My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking (4 page)

Departure and Reality

  As the flight date of April 26, 2001 drew near, panic set in. Rainmaker called it "fantasy running headlong into reality." He told me it was normal, and that there was nothing out there I hadn’t gone through before. Last year’s hike had included high mountains, desert conditions, lost trail, wild animals and seclusion. There was nothing new, just more of it.

  I didn’t realize then how much of my gear was homemade. As a friend later remarked, “People on the trail compete just the same, but with less. You don’t buy into that. I admire you.” Never thought of it before. It takes a brave person to head out for five months on the trail with homemade gear as your lifeline. Brave enough to trust your designs and workmanship to the elements, brave enough to stand the skepticism of other hikers, brave enough to shun the ridicule of people still tethered to mainstream America. Looking back, I guess I was brave. At the time, it was my desire to have the lightest gear possible, which meant taking my small stature into consideration, and creating all the gear myself. Finances were an issue as well. I worked 6 months at my old cooking job to support this hike, and to continue a minimalist lifestyle.

Mexican Border to Kennedy Meadows

  I kissed Rainmaker good-bye and boarded the plane for San Diego. Looking at him for the last time as I walked away, I felt totally numb and unable to comprehend the enormous adventure ahead. My tent, rain gear, and clothes, all irreplaceable, were carried on the plane in silnylon stuff sacks. The pack frame and water bottles, zipped in a garment bag, were checked as baggage. A good friend picked me up at the airport in San Diego; I slept on his couch that night. At 5 a.m. he made breakfast for me, and we headed for the Mexican border.

  We drove past several manned Border Patrol cars on the dusty road near the sleepy town of Campo. My friend Charlie drove right up to the monument. We got out of his sports vehicle, and walked up to the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail. There was a formidable barbed wire fence, a barren stretch of land and a woman starting out on horseback. Photos were taken, good-bye hugs exchanged, and I started hiking north. It was twenty miles to Lake Morena. That was my first goal. I had never done a twenty-mile day, not with a full pack. Not ever. I hiked alone, and became confused as the trail skirted Campo. Read the guide pages, use the compass. Think, look around. Finally, I backtracked a couple hundred yards to where it bypasses the town westward. The scenery was beautiful, better than I had imagined. Who would have thought the desert could support so many varieties of flowers. The huge white lilies were especially amazing. Where were they getting enough moisture to put on such a display?

  That first day I struggled with directions and self-image, wondering aloud, “Who do you think you are, out here alone, trying to get to Sonora Pass?”  Calm down, eat some jellybeans. They were my entire food supply until Lake Morena. One pound of candy and 4 quarts of water, being rationed at one quart per five miles.

 
Crossing what the guidebook termed an “unreliable” stream I took a break, drank more water, and squatted in what I would later learn was poison oak. There was no one to be seen, not north, not south, as I scanned the hills and valleys. I guess there were other hikers on the trail. Every so often there would be a shirt, piece of plastic sheeting, or a pair of pants, signs of illegal immigrants crossing our southern border, looking for the American Dream.

  Finally at Hauser Creek, 15 miles by one o'clock, I sat down to rest before the last 5 hard miles. A likely place near a dried out stream was full of horse droppings and the stench was nearly unbearable. I would much rather make the steep climb and then a descent into Lake Morena than camp here, anyway. I met Jeff who came to rest beside me, and gave him some water. The creek was a hopeless horse dump, and neither of us would dredge water out of it. We exchanged pleasantries, and then I pressed on.

  I made those 20 miles by suppertime on Friday evening. There was a cookout, and people arrived continuously. The third Annual Zero Day Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off Party officially began on Saturday, and the entire day was spent meeting hikers and trail angels, creating an ultralight cup with new found friends, learning how to make various stoves from soda cans, watching a territorial dog fight, attending a water cache review and competing in a gear contest. I won a prize for my silnylon rain suit, labeled by judges as “the best innovative gear item on the trail in 2001.” My jacket had the mittens attached, which had never been seen or done before, to the best of anyone’s knowledge.

