Reflections in a Honey Bucket

Cantwell mascara at -32 degrees

   When the time comes for me to celebrate my liberation from the womb (because I'm pretty sure even my mother would tell you that I've always been independent and a wanderer) and another spin around the sun, I like to look back and reflect on the year gone by.  I always ask myself, "Self, what was the best thing that happened to you this year?"  And by "happened to me [sic]" I really mean what is the best thing I made happen for myself this year.  I have to admit, hopefully without sounding boastful, that bright spots and high points are generally not hard to find.  But this last year was particularly stellar.  In some sort of Freudian, conceptual, interpretive dance adaptation of an incident, I was liberated and therefore born again into unemployment by quitting my job at ManCamp at this time last year...a re-birth into my natural state of not working for someone else.  Fast forward a year and numerous adventures later and I finish my 39th year by missing the peg when going to hang up my puffy pants and affectingly drop them into my honey bucket and soaking the cuffs in my own urine.  Later in the evening I cut out pictures of ermine from magazines and assembled them into a Nativity scene.  Gentle Reader, while you may sit reading those last two sentences shaking your head and pitying the poor girl who is foolish enough to go without the guidance of a Good Man, a Decent Job, and a Normal Home, I consider my year a total success.  And my life....well, I might not have won the Nobel Peace Prize. but if I expire tomorrow I wouldn't change a thing.  Adventures have been plentiful and I'm satisfied.
  I will have you know that in the slow motion seconds that it took for me to reach out, puffy pants in hand, and think I was hanging them on the peg only to have them fall lifelessly to the ground, I only cursed myself for a blip of a second.  I knew where the pants were headed.  My eyes got huge as I lifted the pants to see both cuffs laying in the honey bucket  and in one swift motion I grabbed the black, puffy mass, opened the door, and threw them out into the arctic temperatures to freeze.   As soon as I shut the door to the -32 degree weather that was clamoring to get in the cabin I began hysterically laughing.  Once I tamed my giggles I only erupted again.  Now please believe me, I do not talk to myself.  I live on my own in the middle of Alaska and I do not speak out loud to myself.  Oh yes, there is a constant dialogue in my head, but I rarely utter anything out loud.  Not for any good reason, that's just the way I am.  So to find myself in a state of unhinged laughter, only makes me laugh harder. It was such a great episode.  In no way did I get angry, disappointed, or frustrated...I just saw this as a hilarious accident because really:  everyone can drop an article of clothing, but not everyone has a honey bucket.  It was just one more thing, besides the temperature outside, that makes Alaska a unique place to live.
  My year consisted of awesome music from Alaska to Mardi Gras to California and the Pacific Northwest.  From amateur hour in a Denali cabin to touring professionals.  From friends to idols and some who blur the line in between.  I skied my first race (though I was only "racing"...ahem) to an 8-day winter tour with my lady pardners and had an awesome tour of the proverbial front yard on a snow machine trip.  I hiked 1,100 mile of the Pacific Crest Trail and spent my first summer outside of Alaska since 1994, met awesome folk, and made at least part of a dream come true.  I learned to have patience with myself during an injury and spent quality time with friends I wouldn't have seen otherwise.  I can take the good with the bad and even seek it out (the good that is!). 
  I have learned again, for the hundredth time, that Alaska is my home like no other.  I can be happy other places and while I love, love, love adventure and am in quest of new places and experiences and being on the road and meeting fresh faces and challenging myself ....nothing can replace my home, my heart place, my people.  That while I need change and challenge, I'm equally content with a small birthday gathering of friends and neighbors with no big hoopla or bright lights.  Not everything has to be an event nor do I have to be at every event.  Or maybe just the bright lights of bacon grease soaked paper aflame above magazine cut outs of ermine posed in a creche tableau.... this is enough bright lights and hoopla for me.  And that this scene,--with nothing going on and no where to go-- this place that so many people fear and don't understand, is the place that nourishes me and makes me feel alive even in the most mundane of activities such as taking a walk (at -32) or going #2 (at -32). 
 

Lo! An Ermine is borne unto them! 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my big, lofty accomplishments of the past year of my life are super exciting and wonderful memories, but are a part of a pretty exciting and wonderful life.  Of course I have times where I'm stuck in a rut, don't we all?  But overall, I endeavor to make every day an adventure, a wonderful day. I aspire to make dropping my pants in a bucket full of my own pee a laughable experience.  I strive to find paper cut out figures of ermine, and posing them as the Holy Family, a hilarious task that brings a smile to my face at any moment.  I attempt to be content reading on the couch for hours when I know I should be outside cutting firewood.  I try to remember how lucky I am that I even have a choice to live this lifestyle;  all the hardships of living where I live and living alone are still a luxury.  [Please note:  I mean that being able to live alone is a luxury in choice.  Years ago I might have been married off the the first fella that asked my ma and pa and I wouldn't have had a say in the matter!  In the more immediate sense, sometimes living alone is a luxury and other days I lament single living in a labor intense environment.] 
  On that note, I am super excited that I turned 40 and have a whole new decade to look forward to.  I still feel like a sprite, so a number doesn't mean much to me.  I have hopes and dreams to work toward coming true.  I have unfinished business with the Pacific Crest Trail.  I have lofty aspirations and I aspire to make even mundane days have lofty moments.  I want to see the uncommon in the common.  I want to laugh at my own private jokes.  I want to be more motivated.  I want to be gentler with myself.  I want to be gentler with others. I want to take the amount of fun I had in my 30's and double it.  I want to stay on this path.  I want to be open to new paths.  I'm satisfied.
  I'd also like to thank Alaska for the birthday present of warmer weather:  after a week or more of -20's and -30's it has warmed up at least 40 degrees to around 10 above and we got a dusting of fresh snow which at least gives us hope.....it also snowed in Salinas, California on the day I was born in 1972.  How ya like them apples? 

Home, Sweet Home

Hard not to feel at home with a backyard like this.

  I know it seems unconventional, but I knew I was home when I walked up to gate C4 at the Portland airport earlier last month.  I’d been Outside for 6 months (that means anywhere Outside of Alaska) and as I approached the gate I knew I was among my people.  It wasn’t that I recognized anyone in particular, but I identified with the motley crew assembled and waiting for our Alaska Air flight.  Not many, if any, tourists are clamoring to visit Alaska on the cusp of winter, so those heading north at this time are generally of a local breed:  a skinny guy in a black Salty Dog Saloon sweatshirt and work boots;  several variety of bearded men—from beanpole to beer belly—with the name of their drilling/mining/construction company (see also: fishing vessel) embroidered onto their denim jackets; a harried-looking couple apparently returning home with their infant baby after a trip to visit the family; a woman holding a coat with a fur ruff around the hood.  Also of note was that not one of these people looked at me twice for being a woman wearing Carhartts, nor did I feel conspicuous for doing so.  Because even in uber cool Portland, a girl can feel like she is not cool in double-kneed work jeans (please Carhartt, please do not make skinny jeans. Ever.).  Instead, we all just milled about the gate until our flight was ready and headed to Anchorage. 

