-23. “What is Catch-23?” you ask.

               “It is crazy to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, but to quit after coming this far would be crazy.”

               “That’s some catch.”

               “The best there is.” 

 

               The desert portion of the trail was finally nearing an end but it was not over yet. Every time we would get a taste of some real mountains we would promptly drop back down to the dry desert. However, we did start to feel like we were making a little progress, although the rush you get when you realize you just hiked 600 miles is quickly extinguished when you realize that leaves 2100 left to go.

We received a ride into the town of Tehachapi from Paul, a man in his sixty’s, helping his wife with her solo thru-hike. Paul was the endearing kind of grumpy old man that swears a lot but is really a nice guy. He told us his story, “So, my wife says, ‘Honey, you can be a trail angel.’ and I said, ‘A trail angel? WHAT THE FUCK IS A TRAIL ANGEL?’ and she said ‘Well honey, you give hikers rides to the store or post office and help them out with whatever they need to do in town.’ so I said, ‘OH GREAT.’”  When someone asked him if he was going to hike any of the trail with his wife he eloquently replied, “FUCK NO.”  I liked Paul.

              

               The town, or rather, general store and bar, called Kennedy Meadows marks the end of the desert and the beginning of the Sierra Mountains. We took a rest day in the campground. We both remarked that this felt like the end of the beginning; at 725 miles 25% of the trail was behind us. I was excited about the upcoming section. Not only were we getting into real mountains but this was going to be the longest stretch without resupply. Casey and I decided to skip some of the resupply options that were several miles off trail and hike the entire 173 miles to Vermilion Valley Resort in nine days.

Since Kennedy meadows is the staging point for the High Sierra, everyone was switching from desert to mountain gear. The PCT guide book says every hiker should have an ice axe by Kennedy Meadows, so every hiker sends an ice axe to Kennedy Meadows. The problem is that most hikers have no idea how to use an ice axe. There were a few other rock climbers on the trail, but I seemed to be the only person with any measure of mountaineering experience. I think I saw more unused ice axes at Kennedy Meadows than we had back at Feathered Friends. Furthermore, everyone was real excited about their new toys, “Hey, look at my ice axe, it’s really light!”  “No, look at my ice axe, it’s even lighter than yours!”  So I spent much of the day giving self-arrest lessons and showing people how to strap an axe to their backpacks. “No no, you want the pick facing away from your body.” 

               One pack weight zealot actually drilled holes in his ice axe. He didn’t seem concerned that this would have greatly reduced the structural integrity of a potentially life saving device. He told me that it shaved off 1/4 of an ounce. A few days later back on the trail Casey noticed the weight of his package of PEZ candy was 1/3 of an ounce and made the comparison to our friend’s ice axe, I think we laughed for at least five minutes.

               While going through my supplies at the Kennedy General Store another hiker noticed my Feathered Friends hat. “Hey, do you work for Feathered Friends?  I’ve got a bone to pick with you, I’m not staying warm in my bag and I called them up at the factory and they were really rude to me and put me on hold for a long time and told me that warmth wasn’t guaranteed and I say that if I am not staying warm it’s a faulty product that you aren’t backing up.”  I started into the standard routine, “Well you know, everybody sleeps at different temperatures. For example: Casey and I have the same bag, I stay plenty warm and he gets cold. So it is impossible to guarantee warmth.”  Wait a minute, I’m on vacation dammit. If I am going to deal with ornery Feathered Friends customers I need to be getting paid $7.50 an hour and drinking a beer.

 

               It was indescribably refreshing to be out of the desert. The entire section was nothing short of inspiring; crisp mountain streams, abundant wildlife, high rocky passes, lush green meadows, and all the other makings of trite outdoor poetry. Every day we crossed 11,000 – 13,000 foot passes then dropped back down to around 7,000 feet. We forded waist deep streams (sometimes at night) and crossed steep snowfields in our running shoes. There were lightening storms every afternoon; one of which was striking the peaks on the sides of the valley we were hiking in. It was a challenging but fun 173 miles.