  Sunday, a complete breakfast of eggs, bagels, muffins, oatmeal, fruit and steaming hot coffee was offered at sunrise. Hikers packed and headed for the trail. Everyone, it seemed, was all spread out. I hiked alone, passing a few guys resting on the side of the trail. We chatted a bit, but some insecurity kept me hiking solo. I felt they would invite me to accompany them if they so wished. I started doing huge miles, and earned a reputation as a strong hiker. This was unplanned and unintended. My miles were unpreventable. I find that the same compulsions we have in our regular lives, we bring with us to the trail.

  My biggest problem was missing Rainmaker. Evenings were the worst, from about 5:00 p.m. until I went to sleep. I missed his reassurance and our nightly camping rituals. To cope with this homesickness, I hiked until nearly dark each day. Once, I almost had a disaster looking for a campsite along a ridge walk. One spot was big enough, but if I ventured out after dark, I could have easily fallen off a cliff. That night I kept hiking until a small ledge just above the trail appeared. Squeezing in beneath some manzanita bushes, I set up my tent on a fairly level spot, ate raw ramen noodles and drank Kool-Aid.  Camping directly on trail is always an option, but because it is also an animal highway, I would rather camp somewhere aside.

  I felt very strong physically and met lots of good people on the trail. Weather was perfect, the scenery outstanding. All the senses become finely tuned. I felt totally alive. This is a true desert environment. If there is a rhythm to be found hiking the PCT, it is to be found with one word: Water. Where is the next water, and can I get there today? It may mean a 21-mile day. It may mean 26. I learned to cook at water sources, sometimes in the afternoon. With the pot washed, and teeth brushed, the need for camp water is very minimal. Still, in the desert I filled all my water bottles and would hike until evening. Perhaps there would be water when I camped, perhaps not. I hated to carry water; I learned to walk to the next source, however long that might be. By rising early, and being on trail by daylight, many miles can be covered before the heat becomes unbearable. Less water is needed in those early hours, too.

  Solo is wonderful and the independence is great. However, it can be lonely at night and a bit frightening to be so totally on your own. Sometimes, in desperation, I would sit on the side of the trail with my topography maps, compass and trail guide until I could figure out where I was. The greatest fear was missing the only water in 30 miles. I never camped until I was sure of my location. Most days I hiked alone, but passing and being passed by others, sometimes referred to as leap-frogging. Often a few of us would camp together.

  Trail runner shoes rule here. The few with leather boots have swapped out, cut them into submission, or left the trail. The type of socks seems to vary, some with smart wool, others with Thorlos, many with just some nylon blend. Nylon shorts proved very comfortable, drying easily after rinsing in rare creeks. The sewn-in pockets have eliminated the need for a fanny pack. I went back to my Esbit stove; having to use metal stakes for a cooking pot support with my other stove doesn’t cut it in this rocky terrain. At night, I was just too tired to fool with pounding in stakes, leveling them, and hoping my pot wouldn’t tip over.
  One guy lost his hat in the wind. Thankfully, I remembered to add elastic cord and a cord lock to cinch my hat tight when it was windy. Many types of sombreros or hats are worn in the desert. An uncovered head or simple bandana would be dangerous with such strong sunrays. One hiker was sunburned so badly the first day out, her peeling shoulders were a warning to all. Sun block is not a luxury here. I learned to carry the best available.
  One day I was uncertain of the predetermined "grassy spot" friends were to meet me at to camp. Holding the guidebook in one hand, reading while I hiked, I set my left foot down and suddenly heard a tremendous rattle. I glanced down while jumping ahead, and saw a large rattlesnake about ten inches from my foot. The snake crawled off, still rattling its tail in warning. I just about stepped on him, and he was mad! I learned many lessons, among them don’t walk and read at the same time, stay focused. There is no such thing as being too alert.
  The Pacific Crest Trail joined the Tahquitz Valley Trail just before Idyllwild. Three trails were mentioned in the guide, and in good times would be easy to follow. However, in May, with snow still covering large sections, I became concerned. Footprints seemed to be going in all directions, and I lost the footprints of thru-hikers I'd been following. Reading that I had to climb to 8,500 ft, and then descend again, I started up a peak. There were water bars, a good sign. There were footprints, but going in all directions. My compass said I was heading north, but that isn’t always an indicator of correctness. Finally, a PCT post appeared, I stooped, put my hand on it, and kissed it. I had one meal of corn mush left in my pack, and the evening dusk was settling in. Finally back on track, I hiked to Saddle Junction, where no camping is permitted.  I went down the Devil’s Slide Trail toward Idyllwild about ¼ mile and put up my tent, very relieved to at last I know where I was.