  Upon arrival in Anchorage I also felt like I had arrived home. I couldn't tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if my olfactory nerves were projecting nostalgia, but I seriously smelled salmon in the baggage claim area. Not cooked salmon, but raw, barely dead, still twitching because even s/he doesn't know it's dead, just off the river fresh salmon.  I knew it was crazy, but I embraced it because I'd been gone for so long.  As I waited for my humongous bags to come around on the carousel, I admired what is indisputably strictly Alaskan decor at almost any airport:  a stuffed polar bear on it's hind legs, a wolf posed in a lifeless snarl.  To top it off I thought of what a small place this is because I know the people who built these dioramas.  Talented carpenters and musicians one and all and outspoken political whiskey drinkers on occasion. I knew I was home when a friend volunteered to come pick me up from the airport and that conveniently, and coincidentally, another friend was arriving 10 minutes after me so we could all ride together (I doubt that happens in New York City). 

  I knew I was home long before I stepped foot in my cabin 215 miles north of Anchorage.  Because in Anchorage there were giggles with girlfriends, smiles with babies, brunch for fifteen people including, but not limited to, bacon waffles, cheesy grits with shrimp etouffee, an egg pie with moose sausage, homemade muffins, and a mimosa or two, music of the old timey variety, walks at the dog park, falling snow, and bundling in down; reuniting with old friends, sharing stories and catching up; being in a place where I feel part of a community.

  By all means that community stretches across Alaska.  From my own home in the Jack River Nation and the Denali area to Fairbanks, Talkeetna, Juneau, Anchorage, and Homer I feel like I’ve got friends, confidants, and allies.  While I enjoy my time Outside and people I know there, I do not feel part of a larger community there.  In AK we always joke about the population here being the biggest, most spread out small town ever and that feels true.  Whether from my Denali National Park ranger days, the bluegrass community, outdoor enthusiasts, or just next door neighbors (or a combination of these interests/experiences) it is amazing how many people a girl can get to know across this vast state. 

  After a jaunt to Homer--beautiful, beautiful Homer—I finally made it back to Cantwell and back into the cabin I built for myself.  But even before I arrive at my log cabin in the spruce forest, I feel settled because I know I'm home when I'm not even to my cabin yet. It's when I arrive in Broad Pass and look around at the 360 degrees of mountains that envelop me: Denali book ending one side and the Deborah gang of mountains on the other. The Alaska Range and the Talkeetna Mountains forming a carousel of summits that make me dizzy. And on that early winter day I witnessed a sky full of every blue hue on the chart from bright and perky to smoky and nearly purple. The ring of snow capped mountains surrounding me were all shades of white from sun lit and shiny to the indescribable muted white and shadowy that only occurs at this time of year, the contrast with the sky always drastic. These mountains, these colors: these are as familiar and welcoming to me as an old friend. 

  Of course being in my cabin and among my neighbors has been wonderful.  Walks in familiar woods, seeing the way the Jack River has changed course after fall flooding, checking progress of our local beaver families, admiring the crystal-clear, glass like condition of the ice on the slough, walking in the winter sun with a romping brown dog, impromptu dinners with neighbors, wine with girlfriends:  all things that I missed while away on my adventure (and mis-adventure).  It’s just really nice to know that this cozy, comfortable, safe feeling that one generally feels in her own home is not limited to my physical dwelling…sometimes that feeling can start at an airport gate far, far away and stretch across the biggest state in the union.

Pride After the Fall

Pastoral bliss.

Last weekend I finally mustered the gumption to download most of the photos from my PCT bid onto my computer.  I'd been reunited with my laptop the week before with intentions of doing this, but continuously found excuses not to do so:  I've got to do my physical therapy exercises, I should make dinner, I am going to watch one more episode of The Office on Netflix, I'm going to take a nap.  All milquetoast excuses, I know, but I didn't want to admit that deep down I was reluctant to look at all those photos and relive the hike.  In my mind it seems a reminder of failure.

Wee Bee in a rock garden

  I've experienced a range of emotions in the last two months regarding my experiences on the PCT and the abrupt end of my quest to hike the entire 2,650-mile trail in one season.  I was initially bummed to fall behind my hiking buddies, but confident that I'd be back on the trail after some time off for recovery.  As the pain in my body intensified and lingered, I could not even think of getting back on the trail because all I wanted was to be able to take a step without shooting pain throughout my left hip.  I soon became acquiescent to the fact that returning to the trail was either a long shot or impossible.  I tried on patience, resignation, desperation, contentment, sadness, mourning, joy, denial, acceptance, drunkenness, frustration, and zen.  Overall I feel that I've been in a good head space, but I'd be crazy if I didn't feel the whole gamut of emotions after such an intense experience and aftermath.

Good morning new day!

 One emotion I never felt after leaving the trail was pride.  When I would talk to people about feeling sad about leaving the trail, I would inevitably get the response: "You walked 1,100 miles!! You should be so proud of yourself! That's awesome!" I understand why people would tell me this as I would do the same for a friend, in a totally earnest fashion.  I know that response comes from a genuine place, but when I heard it it felt slightly condescending and as if I was being treated like a child.  I know my reactive feelings are ungrounded, ungrateful, and super stubborn, but the last thing I wanted to hear was "Nice try!"  I even knew at the time that friends who would utter those words to me in no way were they trying to placate me but to encourage and support me because, indisputably, 1,100 miles is a long way.  There is a rational part of my brain, after all.  But hearing those words solidified the fact that I was not going to be able to continue hiking, that I hadn't met my goal, that the dream was over (for the time being).  That I had failed.

So many great campsites to be had.

  I've been off the trail for two months now and am just now starting to walk normally, no cane, with only a slight limp that only a physical therapist would notice.  I tire easily.  It's been a long process with highs and lows along the way.  It's depressing to feel my body go from lean, mean walking machine to couch potato, but encouraging and uplifting to know that no permanent damage was done and that I will get back into shape.  While riding this tide of emotions I have not thought too much about my failure on the PCT.  It felt like just too much to handle emotionally when I was already feeling so much.  Reading Facebook updates from friends that I'd been on the trail with, seeing their progress, was bittersweet:  I felt happy for them and sad for me.  (Pity party: table for one!) I was not in a hurry to look back at the photos from my journey.
  I finally got my mitts on my laptop and was confronted with the option to download, review, and edit the photos from my hike.  Normally I'm very excited to look at photos from my adventures, critique my own photography skills, and share them with friends.  In this case I was literally and figuratively dragging my feet.   Finally I hooked up my camera and began loading the thousands of pictures I'd clicked while walking.  Sort of reluctant to look, I sat down to face my trip, the sights I'd seen, the people I met, and the fact that I'm no longer taking pictures of beautiful places because I'm not walking through them.  What I saw was a pleasant surprise.

How could you not want to hike this trail?

  As I assessed the photos I felt a smile grow across my face and a flurry of excitement as I began reliving my trip from the very beginning.  The desert of southern California seems like a long, long time ago and as I looked at the pictures from the first couple of hundred of miles I remember the excitement and nervousness before setting out; aches, pains, sore muscles, blisters, and blistering hot weather; the desert and new friendships in bloom; funny incidents along the trail, and the hard work that was put in to building up the strength and stamina to walk mile after mile, day after day; awesome camp spots and afternoon siestas with a view.  It made me really happy to see the beautiful places I'd traveled to, step by step.  Memories and emotions were evoked by the colorful images popping up on my computer screen.  And I liked it.  I felt like I was getting reacquainted with an old friend; one who had been so close and so special to me at one time but whom I had been separated from. It felt good.

No, seriously...how could you not want to hike here?

I yearn for places like this.

Just another day hiking in paradise.