               The world is a big place when you reduce it to foot travel. The 173 miles we hiked in nine days could be driven on the interstate with one tank of gas; the entire distance between borders can be covered in a few hours by plane. On the trail distance is measured not by hours on a plane or tanks of gas, rather days of walking. Nine days of walking is a really long way to go until your next resupply. However, while hiking makes the world big in terms of distance it makes the world small in terms of location. All that exists is what is presently in sight, you have to remind yourself that there is more in the world than the valley you are in.

               Nine days of unsupplied walking can be logistically very difficult, it is hard to know exactly how much food and fuel to bring. On day eight we realized we were down to just a few energy bars each, it looked like we were in for some hungry hiking. Then at a river crossing we met a group of weekend hikers from Los Angeles and immediately started to use a distance hiking technique called Yogi-ing (as in the bear, you know, pick-a-nick baskets). We explained to them we were doing the whole trail and we were a day short on food. They generously gave us a few energy bars, trail mix, oatmeal, and to top it off, a foot long stick of salami. We thanked them from the bottom of our hearts, or stomachs rather, and sat down and ate the entire stick. I think we each ingested 40 grams of fat and a million grams of sodium if I recall the nutritional facts correctly.

               The only problem with receiving the salami is that with it we received the salami wrapper … and we were in bear country. Casey and I slept with our food in our packs right next to out feet and a pile of rocks nearby to throw at hungry bears that want our Power Bars. Some people think you should put your food in trees to keep it away from bears, this fails to recognize that bears are actually very good at climbing trees. The next night, while I was cozily zipped up in my down sleeping bag and bivy sack, I heard a strange ripping sound. I poked my head out of my bag and noticed a large bear a few feet away tearing through my food bag (however, at this point it was more of a garbage bag, there wasn’t much food left). My movement scared the bear off a few feet, it waited a minute to see if we would go back to sleep and then disappeared.

We got up and hungrily hiked the remaining 19 miles to Lake Edison where a 3:30 ferry would take us to the Vermilion Valley Resort and its fabled home baked pies. Vermilion is a backcountry fishing resort that is powered only on a gas generator and has no phone connection. The other guests of the resort had arrived there via a long and strenuous drive in their sports utility vehicles; we felt we were more deserving of the pie.

               We took a full rest day at Vermilion and managed to each eat five restaurant meals. They let you keep a tab so you don’t know the damage you’re incurring. “Sure, another six-pack, put it on my tab!”  When it was time to settle up I owed them $165. I happily paid (or should I say “swiped”, ahh credit cards), Vermilion Valley Resort was a great place with great food and I would have paid twice as much for that first slice of pie. The ferry took us back across the lake and, well nourished, we continued to walk north.

               It took three days to get to Reds Meadow, another backcountry resort. We learned of a shuttle bus to the nearby town of Mammoth. An actual town was something we had not seen for weeks; Kennedy, Vermilion, and Reds could, at best, be called outposts of civilization. Casey, of course, wanted to go to Mammoth, “I’m really Jonesin’ for a movie dude.”  I was reluctant to stall our progress, but, as it was the whole summer, I got tired of listening to his nonsense arguments like, “It’s been 12 days since the last time I took a shower, wah wah wah,” so I gave in and we got a ride to town.

               We bought some tall cans, checked into a motel, ordered a pizza, kicked back and turned on HBO. Moments after we turned on the TV there was a disclaimer, “The following program contains nudity, parental advisory.”

               “Hey, Casey.”

               “Yeah?”

               “Good call on Mammoth.”

               “I told you so.”

               Mammoth was a great town, I would have like to spend more time there. We ate breakfast at a coffee brewers, bought wine-skins for the trail (just the cans of beer weren’t cutting it anymore, and this way we could hike and drink at the same time), saw the new Jim Carry movie, bought refills for our PEZ dispensers then hitch-hiked back to the trail.

              

               A few more days got us to Yosemite National Park. We resupplied at Tuolumne Meadows, which was basically just a snack bar, post office, and general store. We spread our stuff out on two picnic tables and proceeded to each eat two full breakfasts. All day we got inquisitive looks from Japanese tourists and old people in motor homes; it was pretty funny, being a tourist attraction and all. We joked about tour bus narrators giving a speech over the intercom, “OK folks, if you be real quiet we might just catch a glimpse of The Western Long Distance Hiker, they’re know to frequent these parts. Let’s try their mating call, ‘Buffet! Buffet! All you can eat!’  Look folks!  There’s one now on the left side of the coach. Excuse me, sir, in the back, please do not feed the distance hiker.”

