Blistered Kind Of Love (35 page)

Located in the mountainous border regions of what is “commonly known as California and Oregon,” the State of Jefferson dates back to a secession movement in the 1940s. Mostly, the first Jefferson secession movement was about roads—or lack thereof. Migration brought settlers to the region in the 1840s and 1850s, and mining and agriculture convinced them to stay. But the people of Jefferson were, and are, miles away from centers of commerce, and this led to feelings of isolation and neglect. In the 1940s, Jeffersonians complained that poor roadways hindered their logging, mining, and agriculture industries and that they were being “double-crossed” by the leaders of California and Oregon. Today, the “double-cross,” or “XX,” is a common Jefferson symbol found on tee shirts, hats, suspenders, bumper stickers, signs, and graffiti-ridden walls.

The name “Jefferson” was chosen for the state in 1941 via a popular vote conducted by the
Siskiyou Daily News
. The inspiration was, of course, Thomas Jefferson, who championed the rights of states to govern themselves.

After choosing a name, the residents of Jefferson took immediate action
by blocking Highway 99 outside of Yreka and levying “taxes” on those who tried to enter. At the roadblocks they handed out a
Proclamation of Independence
, which began:

In Yreka, on December 4, 1941, Judge John L. Childs was inaugurated governor of Jefferson. Signs all over town read, “Our roads are not passable, hardly jackassable; if our roads you would travel, bring your own gravel.” Three days later, the tragedy at Pearl Harbor changed everyone's perspective and the movement was temporarily forgotten while most of the region's men went off to war.

Today, State of Jefferson supporters live on and continue to criticize government officials in the state capitals of Sacramento and Salem for imposing environmental and land-use regulations on a region they don't know or understand. “People from the Bay Area and southern California,” a Yreka resident told a reporter for the
Contra Costa Times
, “have no idea of what actually transpires in rural America.” Indeed, to the uninitiated, entering the border region of Interstate 5 near Oregon can be like an episode of the
Twilight Zone
. Suddenly signs, graffiti, and twelve-foot black letters painted on the roof of a highway-side barn proclaim “The State of Jefferson”—a whole “state” most of us have never even heard of.

This is not to say that the State of Jefferson is merely a pipe dream amongst gun-toting rural anarchists. On the contrary. During sixty years of secession attempts, Jefferson proponents have come remarkably close to achieving their goal. In the early 1990s, California Assemblyman Stan Statham of Redding publicly advocated the division of California into two or three separate states and pushed the process far enough that an advisory plebiscite over the state's division appeared on the statewide California ballot. The logistics of getting statehood, however, remain a large hurdle. New states can't be carved out of existing ones without the approval of the state legislature
and Congress. Beyond that, there are no laws on the books to govern such a procedure. Duffy joked that it was too bad that the measure hadn't gone through; if it had, we'd be finishing up our second or third state rather than just our first.

The PCT crosses the California–Oregon border in the middle of nowhere—approximately halfway between Seiad Valley on Highway 96 and Ashland, Oregon, on Interstate 5. Climbing out of Seiad Valley we followed interminable switchbacks through Douglas fir, incense cedar, Oregon oak, and poison oak as well as western white pines. We climbed approximately 3,000 feet and reached a saddle where the only place to put our tent was right in the middle of the trail. Figuring it was too late for anyone to be climbing behind us and that we'd be up and moving before any morning hikers could complete the climb, we pitched our tent literally on the PCT. Remembering that when Tweedle, the crazy goatee'd hiker from Agua Dulce, had once slept on the trail, he'd been stepped on by a stampeding buck and ended up in the hospital, I hesitated for a second. But as usual, I was too tired to argue.

The next day, crossing into Oregon felt like a significant occasion. But really, things looked the same on both sides of the border. Cows in either state were munching on meadow grass, noticing neither our presence nor our quiet celebrations. Standing at the wooden sign that marked the border, I waved good-bye to California while Duffy snapped a photograph.

AS WE APPROACHED THE OREGON BORDER
, I saw an unpleasant face peering from the bushes ten feet away. His disheveled appearance and wild stare startled me. He wasn't a hiker—he wore ripped jeans and a hooded gray sweatshirt. I had no idea why he was cowering in the undergrowth, but I assumed his past to be checkered and intentions less than pure. Twenty yards up-trail I stopped and turned, gesturing for Angela to move quickly. She gave me a quizzical look and chugged her way up the hill. At the border I explained.

“Sorry to rush you, but I didn't like the look of that dude.”

“What dude?” she asked.

“You didn't see that vagrant leering from the bushes? I though he might jump you.”

“Nope, didn't see him. . . . Yikes, that's scary.”

“Yeah, we should probably keep moving.”

Amazingly, nearly 1,700 miles into our hike, this was the first suspicious person we'd seen. Sure, there'd been evidence of illegal immigrants and stories of vagabonds, but we'd never felt truly threatened on the trail. And while Chris and Stacey had seen a homeless man wandering the PCT north of Warner Springs without food or gear and severely sunburned, he was just asking for handouts and seemed more unfortunate than anything else. Angela
had
been accosted, but that was on the mean streets of Redding, far from the PCT.