   I also, for the first time since leaving the trail, felt pride in what I had accomplished.  I looked at the changing landscapes, the mountain peaks, and the mile markers and finally realized that even though I wasn't able to finish what I set out to do, what I had achieved was indeed remarkable!  I walked 1,127 miles in a row! And while it is not the 2,650 I set out to do, it is a freaking long way.  I saw amazing scenery, I carried my world on my back, I fell asleep under the stars for over two months, I walked in complete solitude through some of the most jaw-dropping country that is accessible to (wo)man, I contemplated my own luck while sitting by myself on top of Mt. Whitney and several other mountain passes in the Sierras.... I don't know how else to express myself...I just feel proud.  Sure, my companions are only 200 miles from the Canadian border right now and I am so happy for them.  If I could go back and change something, anything, so that I could have continued hiking I would do it in a minute.  I know I can do it.  But I also look back at what I did accomplish and I have finally given myself permission to feel proud about how far I hiked along the Pacific Crest Trail and the experiences I enjoyed on it.  Not too shabby,WeeBee, not too shabby.....

Another magical moment in time.

See, look how proud I can be! 900 mile marker!

From Mountains to Molehills

 Sometimes my physical therapist treats me while her hair is in curlers.  Sometimes her children are asleep in the next room.  Sometimes we've both had a couple of glasses of wine prior to treatment.  She's almost always in her pajamas. Most of the time we are both laughing uncontrollably.

Just a smattering of photos from our lifetime of friendship...

 You see, I'm living with my physical therapist.  She is also the person in my life that I have no memories without.  As a small child, Beth's family lived one door down from my family on San Vincente St. in Salinas until we moved away.....to Greenwood Pl. which is half a block away from where we began.  We toddled together, posed for first day of kindergarten pictures together, fought over Barbies, did each others' hair, choreographed elaborate dances for everything from Grease and Fame to Jesus Christ Superstsar and Godspell (sometimes on rollerskates, as in the case of Sound of Music), practiced piano lessons together, and often got into the bickering fights that are usually reserved for blood sisters.  I'm fairly certain we walked to school almost everyday together from kindergarten through eighth grade at which point her mother would drop us off at Salinas High School on the way to her teaching job.  Then we lived together for our first two years at UC Santa Barbara.  Since college we have kept in touch sporadically, but no matter how much time passes between conversations we automatically pick up where we left off and are soon enduring fits of laughter and catching each other up on our lives.

I flew down to Southern California a little over a week ago.  Beth had urged me to take advantage of her expertise in physical therapy and stay with her and her family for a visit to boot.  I could feel that my body had finally relaxed enough to be able to have someone work on it.  After seeing the improvement following the visit with physical therapist in Seattle I was anxious to get here and get to work.  Little did I know that healing the pain would involve way more pain.  Oh, the agonizing irony.
  My room here in Orange County doubles as my physical therapy chamber.  I've ousted a 6 year old girl from her room and here is what I see on the walls when falling asleep or being worked on by Beth:  the pinkest of pink paint, three different Justin Bieber posters looking down at me on the single bed, Cinderella and her birds on one wall, a poster with two animated dolphins jumping out of the ocean with the phrase "Making Waves" under them, several quotes from what I assume to be Bieber songs ("Feel it, Believe it, Dream it, Be it"--JB), and the words "Girls should be two things: Classy and Fabulous".  Hello Kitty waves at me from one corner. This makes the Holly Hobby wallpaper I had in my room at Sophia's age seem blase. There is a three story doll house on one side of the bed that my 6 year-old self covets.  The dolls inside resemble exotic Barbie and Ken dolls on steroids.  Tiny white cowgirl boots await their owner to choose them for an outing. It's the 6 year-old American dream.  My 39 year-old self finds it endearing and bizarre at the same time. 

We still laugh just as much....and I still have chocolate on my double chin.

    Beth has been treating me every day I've been here, minus two days of respite.  As ready as I was to be treated upon arriving, I now know what is involved in each treatment and have to brace myself for each round in the Pink Room.  I lay down on the single bed and Beth lays into me with her elbow or forearm, trying to work my tight muscles into any state of relaxation.  Because of my twisted pelvis, many of my muscles froze up and were not used, causing muscles on the opposite side of my body to do all the work.  Beth is "reawakening" and trying to engage muscles that were out of work for many weeks.  Lazy sons of guns. I don't think I can really do justice to how painful this process can be, but at times it feels like my leg is being crushed in a trash compactor.  I'm fairly certain this is not the case, but it sure feels like it.  I look to The Bieb and smiling dolphins for help or sympathy, but he continues to look pouty/sultry and they continue to smile.  Beth relentlessly works on my ground meat muscles while I laugh-cry on the child bed.

I love my physical therapist....

  The best part about this private treatment is that I can really express my true emotions during this treatment without feeling self-conscious.  Sometimes I'm laughing uncontrollably at the mixture of tickling and pain that Beth impinges on my muscles.  Sometimes I'm just squeezing my eyes shut, sucking air through my teeth, spewing everything but curse words ("Mother Scratcher" and "Fa fa fa fa fa fa frick!" are among my favorites---there are children in the house after all), and begging, hoping, and wishing for it all to be done.  I also wonder (and occasionally ask aloud):  Beth, when did you get such pointy elbows? Beth, when did you sharpen your ulna? Beth, are you paying me back for being a brat when we were kids together? It turns out that none of these are the case, it just feels like some sort of punishment for something I don't even know I've done.
  I don't think I'm the only one benefiting from these physical therapy sessions:  Beth is constantly laughing with and at me.  As painful as it is for me, we are having a blast.  She can laugh, giggle, inflict more pressure, tell me to buck up, and say all the things she'd ever want to say to regular patients.  It's pretty much a win-win.

Good night, roomies!! 

  The good news is that the therapy is working.  Between daily sessions with Beth and a regular exercise regimen, I'm slowly working my muscles back into shape and waking them up from their slumber.  My limp is ebbing away at a leisurely pace, but easing nonetheless. I'm awed that I could go from feeling so strong and on top of the world, hiking 20 miles a day from mountain to mountain, to feeling so weak and incompetent (*not to be confused with incontinent, y'all*) and feeling fatigued after stepping onto a curb 20 times in a row.  It's incredibly frustrating and disheartening.  The thing that makes all of this bearable is that none of this is permanent damage.  I can and will heal from this with no lasting effects and I WILL be able to finish the Pacific Crest Trail, go on my Denali Ladies Ski trips every spring, raft the Grand Canyon, bicycle-tour Europe or any other dang thing I want to do.  Eventually. I feel so grateful for that!  No, this is not what I had in mind for this summer, looking at photos from my hike are bittersweet, but in the bigger picture I had a grand experience, have made new friends, have had the chance to spend really quality time with old friends and see some really kick-ass music.

  So for now I'm staying in Southern California, enjoying the company of my bestest friend, hanging with her family, cooking dinner for them, doing my exercises and enduring cruel/kind treatments, making jokes so bad that 6 year-olds roll their eyes at me, and falling asleep under the watchful gaze of The Bieb.  I'm also taking applications from anyone who would like for me to convalesce at their house.  I'm beyond the point where I need someone to get every glass of wine for me, but am still rather stationary and useless.  How could you resist?