               Yosemite was a quick stop for us. We filled our packs, made some phone calls, and returned to the trail. We were nearing 1000 miles.

               I recall the section, and most of Central California, being very beautiful. It should be said, however, that this is my recollection from home after being in the city for several months. When you spend every day in the mountains, month after month, you look at nature in a different manner than when you are on a day hike from the city. Good views are still good views and pretty sunsets are still pretty, however when you have seen brilliant sunsets the last 40 consecutive days, the beauty of nature just becomes part of your routine, part of the world you live in. A sunset never made me think of The Inspiring Words of John Muir or Henry David Thoreau or whoever. I never gazed off at the horizon quoting poetry. More commonly, a nature-admiring conversation between Casey and I went something like, “Dude, look at the sunset.”  “Nice.”  And then we kept walking.

               That being said, we were ready to get the fuck out of the mountains for a few days and admire another type of beauty, the beauty of 3-6 Texas Hold’em, quarter slots, all-you-can-eat buffets, and, of course, the awe-inspiring Cine-plex. Yes folks, Casey and Toby had arrived at South Lake Tahoe and in the word of John Muir, “It’s time to get my grub on.”  Or maybe Thoreau described it best when he said, “Mo Money, Mo Money, Mo Money!!!”

               Tahoe was great, we spent two days pretending we weren’t hiking the trail. We did our laundry (first time in 22 days of wearing the same clothes) and headed to the casinos. Whereas most hikers complained about the culture shock of arriving at South Lake Tahoe, I thought it was pretty cool to wake up freezing my ass off on a high mountain ridge with no food and a few hours later be eating French toast in a casino. I won some money at the card table and lost some at slots. We watched three or four movies relishing passive entertainment, ate lots of food, drank lots of beer, and had two days of non-walking fun; most memorable was witnessing Charles Barkley drunk and singing karaoke at Caesar’s Palace.

              

One of the best aspects of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is the towns. Not just because they are places of real food and cold beer, but you meet interesting people and experience the towns in a different way than if you were there by any other means. I enjoyed seeing places that I know I would never go to under different circumstances.

Usually within a mile of reaching a town you would start to see litter on the trail. Do not be mistaken, I am never happy about seeing litter in the backcountry. However, I must admit it can be a welcomed sight, I compared it to Columbus and the olive leaf. Nobody is going to carry a Coke for three days then leave the can on the trail. It has to be the doing of day hikers; civilization is near.

               In one town I was walking back to our camp when I passed a father with his small children. Keep in mind that at this point my beard was at least two inches long and my hair was getting shaggy. I overheard the little girl ask, “Daddy, is that a backpacker?”  “Honey, be quiet.”  I don’t know, I thought it was funny.

 

               Northern California was nice but it could get monotonous. There were, however, some milestones. Most notable was hitting the half way mark of the trail and seeing Mt. Lassen, the southern most Cascade Volcano. After Lassen there was always a volcano on the north and south horizons. Distance was now visible, the volcanoes came and went from Northern California to Canada.

Lassen National Park is an active volcanic landscape with boiling hot lakes, bubbling mud pots, and hot springs … “Hot springs, eh?”  The trail came within sight of Drakesbad lodge. We could see there was a hot tub swimming pool and we had heard about the restaurant. Most hikers pass up Drakesbad, I think the guidebook says to do so and most hikers are guidebook sheep. Not Casey and me. Well, at least not Casey. He was intent on getting in the pool and eating a real meal. It was getting late so I was skeptical about the lodge being open but I wasn’t going to put up much of a resistance. “Maybe the restaurant will just be closing and they will give us the left-overs,” Casey said hopefully.

               We cut across the field to the lodge, “Hi, we’re hiking the PCT and we were hoping maybe to get some food,” Casey said to a young waitress named Geneva.

               “Well, we just closed but I think I can find you some left-overs. I’ll be right back.” 

