Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail (32 page)

“Yeah,” I replied, “that’s what I’m trying for too.”

This conversation was to prove momentous for both of us. She later told me just how close she had come to throwing in the towel in right here in Ashland. And given that it was now August, and an early Canadian winter loomed, she would turn out to be just the right influence for me.

If the sedentary lifestyle is your cup of tea, the Duck State is just not the kind of place you’d choose. The state’s outdoor culture is vibrant. Eugene, Oregon, in fact, may be the physical fitness capital of the world. Hood River on the other side of the state revolves almost entirely around water sports. And Oregonians like to hike. I liked that. By my lights, we got plenty of solitude in this continent-long quest, and it was good to see some fresh new faces.

The mountain range is the Cascades. Most of these mountains are, in fact, volcanoes. Often you find yourself walking on the flotsam and jetsam of volcanoes that exploded millions of years back, and it has created a relatively level landscape. This was a PCT hiker’s chance to make up for lost time, or at least that’s what we’d been telling ourselves all the way through California.

“I think it’s right up here,” I pointed to the driver chauffeuring us back up to the trailhead.

“No, no, don’t listen to a word he says,” Uber Bitch jumped in with her saucy style. “Just keep going.”

Oh boy, what’s this gonna’ be like.

Uber Bitch and I set out together and hiked until dark. Again, the only place we could find to camp was a dirt road. You’ve got givers and takers in this world. Fortunately, it quickly became apparent she was the former.

“Here go, that spot looks best for your long tent,” she said, offering me the only flat spot on the dirt road. I then introduced Uber Bitch to the routine of hauling logs out to cordon off the road, and she gamely took to that.

“I’ll be off by 6:30,” she told me before getting into our tents.

A lot of hikers say this at night (including, occasionally me), but 49% or less actually do it. Uber Bitch consistently did it. She wasn’t fast. She made up for it by an early starting time, cutting her breaks shorter than everybody else’s, and hiking until almost dark. It was an impressive effort to watch.

In her favor, she did have some considerable outdoor experience to call on. Just a couple years back, she and her husband had ridden their bicycles around the world. She was also quite adept in map reading, and more than just in the conventional sense of not getting lost. There were long waterless stretches on the PCT in Oregon. But there were also many different trails to accommodate the denizens of this outdoor-mad state.

“Hey,” she would point out. “We could take..” Next thing you know we’d be following some trail that often looked as much like a rabbit trail, as a hiking trail.

“Are you sure this is right?’ I would ask.

“Yes, look,” and she would show me the route.

Very few of us were
virgins
at this point, and some of the PCT guidebooks even recommended these side trails as more scenic and less waterless than the PCT. Often these routes wound along lakes, which had me skittish. They were our water sources. But then I ran into a hydrologist on the trail.

“I was a hydrologist for the state of California for thirty-six years,” he said. “I can assure you that lake water is a better bet than water out of any stream.”

“Gosh, I had always just assumed running water was better,” I said.

“No, all the animal excrement in the lake sinks to the bottom,” he answered. “but it can float along the top of running water.

“Just make sure you filter it,” he added.

Soon I became comfortable enough drinking out of these lakes.

“Who is that?’ I yelled out of my tent.

It had to be at least 3:00 a.m. in the morning. My tent was lying about a foot off the PCT (Uber Bitch was a few yards back) right where we had wound up at dark the previous evening.

“Is that you Backtrack?” I questioned the person.

“Yeah,” Backtrack answered. “Who is that? Skywalker?”

“Yeah.”

I heard others with him.

“What the hell are ya’ll doing?” I asked.

“Fifty-eight miles,”
came another familiar-sounding voice.

It was Hollywood, and I also heard Pink’s familiar cadences in the background. Pink and Hollywood had met early on in the desert, and hit it off immediately. For a basic reason. They both fit the right profile.

Hollywood was in his late twenties, had studied acting in university, and aspired to greatness. To be honest, I didn’t quite understand why it had eluded him so far, given his matinee-idol looks and dry wit. Pink (always wore pink colors) sure hadn’t eluded him. She was in her early twenties and may have been the sexiest thing that ever walked on two legs. She practically worshipped the ground Hollywood walked on. Good for them. But, as was so often the case with trail romances, not so good for a couple folks back home.

“I saw her making out with a different guy,” Uber Bitch had told me one day, after Pink and Hollywood walked by.

“Must have been before she met Hollywood,” I said, confused.

“No,” she said firmly. “Just recently.
He
was sitting right there watching.”