Twisted Sister

  It turns out that having a twisted pelvis is hilarious! Not just giggle funny.  Not conspiratorial cackle funny.  Way beyond a polite teehee.  I'm talking smiling so hard it hurts, eyes closed, no sound, can't catch your breath, whooping, potentially pants peeing, stomach clenching, tear producing, you know you shouldn't be laughing but you can't help yourself gut-busting laughter.  Who knew?
  Actually, I predicted this act of inappropriate chortling before I sat down with the physical therapist.  Five out of six health care providers that I've been to since my injury have witnessed me break down in tears and/or uncontrollable spasms of raucous laughter.  I can't help it, this unforeseen affliction is intertwined with my emotions to a degree that any and all treatment is not just a physical adjustment but a trip to the psychologist as well....whether those care givers intend it or not.  Perhaps I should have tipped more....
  My first three attempts at pain relief were in S. Lake Tahoe.  Painfully limping into the massage therapists' studio I was fairly certain that a massage wasn't going to cure me, but I thought it might loosen up my frozen muscles and, really, since when did a massage hurt?  I waited in the swanky spa waiting room looking at skin products I would never allow myself to spend so much money on and felt somewhat out of place.  Once ushered into the room, the massage therapist was very welcoming and friendly and put me at ease right away.  When she asked me what she could help me with and I began explaining to her about hiking the PCT and the extreme pain I was in I just burst into tears.  At that point I was just freshly off the trail and was very distressed at falling behind my thru-hiking pals and worried about how long it would take for me to get back on the trail.  I had, after all, dreamed and planned for this trip for many years.  So as I described the pain and the trip I just spontaneously began blubbering.  I don't cry easily or often, much less in front of strangers. so I cried, apologized, justified and laid down on the table and shut my dough hole.  The masseuse was very understanding and did an excellent job of not making me feel like a nitwit.  The massage was nice, but not miracle-working.
  The next step I took in seeking relief was going to a chiropractor.  I walked in with no appointment and he agreed to see me immediately.  I think he could hear the desperation in my voice.  Again, while explaining my predicament I got the quiver lip and cracked voice and had to bow my head for a second.  It's like I was already mourning not being on the trail.  I regained my composure and he took me through a battery of tests. At that point almost everything caused sharp pain, but I sucked in my breath and sucked it up, letting him know what hurt and what was OK.  But here's where things get quirky:  when I'm anticipating pain or when I'm in shock and pain I react with sheer unadulterated laughter.  As the doctor was pressing on my taut muscles, he might as well have been tickling me under the arm.  Seriously.  He looked at me like I was a) crazy, b) crazy, and c) crazy.  Between shrieks of laughter I assured him that he was not hurting me excessively and that I was OK, but that, yes, that was a tender spot. Only one minute later I was weeping with pain, not laughter. He took it in stride and gave me his diagnosis.  As I left his office I thanked him profusely and went to shake his hand and he opened his arms to give me a hug.  I accepted it gratefully as it felt like we'd been through a lot in just 50 minutes together.  He chuckled when I told him he was better than "Cats."
  The very next day I went to see an acupuncturist.  Again, anticipating an emotional explanation of my situation, I was nearly able to get the words "I may cry" out before I started crying while describing my journey and ailments.  Having had acupuncture treatments in the past, I know that they often tap into emotional outlets and I knew this injury was very closely attached to disappointment, pride, sadness, and some fear.  As the practitioner placed the needles in my body I tried to relax.  And then she hit The Spot.  Whatever channel she tapped in to, it let the tears flow freely.  She looked concerned.  I lay on the table weeping and reassured her I was totally fine.  No, really.
  I did not get any further treatment, other than a shot of honky-tonk, an injection of old-time, a splash of bluegrass, and a dose of cajun, until I got here to Seattle where I've been on the down low with friends formerly from Alaska.  I found a sliding-scale acupuncture clinic and made appointment.  I made it through the interview process just fine, but once the needles started going in the emotions started flowing out.  As I lay in a comfortable recliner with a total stranger using me as a pincushion, my tear ducts turned on and the waterworks began.  Again I tried to assure the woman that I was just fine....really.
  Finally, with high accolades from my hosts, I found my way to a physical therapist who could see me on short notice.  As my three tiny hooves (don't forget the cane!) made their way up the stairs into his work space I prepped myself for an outburst of emotions.  My body seemed to be finally, finally, starting to heal and loosen up, but I was anticipating the quakey chin and visions of a trail so far away that it made me sad.  I hobbled to the table, hopped up onto it (a la "Young Frankenstein"-style hopping...if you know what I mean), and told Mike the PT that I very well may cry.  He seemed amiable to this.  The appointment proceeded.  I made it through the introductions with nary a pout or wetting of the cheek.  Everything felt in check and straight forward.
  Here's the skinny:  somewhere along the trail my pelvis started twisting.  Yup, just what it sounds like.  My left hip twisted forward while the right went back resulting in my left leg being 1/4" longer than my right.  This caused my horrendous limp because essentially all the muscles on the left side of my body, from my lower back down my leg, threw up their hands and quit working.  They weren't happy with the working conditions and went on strike. Froze up.  This caused my right side to have to pick up the slack, compensate, cross the picket line and become the scabs of the muscle world. My left side didn't want to budge and my brain was powerless to fix the problem.  As a matter of fact, my brain had been wooed by my left side and totally forgotten that it had any say in the matter.  Oh powerless brain...so easily wooed.
  So what Mike the PT did was reprogram my brain, remind it that it is in charge, by pressing into muscular channels along my back and legs.  No problem, he said.  As he delved into some deep tissues and put pressure on some extremely high strung muscles, my hysteria function was triggered.  I started out giggling and proceeded into full-fledged belly laughter as if I'd just been dosed by the dentist with laughing gas.  I kept apologizing and he assured me it was no problem.  The more I tried to stop laughing the more I laughed.  Tears were streaming down my face but not because of sadness, longing, or even necessarily pain. It was certainly tender in those poor tense muscles, but it just genuinely tickled.... I think it's one way I process pain and panic.  When you see a man reach under your hip bone to reach a buried psoas muscle, one can kinda freak out.  As my more superficial belly muscles contracted with my gales of laughter, his fingers would be popped out of the deeper area he was trying to reach. "Sorry!" (again) "No problem." (he waited until the current spasm receded and reached back in for the aggravated muscle). I truly tried to take deep breaths and calm down, but the laughter kept winning.  And by gosh, it was super fun.  Laughing is fun.  I just kind of felt silly for being the only one in the room having a fit.  Ah well, Mike took it well.
  The good news is that I walked out of that building with two legs the same length.  Slowly, and with precision and still needing the cane ever so slightly, I am walking with a nearly normal gait. I've got exercises to practice to strengthen those panicky left side muscles that froze into place and wouldn't budge for weeks on end.  With (more) patience, practice, and PT I'll be back to normal eventually.  No permanent damage and this incident shouldn't affect future physical ventures.  Yay.  I've come to accept that I won't be getting back on the PCT this season.  Tough one.  But I'm grateful that my body will recover and that I will be able to finish it in the future.  Question is:  start where I left off or start all over again?  That's one to ponder....
  I believe this injury was the result of gear failure.  My pack was extremely heavy and worn out and was adjusted by a well-meaning hiker just as I left Yosemite.  Not an hour later I was fidgeting with it, it was cutting into my shoulders, and I was constantly shifting it while walking.  I never could get it back to just as it was for the first 942 miles which was good enough.  Also my shoes wore out on that 8 day stretch from Yosemite to S. Lake Tahoe and my feet and knees were taking the brunt of that piled on top of the uncomfortable, heavy pack.  Can't go back and change it, but I can be prepared for this kind of thing in the future.
  I can say that that trip to Mike the PT was one of the most hilarious doctor appointments of my life.