               Geneva returned with baked potatoes, salads, cheesecake, and coffee. We then met Ed, the German-born owner of Drakesbad. He bought us a beer and offered a free admittance into the hot tub. We got to chatting for a while and Ed then invited us to camp down the road and return in the morning so he could treat us to a breakfast buffet. Things were looking up.

               After soaking in the pool for a good hour we met Geneva and four other young waitresses around a campfire. Drakesbad apparently hires its summer employees all from the same demographic. One of the girls had a guitar and they were in the process of writing a song when we walked up. “Oh, hey guys,” Geneva greeted us, “That’s so funny, we were just writing a song about how there are no men here and maybe one day some handsome guys will come from out of the mountains.” 

               “Yes,” another commented, “we are but five lonely women ages 20 – 25 in search of male companionship.” 

               “Well, you ladies are in luck,” Casey said, “because the PCT goes right by this place and you are bound to meet some guys coming off the trail for a meal or a soak in the hot tub.”

               That night when we were setting up camp I remarked, “Wow, those are sure going to be some lucky guys that come off the trail and meet those ladies.”  (OK, so that’s not really how it happened. Right after they finished singing their song to us, Ed came up and said it was time for him to drive us to the campsite down the road.)

               Back on the trail we met up with some other thru-hikers and told them the Drakesbad story. They literally did not believe us. “Yeah right, I’m supposed to buy that, the guidebook says not to go to Drakesbad.” 

 

               Hiking through Lassen National Park was quite a contrast to the last ten weeks. It seemed we were the only ones out for more than a day hike. Everyone we met wanted to relentlessly talk to us about the trail. One couple posed us for photos in front of a PCT sign, “Now pretend you’re walking down the trail.” 

               Casey and I had started entertaining ourselves by making up new answers to the same questions everyone asked. “So, what do you do about bears?”

               “Well, I’ve got a really big knife.”

               “Oh, you guys, ha ha. So, how much do your packs weigh?”

               “Well, it depends on how much beer we have.” 

               “Oh, you guys, ha ha.”

               “No, really, it depends on how much beer we have.”

               One middle-aged day hiker we met displayed the characteristic I most loathe: asking others questions and then relating it back to himself in some unrelated way. “You guys are hiking the PCT, wow that’s great. Once my brother and I drove up to the very north of Alaska and let me tell you …”  He went on to give us some life advice, “What I’m saying to you as someone who’s been around is ‘go for it, live it up, now while your young,’” and several other motivational cliches. I’m thinking at this point, “I’ve just hiked 1,300 miles, does it look like I am letting life pass me by?” 

               He continued, “Yeah, most people my age just work and go to Vegas. All the guys at the office think I’m a real Indiana Jones for doing this stuff.”  More sarcastic thoughts come to the tip of my tongue that my few social graces won’t let me say, “Yes, Indy, you are after all, over half a mile away from a snack bar.”

 

               One of the funny things about distance hiking is that it makes you kind of stupid; we called it trail brain. Before the hike starts most people think they are going to be out there philosophizing about life and solving the world’s problems. In truth, you don’t actually do that much “thinking.” Knock-knock jokes and the like are very entertaining and three-syllable words are difficult to use. Maybe while eating dinner a conversation might have been, “Hey, Casey, hand me the … plastic thingy … you use to … dig.”

               “You mean the spoon?”

               “Yeah, yeah!”

               “Dude, you’re losing it. Hey, give me that little fire thing.”

               “The lighter?”

               “Yeah, yeah!” 

               Several of us spent the better part of a lunch break trying to remember the Baseball/Diarrhea song that 1^st graders sing (you know, ‘When you’re sliding into third and you feel a little turd, DIARRHEA CHA CHA CHA). We just couldn’t seem to recall what rhymed with second. A few days later we ran into another group of thru-hikers and asked if they knew how the line was supposed to go and, I’m not making this up folks, they replied, “No, we were just trying to figure that out the other day.” 

 

               Meeting all the other thru-hikers was one of my favorite aspects of the hike. We leap-froged with a young couple for several hundred miles. I remember meeting them, “Hi, I’m Star.”