The PCT travels through mostly sparsely populated territory so I hadn't
worried all that much about strange men with evil intentions. The Appalachian Trail, however, is another story. Along much of its route, the AT is easily accessible and provides convenient shelters, which are especially convenient for people seeking asylum from the law. Over the last thirty years there have been numerous assaults, including nine murders, on or close to the AT. The most recent homicide (a double murder in the Shenandoah Valley) occurred in 1996—the same year that Bill Bryson hiked the trail. Eight years before that, Rebecca Wight and Claudia Brenner were stalked and attacked in the Michaux State Forest of south-central Pennsylvania by known fugitive Stephen Roy Carr. Wight was killed by a rifle shot at the scene; Brenner was wounded but escaped and reported the crime to authorities. In September of 1990, again in Pennsylvania, thru-hikers Molly LaRue and Geoffrey Hood were murdered at a shelter by fugitive P. David Crews (now on death row).

In contrast, the PCT hasn't seen a single murder in its nearly forty-year history, and I hadn't come across much evidence of any other type of violent crime on the trail.

Before our hike, a good friend asked whether I planned on packing heat while on the trail. I was skeptical. “A gun?” I said. “That's a heavy-ass piece of equipment.” Furthermore, I explained, you'd need to bring a rifle to expect protection from crazed bears, and you'd be crazy to think you could shoot enough small game to feed yourself. And as for crazy people—I was more likely to encounter them outside my South Street apartment than on the PCT.

Several months before setting off from Campo I was mugged at knifepoint just thirty yards from my front door. This was profoundly frightening, but it hadn't provoked me to play Center City Dirty Harry. If I wasn't going to carry a gun in Philly, why would I on the PCT? Besides, it's illegal to carry a firearm in or through a national park. At the time, this argument made sense, but now, for the first time since the Mexican border, I wished I had some protection. We'd long since sent home our Counter Assault “grizzly tough” pepper spray and now all we had to defend ourselves with were beaten-up trekking poles and cross-trainer-clad feet. So we put them to use and after several quick photos strode quickly into Oregon, hoping to leave the wild-eyed stranger
behind. We were following the extremely practical advice of Michael Bane who, in his book
Trail Safe: Averting Threatening Human Behavior in the Outdoors
, writes, “Distance is good, more distance is better. . . . You get a chance to run, you take it.”

For several hours we walked briskly without a break, not looking back, using our fleet feet to deter altercation. Finally, I began to relax and appreciate that at last, at long last, we'd reached a new state. We'd walked the entire length of California. A truck driver on Interstate 5 could clear the state in sixteen hours or so; it had taken us three months.

In general, the PCT is gentler in Oregon than in California, without brutal climbs or long, knee-rattling descents. For most of the state, the tread stays at comfortable altitudes of 5,000 to 6,000 feet. The PCT's highest elevation in Oregon is a benign 7,000 feet. Re-supply opportunities are primarily at remote backcountry lodges that beckon the thru-hiker to stop and relax for several days. In fact, there's only one major town, Ashland, near the Oregon trail, and we soon found ourselves on its outskirts. Ashland, home to an annual Shakespeare festival and a collection of quirky artists and hippies, is a mandatory stop for many hikers. It's a place where many plan their entire Oregon re-supply, packing and sending boxes on to Crater Lake, Shelter Cove, Olallie Lake, and Timberline Lodge. But our boxes were already packed and in the mail from Philadelphia, and as much as Ashland tempted us, there was no pressing need to visit. So we spent our first night in Oregon camped in the backyard of Callahan's, a homey restaurant and lodge a mile from the trail along Highway 99.

The next morning we followed the trail through rather mundane scenery and clear-cuts, catching several final glimpses of Mount Shasta to the south. The first fifty or so miles of Oregon's PCT are through BLM land and well below the Cascade Crest. In part because BLM land is managed with a “multiple-use” principle that permits a variety of recreational and economic
activities (including timber harvest and cattle grazing), much of the old-growth forest in this region had been leveled, making it less than ideal for hiking. I couldn't wait to get to higher and more scenic ground and looked forward to reaching the crest near Mount McLoughlin, the next sky-reaching volcano.

That evening, at Green Springs Inn near Hyatt Lake (mile 1,745), we enjoyed delicious beer bread and chicken salad while chatting with the inn's owner, Diarmuid. The hot topic was President Clinton's designation of fifty-two thousand acres of wilderness surrounding Pilot Rock as a national monument. Pilot Rock, a gray stump of an old volcano, is just a short side hike from the PCT. Nationally, environmentalists applauded Clinton's use of executive power (through the Antiquities Act of 1906) to protect Pilot Rock and its environs, but many in the Hyatt Lake area were upset. Some locals apparently didn't agree with the rationale for banning off-road, all-terrain, super-suspension, rock- and dirt-busting vehicles from pristine roadless areas. It was probably some of these same residents who demonstrated their appreciation of the PCT by surrounding it with electric fences and signs that threatened trespassing hikers.