Cane and Abled

As I sit with the doors of the Gospel Ship wide open, trying to catch a breeze, Dirk Powell is giving a workshop and playing banjo about 30 yards away. The Gospel Ship is a van that has a stenciled picture of the Carter Family on the bow, also named for one of their songs, and is the tour rig for the Foghorn Stringband and my home base for the last week. If you’re reading this in hopes to hear how my hike on the Pacific Crest Trail is going, go ahead and sneak out of here now, because all I can report on is my journey in healing. No longer can I relate tales of glorious mountains, clear alpine streams, and the cultish family that is the PCT community. Now I can relate tales of sitting still, being patient with myself, and trying to accept the situation I find myself in. Boooooooooring! Don’t feel bad.... go ahead, leave.... inner journeys are dull compared to fantastic tales of climbing mountains at midnight. Still, and all, there is a journey still happening in my life and I’m trying to adjust to it, understand it, and accept it for what it is. I even try to be grateful for it in it’s own right. Dammit.
It turns out that during my 8 day hike from Yosemite to South Lake Tahoe I developed severe tendinitis and fasciitis in my left hip/IT band. All I could really do was take it easy. Yes, apply heat or cold (heat felt better), get acupuncture, try massage, up my magnesium.... all of these were tried coupled with extreme sitting and taking it easy. My gracious hosts in Tahoe made me feel welcome and right at home, but I felt like a useless lump of coal and felt I should move on after nearly 2 weeks in their home. My friend Nadine invited me to fly up to Portland to join her for some music festivals that her band, Foghorn Stringband, would be playing in. Because music is a passion of mine and when I’m not in the backcountry you can often find me at a music festival and because Nadine is one of my favorite people on Earth, I accepted her offer. Warning her that I’d be a useless guest, I got on a plane in Reno and found myself at music central in Oregon.
Over two weeks later, at my 4th festival, I’ve seen hours and hours of live music. From on stage at a festival, to bar gigs, to house concerts and backyard jams all of it has been amazing. Not only have I enjoyed music made by my friends, but made new friends and heard new bands that melted my face, as the kids say. I haven’t been able to dance which is a crying shame, but there is something about a backstage pass at a big festival that makes you feel like one of the cool kids. After being in Portland for a week, I hit the road with the members of Cajun Country Revival for a mini-tour of the Northwest.
While, yes, I’m having the time of my life there is certainly an underlying current of sadness. During a blistering mandolin solo or rousing Cajun version of “Lucille” I may look down at my flip-flop clad foot and suddenly have tears in my eyes. My feet look horrid: the hard-earned calluses that developed over a thousand miles of hiking have dried up and are cracking in an unsightly manner. A small toenail on my left foot completely changed shape and texture and is a constant reminder of my time on the trail. I look at my tiny hooves, their sad shape, and am reminded of all those days on the trail, the painful blisters I endured to get those calluses, and what curiosity must’ve happened over the months of walking to make a nail arch up on itself like that. So while the music rocks and rolls, my mind often wanders back to the trail, to the hot days of the Southern California desert, to the jaw-dropping views in the High Sierras, to the beloved routine of walking, eating, map consulting, and camping everyday and the incredible simplicity of it all. While people around me are dancing and smiling, I’ve secretly shed tears to mourn the end of my Pacific Crest journey. At least for 2012. It’s very confusing to feel so incredibly grateful and happy to be where I am and to also be constantly reminded by my dreadful looking feet that I’m here because I’m not there.
Not having begun the Pacific Crest Trail in any kind of effort to “find myself”, “lose myself”, or “look for meaning” it was a very physical journey for me. The physical demands of the trail, the effect it had on my feet, the knee injury I overcame...it was work every step of the way, as enjoyable as it was. My journey is not over by a long shot, but it has come to a physical halt and is now more about my emotional travels. Of course I’m still on the move, physically, but now I’m focusing more on patience with my body, being at peace with not being able to be on the trail, accepting what I can’t change or hurry. At those times when I am undoubtedly happy and in a good place with friends and amazing music, I’m trying to not focus on why I am here, why I’m not hiking the PCT. Sometimes I’m better at this than others. I also think that mourning the end of my hike and inability to finish this season is just fine. While I don’t dwell on it, I periodically let the tears trickle because the bottom line is that while I know how lucky I am to have amazing second choice options and very supportive friends and family, my dream of thru-hiking the PCT during my 40th year has been aborted.
As far as the hip goes, I’m finally, starting to see progress. It’s honestly been weeks and weeks of pretty severe pain and a goofy looking limp, but things seem to be loosening up in the area. At a festival in Demming, WA, a friend who used to be a Physical Therapist saw my awkward gait and recommended I start using a cane or a crutch so that I could relieve the pressure and pain in the affected hip. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? I picked up a cane at a Walgreen’s and immediately felt far more mobile. I really feel this will quicken the healing process. Plus, the cane is camouflage and now has a Foghorn Stringband sticker on it with their signature skull and crossed banjos, so I think it’s pretty cool. As far as canes go. I’m relieved to be able to move without pain and confident that my recovery is actually going in the right direction.
While my tiny hooves have not been able to aid in my travels, the Gospel Ship has provided my mode of transportation and good times. Being able to travel with friends is a blessing, but having those friends be amazing musicians and performers is beyond lucky. If I can’t be on the trail, I can think of nowhere I’d rather be than sailing on to the next adventure than in the comfy, sometimes crowded, often too warm, good natured, instrument-filled vessel on her way to the next festival.

*Bands you should know: Foghorn Stringband, Cajun Country Revival, The Cactus Blossoms, Kitty, Daisy, & Lewis
Caleb Klauder Country Band, Dirk Powell.
You won't regret it.

Healings, Nothing More Than Healings....