               “Hi, Star. I’m, uhh, Toby. And what’s your name?”

               “Hollywood. Nice to meet you Toby.”

               “Oh, I get it. So together you are Hollywood Star. How cute.”  I liked Hollywood and Star (or as I called them, Craig and Tracy), it’s just the name thing and the fact that they had matching hiking outfits; identical hats, shirts, pants, socks, and shoes. And people wonder why I have a fear of commitment.

               While taking a snack break we met some other hikers named Robyn, Joe, and Eric. A few days later we met Drew. The six of us formed a rather dynamic hiking group and we seemed to help maintain each others motivation and sanity. Off and on we hiked a good portion of the trail together and managed to cross all of the borders as a group. They were great people to spend part of the summer with.

 

               The next stop after Lassen was a very small town called Old Station. Sixteen miles before the town we found that there were two ways to go. Casey and I disagreed on which route to take, so we decided to go separate ways and the last one to town would buy the pizza. It was on. I did the 16 miles in just over four hours, it took Casey well over five. He had some elaborate story about getting lost or something like that, but who really cares.

               It was only two days to the next town after Old Station but it was one of the driest stretches of the entire summer. The trail follows the Hat Creek Rim, rim being the operative word as we came nowhere near the creek. Casey and I decided that it was probably not a good idea to waste weight bringing beer on this section, staying hydrated was going to be a major challenge. This was the first time since Wrightwood in Southern California that we left town without some form of alcohol.

               The trail progressed for a few miles out of Old Station and then it intersected a highway rest stop. About 20 feet past the rest stop Casey noticed a plastic bag hanging in a tree with a note attached. Upon closer inspection, I assure you I am not making this up, the bag contained a six-pack of Olympia and the note said, “Free beer for hikers!”  It was nothing short of a sign from God.

 

               Casey and I at times came up with delusional fantasies to keep motivated; if we could convince ourselves that there was a swimming pool full of lemonade over the next hill it might keep us going. Once while Casey was listening to a Bob Marley song with the line, “Jah will be waiting there,” he became convinced that Jah would, in fact, be at the top of hill waiting for him. Unfortunately, Jah, nor anyone for that matter, was waiting for Casey at the top of the hill, but he did get there.

               One day in northern California Casey and I actually got an early start. We were 40 miles from Seiad Valley, the last resupply town in California. We thought that there was at least some chance that this town of 250 people would have a bar open late into the night; we decided to go for it. It took us 17.5 hours to hike the 40 miles to Seiad Valley. Unfortunately, the bar, nor anything for that matter, was open in town, but we did get there.

 

               It was a few days from Seiad Valley to the California/Oregon boarder. Everyone hiked in a couple beers for the celebration. Casey and I one-upped them with full wineskins, mini Jack Daniel’s, and some Jagermeister. There was a small wooden sign nailed to a tree that marked the border and a register where years of hikers had signed in. We had walked over 1,700 miles to get there.

               We were at the border with seven other thru-hikers, all of us spent over an hour there drinking beers and such to celebrate our “success.”  Casey finished a Bud Light then tossed the can back over the border to the California side, “Keep Oregon clean,” he announced.

               The seven of us hiked on for a mile or so then stopped for a nine-person potluck dinner. In a hiker potluck, everyone cooks a meal and all the pots are placed in a circle, someone says go and it’s a free-for-all. We did potlucks with other hikers several times over the summer, they were fun and a great way to mix up food monotony since everyone packed different types of food.

 

               So we were out of California after three months. Generally speaking, the Oregon section was much easier. There were less dramatic elevation changes and fewer objective difficulties. We knocked off several 30-mile days and maintained an overall good pace. I liked hiking in Oregon, it was very different from California and I always welcomed changes on the trail. It was flatter, there were mountain huckleberries right off the trail, and I loved seeing the volcanoes on the horizons.

               Our first town in Oregon was Ashland, generally known for its Shakespeare festival. However, with play admittance at $40 a person, Casey and I opted for the cineplex. The weather was great and we had a leisurely day off the trail. I bought some high quality coffee for the trail, hitherto we were using instant packets. The next day on the trail we stopped to brew a pot. Casey took a sip of the fresh coffee and commented, “You know, I think we got this hiking thing down.” 