Then someone had revealed the
truth
to us. This third person was Pink’s boyfriend back home. Hollywood had employed the same subterfuge. A couple weeks after Pink’s boyfriend had visited, Hollywood’s long-time girlfriend from San Francisco had arrived for a few days of hiking with her long-time mate. Pink, of course, became the supernumerary this time. On both occasions, Hollywood and Pink had introduced the other to their respective lovers, as a mere hiking partner.

Not shocking news, of course, that this would all happen. The PCT is like Las Vegas, except more so. What happens out here, stays out here.

“What time is it?” I asked Backtrack, Hollywood, and Pink, as I lay there in my tent.

“4:00,” Backtrack asked.

As I lay there groggily trying to hold up my end of the conversation, one thing was more than obvious. All three of their voices were soaked with adrenalin. Hollywood and Pink’s previous longest day was 24 miles. They had started hiking about 21 hours ago, and wouldn’t be finished for another 7 or hours; so technically, it wouldn’t be a 58 mile day.

It was one heckuva’ effort, to be sure. But big mile days were the
Great Talisman.
For starters, hikers couldn’t resist bragging about them. Worse though, it took days to recover from the adrenaline hangover. The day-to-day grind became more of an uphill battle. Unfortunately, two of these three would become virtually disabled by this 58 mile Herculean effort. They would never be the same again.

I’m not an aesthete. To me there are very few places in the world that are worth traveling to for the sole purpose of seeing a sight. I’m a firm believer that it’s
the people
you meet that make a trip.

However, there is no denying that there are a few places on this earth that command overwhelming awe at first sight (Grand Canyon, Yosemite). Until 7,000 years ago, Crater Lake was no such wonder. It didn’t even exist. Rather, Mount Mazama was one of the volcanoes on the arc of the Cascade Range. But suddenly, around 5700 BCE, there was a massive volcanic explosion that transformed the landscape forever. After millions of years, Mount Mazama was suddenly no more. In its place was a massive crater that measured six miles wide. Given that the area gets an average of
533 inches of precipitation per year,
it quickly filled up and became known—appropriately—as Crater Lake. At 1,949 feet, it is the deepest lake in the United States, and bigger than all but Lake Tahoe and the Great Lakes.

The initial view is magical—not because of the size, but, rather, the intense blue color. Because most of the massive precipitation it receives is from snowfall, it is one of the clearest lakes in the world, with clarity readings of 120 feet. A twenty-mile circular ring of cliffs, crowned with Douglas firs and hemlocks, provides a stunning backdrop.

A big group of PCT hikers stopped at the very tastefully done
Rim Lodge,
a Depression Era CCC construction. Soon, everybody had stretched their tight hiker budgets to enjoy shrimp and beer while gazing out at this national wonder. It was as idyllic a moment as I’ve ever experienced. Everything was perfect. At least, it was until OSG’s (Orange Shirt Guy’s) cell-phone rang. A grave look soon came across OSG’s face.

“Guys, you’re not gonna believe what I just heard,” he said, and then proceeded to relate a heart-rending tale.

Pepperoni and Ralph, of course, had left the bubble of northbound thru-hikers after the chaos of the forest fires, and driven to the Canadian border where she was going to ride south. Unfortunately, a major bridge-crossing was down in northern Washington. In the especially desolate stretches Pepperoni always had two horses—one to ride, and one to carry supplies—tied together by rope. When she had arrived at a ledge with an especially steep falloff, she had jumped off her riding horse and carefully led both horses with the rope.

Unfortunately, she had stumbled over some jagged terrain and went down hard on her face.

“It was just one of those things,” she later recalled. “One minute I was walking along. Next thing you know, I’m on my face.”

“You’re lucky the horses didn’t trample you?” I suggested.

“They saved my life
once again,”
she quickly replied. “They jumped over me, but that sent them down the ravine.”

“How long did you hold onto the rope after you fell?” I then asked her.

“Only a second, it was impossible.”

But that one second was enough to send her 75 feet down the ravine. As she lay there woozy, she heard her horses crashing further down the hill.

Not only were her horses’ lives on the line, but so was hers. All her food, water, and camping equipment were on the horses.

“I knew what had probably happened,” she said with great emotion, “when I started seeing things strewn along the hill.”

The two horses she had raised from birth were dead (They would soon be devoured by grizzly bears). Moreover, she was stranded in one of the most isolated areas in the United States. The thing that may have saved her was the controversial SPOT button. She hit it and several hours later an emergency rescue team arrived to evacuate her.

A noticeable pall fell over everybody gathered on the terrace at Crater Lake Lodge. Pepperoni’s attempt at a thru-ride had earned our admiration. In various respects, it was both more and less difficult than what we thru-hikers were doing. However, it was unquestionably more dangerous. Many times along the way when passing through hair-raising or sketchy parts of the trail, I had remarked, “I’m damn sure glad I’m not trying to get through here on a horse.”