  Healing is boring.
  Healing is getting in my way.  Healing is something I'd rather do in the winter when sitting on the couch with cup after cup of tea is my preferred activity anyway.  Healing takes patience and stillness and for a girl who considers it a luxury to spend two nights in a row in the same place, this is a task. Healing feels like a very grown-up thing to do and in the last couple of months there is not much that has made me feel like a grown-up.  But healing is what I need to do if I have any hope of hiking to Canada.  Canada, you've never felt so far away.....
  I know some of you won't believe this, but I am at a loss for words.  Oddly, being  stationary and in pain is not whipping my creativity and gift for gab into a frenzy.  I will do the best I can to describe my predicament and feelings.  For the first time since I began the Pacific Crest Trail I'm not totally content with where I am.  Not totally living in the now.  I now look at pictures that my friends are posting on Facebook and wish I could be there, jealous of what they are doing.  Don't get me wrong, the place where I literally am is gorgeous and has perfect weather.  Lake Tahoe is a destination vacation spot for lots of people and I've somehow met the nicest, most generous couple in the whole area who have welcomed me, let me have the run of their house, and loaned me their beater car so I can get around town if I want to.  I'm very grateful and fortunate in that aspect.
  It's mentally and physically that I'm not where I want to be and I'm just doing my best to keep my head up and have patience.  How very grown-up.  Unfortunately my annoying hip pain that was troubling me as I walked into Tahoe nearly two weeks ago (!) has blossomed into full-blown, full-time searing pain.  I left S. Lake Tahoe while the pain in my hip was still but a dull roar and took myself off the trail 32 miles later after limping, lurching, and enduring sharp shooting pains that left me unable to sleep or walk.  This was obviously not something that I could walk off.
  So while my friends continued to walk north toward our mutual goal, I made the very adult choice to take more time off and let my hip get better.  The only thing is that it hasn't gotten better.  After 3 days with family friends in Tahoe City, I'm on day 5 in South Lake and as seized up as ever with no signs of improvement.  Standing up from a sitting or lying position has become an activity I dread and I'm halfway surprised I haven't ripped the towel rack off the wall in the bathroom from when I instinctively grab it as the inevitable pain shoots through my hip when getting up from the toilet.  I have this mental image of one of those jaggedy cartoon caption bubbles from Batman (the old Batman show) on my hip that say BAM! or POW! when these foreseeable moments of pain shoot through me.  Once the pointy, sharp pain has cleared the path, the tight, hot omnipresent pain settles in, allowing me to move, but move like Estelle Getty in her later years.  It's hard to imagine myself, mere weeks ago, climbing mountain passes and walking 20 miles a day.  Now I'm lucky to get from the bedroom to the kitchen without incident.  Sigh.
  In the last 3 days I've been to a massage therapist, an applied kineseologist (I'm not certain how to spell that, but Windows wants to replace it with "Kremlinologist" and I think that would send the wrong message), and an acupuncturist.  The kineseologist has provided the most relief even if it was just emotional and mental relief.  Through a series of tests that had me crying with hysterical laughter (sometimes my reaction to physical pain--it's quite hilarious....well, at least to me. The doctor looked quite confused as to whether I was in pain or not.) and pain, but he determined that there is nothing wrong with  my hip ball and socket: the joint is OK.  I do, however, have a severe case of tendinitis and fasciaitis (again with the spelling, but you get the point...it's definitely not a case of "fascism").  He said he hasn't seen so much inflammation in many years, so I've got that going for me....which is nice.  The GOOD NEWS is that this will heal.  There will be no long-lasting, permanent damage.  The BAD NEWS is that there is no real time frame for the healing process.  I'm already doing all the right things and I've seen no progress toward getting off the toilet in a pain-free manner.  Also, I have no time frame for when I'll be able to get back on the trail.  That is a far off goal for me now...I just want to be able to walk normally again first.  I just want to be able to wake up in the morning, after a good night's sleep, and not have to anticipate an unwanted, painful contraction of my hip muscles.  I want to be able to hop out of bed, get out of a chair, or off the motherscratchin' toilet,  for Pete's sake, without crying out in pain and sucking air through my teeth.  I'm not looking for sympathy, good people, just telling you how it is. This too shall pass, I just wish it would pass a little quicker because it's frankly exhausting being in pain so much of the time.
  So here I am in South Tahoe.  I have to give a shout out to my hosts, Bob and Michelle, who just met me last week and have made me feel incredibly at home, relaxed, and welcome.  I'm hoping for an open adoption.  I'm trying to earn my keep by keeping them well-fed.  After months of heating water for instant food for a party of one, it truly is a joy to cook real, healthy food in a spacious, beautiful kitchen for people who are appreciative to not have to cook after getting home from work. (See how positive I am?)
  I try not to think about where I would be if I'd been able to continue hiking.  Oddly, I don't think about the trail as much as you might think.  I think because I have to muster courage to get out of a chair at this point, the trail is not a huge concern.  It is a little painful and bittersweet to see updates from my friends I'd been hiking with along the trail and see the progress they've made.  At this point, when I do return to the trail, I'll be weeks behind anybody I know and my chances of making it to Canada before there is a bunch of snow on the ground in Washington are pretty slim. I may consider skipping ahead so that I can reach Canada before winter hits and then coming back to finish the section I'll have to skip.  This sort of breaks my heart as I really love the idea of and set out to walk a continuous line of footsteps from Mexico to Canada.  It would really change my entire trip and how I feel about it.  Again, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
  For now, I'm sort of playing everything by ear, day to day.  I'm happy and comfortable where I am and Bob and Michelle haven't kicked me out yet, so that's good.  It's difficult for me to ask for help from people I know well much less new friends, but I'm trying to take them at their word that I'm not a nuisance and they're not sick of me laying uselessly around their home and whinging about my hip.  We'll see.  Bob just told me that one of his favorite things about me is that I'm not contagious.  Another thing I've got going for me.  My folks are at the ready to come up to Tahoe and pick me up. It's extremely lucky for me to have options of where I can recoup and close by options at that.  Initially I wanted to be close to the trail as I had high hopes of returning to it quickly...those hopes have been tucked away in my brand new pack, next to my brand new shoes, waiting patiently. The trail seems very far away at this point....
  For the most part, my spirits are in good shape.  I am relieved that there aren't tumors in my hip or something wrong that would require surgery (yes, I'm at the point where I think of worse-case scenarios to maintain my positive outlook....it could be much worse).  My trail mindset and the ritual of trail life is a distant memory....two weeks on my ass make it seem unlikely that I ever walked 1,127 miles though I know it's true.  I don't think I've really processed the whole PCT aspect of this injury and the consequences of it.  I do know that if I'd replaced my pack and shoes just a little earlier that this may have been avoided, but there's no use on dwelling on that fact since what's done is done.  I occasionally have a pity party for one when I have to move around:  being in pain for this long is exhausting and frustrating mentally as well physically.  But at some point I know I'm going to start feeling better and I've been proactive as far as trying to diagnose and treat what ails me, so what else can I do but sit back, enjoy reading books, watch the trees and Mount Talac out the window, sit in the sun on the deck, go sweat in the sauna and follow it up with epsom salts in my bath, put on a movie, and think about what I'll cook for dinner.  All things considered, life ain't too bad.
  But I dream of putting all this grown-up, responsible stuff to the wayside and returning to my childish ways on the trail:  eating a Snickers bar for breakfast, skipping across rocks or balancing on a log to cross a creek, making a fort every night to sleep in, watching butterflies have tickle fights, walking through forests made of giant unicorn horns, being filthy dirty and dusty all day everyday, eating my lunch on the ground while ants make a playground out of me (I'm a giant!), considering "Nutella" and "Candy" distinct food groups, delighting in the color scheme of the wildflowers on a hillside, digging holes to poop in.  No responsibility, no reason to dress up, if it's not in my pack on my back I don't need it: I miss this.  I miss the feeling of being content.  I miss living 100% in the Now.
  But I will be patient.  I will be grateful for what I do have.  I will try to make the best out of a bad situation.  I will go with the flow.  I will heal, boring as it may be.

Oh The Humanity!