               After Ashland was Crater Lake National Park. This was a similar experience to Yosemite, lots of motor-homers and families in mini-vans. The lake was, of course, beautiful; I watched the sun rise over the rim which was truly incredible. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no distaste for modern civilization as most outdoor types tend to gripe. I do, after all, love living in a major metropolitan city. Yet, after living outdoors for several months, I found it somewhat annoying (or maybe amusing is a better word) to see nature as a tourist attraction in front of which to snap a photo then off to the buffet. Yes, I think that “strangely amusing” is the best description; I certainly didn’t feel high-and-mighty, it was just weird.

 

               Water sources were not much of a problem in Oregon, but the trail itself was very dry and dusty in places. The abrasion from the dust caused my feet to bleed after a few long days. I took my shoes off at a dinner break to assess my foot pain. My jaw dropped when I saw my feet, “Jesus!  Where did all my skin go?”  Everyone seemed to think that was funny.

               We continued through Oregon without too much excitement. With the exception of Ashland, the resupplies in Oregon are backcountry resorts, we were getting a little civilization starved. We were moving rather fast so we could meet up with Casey’s parents at the Timberline Lodge for a couple days off the trail.

               Interesting fun fact about Timberline Lodge, it is where Stanley Kubrick filmed the classic horror flick, “The Shining.”  For some reason I don’t remember anything about the trail near Timberline. I looked back through my journal and for the whole week all I had written was, “All hiking and no TV, make Toby go crazy. ALL hiking AND no TV, make TOBY go CRAZY. aLL hIKING aND nO tV, mAKE tOBY gO cRAZY.”  It was written over and over, each time a little differently.

 

               Again, I am not trying to sound high-and-mighty because I was hiking the whole trail, but talking to day hikers was somewhat amusing; maybe it’s just that we were so easily amused. Almost invariably, when we would run into a hiker from a nearby town and get to talking about us doing the entire trail, they would remark something like, “Well, I have only hiked this section of the PCT, but in my opinion it is the best part of the whole trail.”  This happened on every section of the trail (except maybe Southern California). It would always leave me wondering, “If you have only hiked this section, how do you have any idea what is the best part of the trail?”  And for the record, northern Washington is the best part of the trail.

 

               As we approached the northern border of Oregon we started to get excited about reaching Washington. It is, after all, our home state. The past four months we saw new sights every day, I was ready to do some hiking through familiar terrain. I wanted to see Mt. Rainer, Mt. Adams, and Mt. St. Helens. I wanted to hike through the Alpine Lakes Wilderness and skirt the base of Glacier Peak. I also wanted to take a couple days off in Seattle. Basically, I was homesick.

               Our first glimps of Washington’s volcanoes was motivating, we were almost at the border. We took the Eagle Creek Trail, an alternate route that goes by or behind several beautiful waterfalls. Casey and I followed the creek for fifteen miles as it dropped from high in the mountains to the Columbia River (at 150 feet above sea level it is the lowest elevation on the PCT). We met up with Robyn, Joe, Drew, and Eric at a hotel in the town of Cascade Locks.

               We took the next day off and went to Hood River for a beer at the Full Sail brewery. We rested up for the next section through southern Washington, it was going to take us over five days to get to White Pass and we had to cross the highest point in the state. We were into September and the weather was starting to turn for the worse. All of us were carrying our light-weight summer gear and planned on picking up warmer clothes a week later when we got to Snoqualmie Pass.

               I had a good restaurant breakfast with several cups of coffee in the morning before setting out. It was overcast and drizzling; home at last. Five of us crossed The Bridge of the Gods, a two lane metal grate bridge with no sidewalk a few hundred feet above the Columbia River. We stopped halfway across to take some obligatory triumphant photos by the “Welcome to Washington” sign. We had hiked over 2100 miles.

               As we climbed from the lowest point on the trail to the highest point in Washington over the next few days, it progressively got colder and wetter. After three wet nights in our bivy sacks and no sun with which to dry out, we lost about half of the loft, and therefore warmth, in our down sleeping bags. This was somewhat concerning with the weather as it was, but we had planned to push through the 18 miles of the Goat Rocks wilderness to White Pass, a scenic yet difficult stretch of trail that maintains a high elevation for several miles.