  I spent several weeks leap-frogging with a woman name Becky. She was a young soloist, a great conversationalist, independent and wild. I called her Trail Animal, a name that didn’t stick but delighted her immensely. She reminded me of my daughters, sharing a female bond. I went through a week of mother-worry when she disappeared from the trail, not leaving word, nor being seen by any thru-hikers. She had hitch hiked into town, returned to the trail to hike a few more miles, and then backtracked to the same town she’d left.
  I watched the ants on the trail. They were quite amazing. Some larger black ones tried to stuff a leaf down their hole, a joint effort that reminded me of kids putting a huge quilt down a laundry chute. Tiny ants formed four lanes, 2 coming and 2 going, across the trail. Amazingly co-coordinated endeavor in this heat! Red ones swarmed over my shoes and socks while I sat barefoot in a last scrap of shade at 9:00 a.m. The mountain itself provided some shade before the sun rose higher. Some other ants hauled an enormous, lifeless stinkbug across the sand. I could imagine their mom saying, “I would like to know where you plan to put THAT!”
  Hikers congregated in the shade of Joshua Trees or a rare creek, waiting out the noontime heat, talking strategy, planning resupply points, reading maps, and discussing topography. This was not your average group. Everyone was self-sufficient and strong. As soloists, we knew no one was going to take care of us, no one owed us anything. But, bonds were built as we went through the same things together. Suffering builds unity faster than fun.
  The towns are spaced far apart on the PCT, each one an oasis of relief and pleasure. Food, shade, water, medicine, clean clothes, some human faces, no bears or snakes in the near vicinity, what more could we want?  One hundred miles between resupply points was not uncommon.
  The trail has been full of “almosts”. One day I almost slid off the ledge while crossing a snowy section. My foot slid down the mushy last step and I found myself sitting in the snow bank, hiking poles pinning me, holding me to the ledge. I couldn’t get up until I unsnapped my pack belt and let go of one pole. Sure wished I had my snow baskets for my poles, but they were in a box bound for Kennedy Meadows.
  I learned to forget the “almosts". I almost got lost; I almost missed my last water source. I almost stepped on a rattlesnake; I almost had to sleep right on the trail. I almost ran out of food. If one would dwell on that, they would get pretty scared. Somehow, each day should start out fresh with no worries or fears, so I learned from my “almosts” and kept hiking.

“The man who follows the crowd will usually get no further than the crowd. The man who walks alone is likely to find himself in places no one has ever been.”—Alan Ashley-Pitt

  The fear of the desert was a curious thing. At the town of Agua Dulce, so much fear generated by the endless worry over waterless stretches and heat caused entire groups to road walk (cutting off 30 miles of desert) or slack pack large sections. I was glad I opted for neither. We’d already done desert hiking in the previous section. I did not want this portion, the Mojave Desert, to beat me before I even tried. The desert is not a thing to fear, neither to be attacked by nor to flee from. It is something to be experienced, and respected. Found two beautiful feathers; a confirmation of trail gifts to come.
  Anyone who has done PCT switchbacks knows the agony of endlessly winding mile after mile to descend just ten feet in elevation. There is a good side, though. One benefit was if you suddenly realized that a great photo opportunity was missed. But, not to worry. An hour later, another chance, perhaps closer, perhaps not, presented itself. The view of that same marvelous rock, that curious tree, of Interstate 15, was nearly identical. The drawback of such routing or "over engineering" was the tendency for some hikers to cut, or bypass, the switchbacks. I was burned on that once, and learned my lesson well. By taking a shortcut down to what appeared to be a switchback, I got on a side trail, temporarily losing the PCT that was heading around the canyon, instead of down into the canyon.