Yosemite. The weekend before the 4th of July. It feels as if all of humanity has arrived to enjoy the great outdoors of this popular National Park and for a girl who has spent the past 70-something days living in the backcountry it feels extremely crowded.
  As I hiked toward the Tuolumne Meadows area of the Park from Donohue Pass I was well aware of the change in the air. For the first 750 miles of the trip (mas o menos), I could count the number of day hikers or southbound hikers on two hands. The PCT was mainly clogged with people headed north with a very long way to go. We met in towns and leap-frogged each other on the trail, but we were all headed in the same direction. At Mt. Whitney that all changed: we encountered our first John Muir Trail (JMT) hikers. Most JMTers hike from north to south, beginning in the Yosemite Valley and 250 miles later finishing on the top of Mt. Whitney. Thus the sudden influx of traffic on the PCT since the PCT and the JMT trails are one and the same for a majority of those 250 miles. From out of nowhere hikers with giant packs, heavy leather boots, and a few extra pounds on their bellies were breathily greeting us PCTers on the trail while we verily bounded with our relatively small packs, light weight sneakers, and 700-miles-under-our-belts bodies over 12,000 foot mountain passes.
  I've had a couple of weeks to get used to this trickle of people who are not PCT hikers. But approaching Tuolumne Meadows brought on an entirely different slice of humanity: day hikers with tiny backpacks and white sneakers, fisherman with nothing but fly rods, joggers with pink pigtails, piercings, and tattoos who look at you like you're in their way. Don't they know I've been on this trail for 942 miles? Don't they know they are on my trail? So as I approached Tuolumne with the excitement one always feels when her parents are meeting her and there is promise of gobs of food, I was feeling anxious about the hoards of people about to encroach my idyllic world. This was Yosemite after all... in peak season: bring on the chaos.
  The Tuolumne Meadows Store and Grill area was predictably insane: families streaming out the doors with hamburgers and ice cream cones, hikers with bulky packs frantically inhaling calories, shuttle buses idling in the parking lot, and no one really watching where they're going.  This sort of crowd would have me bristling on a normal day much less one where I'm emerging from my blissful backcountry sabatical of the high Sierras.  However, I found my parents and fellow PCTers and in short order the giant bagel sandwich in my face eased my anxiety riddled brow.  People? What people?
  My folks and I stayed in the enormous Tuolumne Meadows campground with hundreds of other car campers and mostly they stared in awe as I continued to consume calorie after calorie.  Besides walking, eating is what I do best right now. It's insane. Eat everything in sight and my ribs are still sticking out and my britches hang on my bony hips.  But I digress. My parents left the next day and I secured a spot in the backpacker walk-in campground for a day of R & R.  I wrote postcards and when I ventured to the Grill for a soft serve cone I immediately returned to the relative sanctuary of my picnic table for peace and quiet. The humanity and busy-ness was too much.
  On the trip to the store area, I ran across a National Park Service volunteer.  He was a gentleman who was acting as campground host for the summer and living in the campground in his RV with his wife and small dog.  I inquired if there was anywhere available to plug in my cell phone and camera battery for recharging and he invited me to leave them with him and he'd be happy to charge them for me. I found this extremely nice since if he went out of his way like that for everyone, he'd have a full time recharging station: this is a campground of 350 sites plus the walk-in sites.  I happily handed over my technology and promised to be back in an hour.  What a nice man!
 Upon my return, Mike was sitting around his campfire with a glass of red wine. He got up and helped me gather my belongings and said his wife was interested in speaking with me about the PCT.  She returned from a walk with the dog and I answered her questions about the trail, why I was doing it, yes, I feel safe, and no I haven't read "Wild."  As I profusely thanked them for the electricity, Kim invited me to come back for a shower.  My first instinct was to gratefully decline the offer....but then I thought about it: I was about to launch into an 8-day stint to South Lake Tahoe and I would not have a chance to really be clean until then. I went back to my campsite, ate dinner, and decided to take them up on the offer of a shower in their RV.  So as campers flocked to the Campfire Program, scurried to the public restrooms to wash their faces with icy cold water, and tended to their s'mores, I returned to the RV and was treated to a hot shower. It was heavenly.
 The kindness of these campground hosts got me to thinking....not only were they not burnt out or jaded on people, the amount of people, or the routine of campground life, they were still excited to meet people, to help out a hiker on her journey.  I've worked tourist jobs like this my whole life and I know how tiresome it can become to deal with travelers who seem to leave their common sense at home most of the time. But these volunteers, after years of service, still found genuine interest in my journey and opened their home to me.  As I emerged clean and glowing from the RV we exchanged goodbyes and Kim sent me back to my site with a cold Coors Light for a nightcap. I felt a bit smug walking among the common campers.
 And then I started to think about the mass amounts of people I was surrounded by.  These are my fellow citizens (and people from all over the world, for that matter) who are using our national resources for family time, time away from the TV and internet, and time in nature.  Sure, most of them never get more than a mile from a road, but still, they are out utilizing one of our greatest national treasures: our National Parks.  They may not be hiking 2,650 miles or even 5, but they are enjoying time together, sleeping in tents, and experiencing nature on their terms, not mine. As I examined this perspective I became less claustrophobic of this crowded campground and more appreciative that these people were here at all, out of their comfort zone, and "roughing it" for the weekend.  And if Yosemite Park has to endure 4.5 million visitors a year, feel like a parking lot at times, and take the brunt of park visitation then there is this silver lining:  it leaves most other Parks free for people like me to find solace, peace, and isolation.  Let Yosemite be the crowded area. Let Yosemite wow visitors from the comfort of their SUVs.  I'll be in Kings Canyon or Sequoia Park away from the crowds and mass of humanity.  I happily realized that there is something for everyone.
  The next day I hiked away from Tuolumne Meadows.  The trail was crowded....for 1/2 a mile.  The people thinned out and in no time I was back in trail mode, enjoying wilderness mere minutes from the roads and chaos of Tuolumne.  I felt lucky and grateful for the kindness of Mike and Kim, the campground hosts. I felt more of a connection with the faces I saw on the trail: we're all just out here to get away from it all, no matter what lengths we go to to do that.  I was happy to see a number of young folks out with their parents with backpacks on....right on.  And then I happily hiked away from all of them, to my happy place miles from nowhere.
  That experience was over a week ago now and I am enjoying a relaxing couple of days off in South Lake Tahoe.  As generous as I left Tuolumne feeling about my fellow Americans, one of them deposited a nasty cold upon me and that, added on top of one of the arguably most difficult sections of the trail, contributed to the last 8-day stretch of hiking being some of the hardest of my trek.  You know when you're sick and you get winded just getting up from the couch to go to the kitchen for a cup of tea? I continued to hike 20 miles a day through that. I don't know how I did it and it was exhausting.  On top of that, my pack was ridiculously heavy with food (it's impossible to carry enough calories!) and my pack AND my shoes gave out during this week.  I can feel every rock on the trail and my pack is now considered a torture device, leaving bruises and chaffing to prove it.  New pack and shoes will be delivered next Saturday!! Needless to say, I had my own pity party and I listened to my iPod a lot to distract me. Fortunately, though one of the toughest sections, it was also one of the most beautiful sections and there was Trail Magic along the way to bolster my spirits with soda and fruit and junk food.  I am staying with definite Trail Angels, friends of friends who have generously taken me into their sanctuary of a home, and am taking an unprecedented 2 DAYS OFF IN A ROW to recoup from the exhaustion of my sickness and nurse a sore hip flexor muscle.  I'm pretty dang happy. I'll be back on the trail tomorrow and while I'll be missing my English hiking buddies that I've been with through the Sierras, I have a feeling we'll meet up again and I'm looking forward to being back on Wee Time.