               By the time we reached 7,000 feet it was snowing horizontally and the trail was becoming very difficult to find; we were soaked and cold. We lost the trail and the snow was covering our own tracks. After walking in circles, getting lost and backtracking several times, for over two hours, we realized that we were not going to find the trail. With our wet gear we could not wait out the storm so we decided that we had to bail out. This may have been a blessing in disguise; we gave our extra food to another thru-hiker who was tenting-up to wait it out. Apparently, the storm did not clear for several days and he had to find a way off the mountain.

               We turned back, on our way down we met up with Joe, Eric, Robyn, and Drew; by this point we were well below where Casey and I were getting lost. I think I tactfully suggested that they not try to get through the Goat Rocks given the conditions with something like, “Everyone makes their own decisions in the mountains, but it’s kind of dicey up there right now and you might want to reconsider, just so you know, OK.”  Casey was more to the point, “Certain death awaits anyone who proceeds,” or something like that. They heeded our warning.

Two elk hunters we met the day before told us about a side trail to a Forest Service road. It was six miles to the dirt road, then over 20 miles to the highway, where we could hopefully hitch-hike to the nearest town and call a friend that lives a few hours away, who could hopefully come and pick us up; we didn’t have a lot of options. The side trail rapidly dropped our elevation to below the snow line and we were at the Forest Service road in a couple hours. After maybe 20 minutes on the road a RV drove up from behind us. We flagged them down and after some convincing they agreed to cram us six smelly hikers in the back and take us to town; for this I am eternally grateful to the goodwill of strangers. A day that started shiveringly cold with us somewhat concerned about getting lost in a blizzard ended with pizza and hot showers.

We spent the night at our friend Jennifer’s house and the next day she drove us to Seattle. We were home, but not really, there was still over 300 miles to hike. It was nice, but strange to be home for a few days. We saw friends and family, switched some gear for colder weather, and made some new mixed tapes for the trail. I relished home for the two days before my dad drove us back to southern Washington, where we had left the trail.

Casey and I hiked back up the side trail we came down three days earlier and returned to the Goat Rocks Wilderness on a beautiful sunny day. This time, we easily found our way. It was great to return on a nice day, it is a dramatic ridgeline hike several miles long with an outstanding view of Mt. Rainer.

 

We finished the southern Washington section uneventfully. There were some nice parts like Mt. Rainer National Park, but there was a lot of National Forest and clear cuts which are dreadfully boring to walk through. Casey and I were very excited for the next section from Snoqualmie Pass to Stevens Pass. We had hiked this 70 miles of the PCT five years earlier the summer we graduated from high school; we were eager to see how our perspectives on it had changed.

At 2400 miles we were, of course, getting closer to the end of our hike. And we, of course, knew this. However, I recall my mental state at the time being different than would be expected. Instead of thinking that we were getting really close and almost done, it was more like I had accepted that there was no end and I was going to be walking for the rest of my life. At one rest break Casey turned to me and said with amusement, “I can vaguely remember a time in my life when I wasn’t hiking everyday.” 

It had been over four months and we were, in fact, still hiking everyday. I had taken to random profanity. While sitting in the rain eating a hand full of nauseating trail mix, blankly staring off in the distance, I would say in confused amazement, “Fuck,” it just seemed the only thing to say. Someone would usually answer, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” 

 

Despite our waning sanity, northern Washington was incredible. This time, the day hikers out of Snoqualmie Pass were right, it was the best section of the whole trail; how they knew this still eludes me. There were no more clear cuts or tree farms to hike through, it was almost all protected wilderness areas.

The terrain was beautiful, great views, alpine meadows, mountain streams; with the exception of a shaven smiling 35-year-old wearing a North Face fleece vest brewing coffee on an MSR Whisperlite stove, we had all the makings of a REI catalog photo. I find it amusing that on the cover of Backpacker Magazine, Outside, or any number of gear catalogs, you do not actually see any real backpackers. What you see is clean people in their mid-thirties, a demographic which likes to convince themselves they are outdoor types by buying lots of expensive gear. Spend some time on any of America’s long distance trails and you won’t meet many thru-hikers that will be in the pages of Backpacker. If these magazines were at all trying to reflect reality, they should feature a cover shot of a skinny dirty bearded white man in his twenties with a raged T-shirt dipping a Snickers Bar in a jar of peanut butter.

 

We met up with some of my climbing friends at Stevens Pass and they drove us to the town of Skykomish. Over lunch, we caught up on everyone’s recent adventures, it made me wish I had done some climbing over the summer, but it’s not like I was sitting on my ass watching TV. That said, it was time to sit on my ass and watch TV. We bought a case of beer, checked into a motel, and watched the Olympics. It was our second to last town stop.

There were still almost 100 miles to a backcountry resort called Stehekin and 90 miles after that to the Canadian Boarder. It was progressively getting colder and as the summer ends, there is always the risk that snow will make hiking the trail difficult or impossible. However, we were fairly confident about finishing the last two sections of the trail; after walking 2,470 miles it was going to take a lot for us to quit.

 

At the risk of repeating myself, northern Washington was stunning and easily my favorite part of the entire Pacific Crest Trail. While I was very happy to be hiking this section, I was also very ready to not be hiking. I wanted to sit in front of the TV and watch movies for hours on end, only stopping to make omelets and coffee then back to more movies. “Soon enough,” I told myself, “I’ll have the rest of my life with electric coffee machines and non-stick omelet pans.” 

 

The days got shorter, the temperature got colder, the scenery got better, and the remaining miles became fewer. It had to end sooner or later. On September 30, after a night of relentless rain, Joe, Drew, Robyn, Eric, Casey, and I woke up seven miles short of the Canadian border. We ate breakfast and broke camp. Three hours later we arrived at a cut in the trees with a Pacific Crest Trail northern terminus monument, a border post, and a welcome to Canada sign.

We broke out champagnes, MGDs, and mini-whiskies we had carried for the last 90 miles and toasted our “success.”  Several other thru-hikers that we knew from various points in the summer showed up at the border over the next few hours. We took monument pictures, shook hands, and signed the register; all in a strange state of jubilated disbelief. We had walked 2,700 miles from Mexico to Canada; it took Casey and me 147 days to accomplish this.

After all the challenges of thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, there remains one more cruel task upon arriving at the border, there are still seven miles left to hike into Canada before you reach the trailhead. The seven miles of trail were not particularly challenging, but keep in mind that we were entirely inebriated. The two-hour hike to Manning Park Lodge was sobering. However, we arrived at the real terminus of the PCT to several groups of parents and friends with bottles of champagne and coolers of beer (Labatt’s Blue, appropriately). We sprayed the champagne around, drank more beers, and congratulated each other and ourselves. We were done walking.

 

               We had walked from an arbitrary line in the sand to an arbitrary cut in the trees. It is not a particularly meaningful accomplishment when you boil it down; it is somewhat of a ridiculous thing to do. But it was meaningful to us, for some reason, and that is why we did it.

 

               We returned home to Seattle the next day, for good this time. I had heard stories of thru-hikers having difficulties readjusting to city life; they said they had to sleep outside in the yard in order to get to sleep, forgot to look both ways when crossing the street, urinated wherever and whenever, etc. I did not really go through this adjustment period; I just adjusted the couch in front of the TV and then adjusted my ass to the couch, and hey, I was readjusted. I could sit inside sipping coffee while it was raining and take a great pleasure just knowing I wasn’t outside.

               I started working at a trendy downtown nightclub, I enjoyed the contrast to the world I lived in over the summer. It was not for several months that I started feeling some nostalgia for the trail. Maybe I would be late for work and stuck in downtown gridlock beneath the monolithic skyscrapers, the blinding headlights of the oncoming traffic would make me think of the summer and the 2,700 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail I had hiked. I believe John Muir described the feeling best when he said, “Shining that light in my face, and for what?  Maybe it’s because I kick so much butt.”  Wait, no, that was Eazy-E.

 

Tobias McEvoy  2001