Tiny Hooves Travel At Night

  It's not often that I set my alarm clock for 11:25 PM, but that is what I did on June 14th.  It was 6 in the evening and I was snuggling into my sleeping bag near the ranger station at Crabtree Meadow at the base of Mt. Whitney, the tallest peak in the Lower 48 states.  Myself and five fellow hikers had decided to leave camp at midnight and climb the 14, 505 foot peak to arrive in time to watch the sun rise.  After several hours of sleep it wasn't the alarm but the tell-tale sound of zippers zipping and unzipping that alerted me that my companions were awake and our departure was nigh.  The night was pitch black and the clouds of earlier in the evening had moved on to reveal a sky full of stars and our very own Milky Way.  I hurriedly dressed, got my pack together, and crossed a dewy meadow to meet my cohorts and choke down a quick snack.
  My excitement was palatable as 6 headlamps cut the darkness and we began our night hike by crossing a creek on a stack of piled logs.  Our elevation was 10,371 feet and while we'd been at a high elevation for several days, we decided to set a reasonable pace so that we could stay together as a group in the dark night while we climbed higher.  There is something indescribably exciting about setting out on an adventure in the middle of the night.  With just the beams of light from our headlamps illuminating a small patch of trail in front of our feet, we set out on unfamiliar turf, not seeing a single tree, brook, lake, or rock wall surrounding us....just knowing that we were about to ascend 4,000 feet to see what we could see.
  The group picked up a seventh member as another headlamp was seen bobbing down the trail, trying to catch up with us.  We briskly marched down the trail amiably chattering back and forth about everything from PCT related topics to movies and, of course, food.  Occasionally we'd hear water running or see a pitch black void to our right that indicated we were near water and someone would pull out a map and announce, "We must be at Timberline Lake." or "This is the outlet for Guitar Lake!" Soon, though, we began ascending in earnest and the chatter was reduced to just a few while the rest of us used the conversation to distract ourselves from the increasing lack of oxygen and incline of the trail.  Spirits were high.
  We traveled for hours this way, not seeing any elevation gain, or anything else for that matter,  but feeling it in our lungs and legs.  Periodically we would stop to catch our breaths and everybody would turn off our headlamps and we'd stare up in awe at a California sky unpolluted by city lights and lit only by billions of stars.  Those were possibly the only times when all 7 of us were silent at once, in awe at the skyscape above us.  It was too cold to stay still for long and we'd soon switch the lamps back on, shocking our eyes which had adjusted to the darkness, and continue climbing the massive mountain.  Sometimes the trail was smooth dirt but the higher we got it turned to small, unstable rocks, and then we found ourselves climbing over small boulders.  It was uncanny not being able to see anything around us, most notably any evidence of our progress up the mountain.  Beams of light only lit the trail and demonstrated the black void that awaited us if we took a misstep too close to the edge of the trail.  The darkness dropped away into unimaginable vastness that we didn't want to discover.  The trail hugged the mountainside and was sometimes cut right into it.  More than once we compared it to the route in the mountains that the travelers took in Lord of the Rings though we didn't have the option of the Mines of Moria as a backup to our destination.

This is what all the fuss was about.

 Finally, after hours of hiking and climbing we were rewarded with some evidence of our efforts:  near the top of the mountain there are jutting spires of rock that form "windows" between them.  While we'd been on the west side of the mountain the moon had been in the east and we had finally climbed high enough to get our first peek in that direction and were rewarded with a view of the town lights from Lone Pine far below us and a perfect sliver of yellow moon just yearning for a woman and a pint of beer to be perched in its crook.  It looked amazingly close as did the stars.  Getting some perspective on the progress we'd made pushed us to pick up our pace despite the high elevation and we scrambled over rocks and raced the ending night to the top of the mountain.  Very near the top we began to see red light in the east and the cohesive group scattered like spilled mercury on the floor and we individually scrambled as fast as we could to get to the summit before the sun broke the horizon.  The boys naturally outpaced the girls and we heard hoots and hollers as they each reached the benchmark at the top of the mountain.  We girls flew as fast as the thin air would allow us and shortly after the deep male cries pierced the silence our higher shouts celebrated our summit success.
  All seven compadres at the top of Mt. Whitney and a red/orange glow in the east, we settled ourselves on huge slabs of boulders to watch the show.  There was a slight wind at the top, but it was enough to remind us that we were at 14,505 feet and that it was downright cold out.  We each delved into our backpacks and pulled out puffy, insulating layers as well as wind-blocking layers, hats, neck gaiters, and mittens.  Then we stuffed ourselves into our sleeping bags and sat facing east, ready for nature's hike-in movie theater to put on its show.  We sat looking at each other with big eyes, huge grins, and giggles as we prepared to reap the benefit of our all-night expedition.
     Around 5:30 AM, someone excitedly shouted, "There it is!!" and we all saw it:  a small bump of neon pink breaking the horizon which strangely looked as if it were below us.  We whooped and hollered and welcomed a new day.  Cameras went crazy like the paparazzi at the Academy Awards.  Perma-grin made my teeth cold, but I didn't care.  I sat on a rock outcropping with only my face peeking out of my downy sleeping bag and bulky layers and enjoyed Mother Nature's laser show (no Pink Floyd needed).  As the rosy light turned gold we were able to see for the first time the endless miles of peaks below us as well as crystal clear, blue lakes scattered among the granite landscape.  I felt giddy as my surroundings were illuminated and I could fully appreciate how far my companions and I had hiked in the middle of the night.  It was like I'd been on a treasure hunt and was finally rewarded with the chest of gold medallions rather than just tearing into a present on Christmas morning and having the anticipation over in a matter of seconds. This reward was well earned.
     As the brilliant sunrise colors faded and regular daylight took over, the clan dispersed over the breadth of the summit. Whitney has a rather broad, flat space at her peak and most folks chose to walk around and look at various views from other directions or to hunker somewhere out of the wind.  Three of us just tightened the drawstring on our sleeping bags and laid down for some well-earned rest, not wanting to breach the warmth of our cocoons nor admit that the sunrise was over by moving elsewhere.  Eventually, in ones, twos, and threes, my friends left the summit but I was reluctant to leave.  I sat alone on a perch looking north, eating snacks and trying to absorb the morning and the views and the feeling of amazement as much as possible.  I had the entire summit to myself for quite a while and when the day hikers who had come up from the Whitney Portal to the east arrived I knew my time at the top of the Lower 48 was over and began my descent.
 

The well insulated paparazzi. 

  The hike down made me feel like a million dollars.  It was a brand new hike.  Terrain I'd literally never seen.  The scary, dark drop-offs that looked like they went into an abyss were really just steep mountainsides made of boulders.  The surrounding mountains gave a neighborly feel to the previously isolated peak.  Rather than just a beam of electric light in an endless darkness with no reference points, the sun showed me just how far I'd climbed in the night and the equally awesome and impressive peaks surrounding Whitney. Not only did the daylight provide perspective on Whitney and her surroundings, but the trail as well.  Instead of blindly descending on an invisible route, I was able to see the trail ahead of me, bends and switchbacks, and where I began in the valley below.  It was as if I hiked two totally separate trails: one in the night and one nine hours later.

So this is what we couldn't see....

  Not only was the scenery and sense of perspective different, but the air got thicker and thicker on the way down and at one point I was literally running down the mountain.  It felt incredible! Not carrying a full pack, going downhill in a giddy mood, and getting more oxygen to my lungs and muscles with each step had me smiling from ear to ear and periodically stopping in my tracks to just BE and take in my rocky surroundings.  Who knows if I'll ever be back on Mt. Whitney, but I wanted to remember this moment, this day.  I passed hikers on their way up, moving slow and trying to catch their breath and tried to be encouraging and not seem like I was gloating to be floating down the mountain carefree and happy. 
  The rest of the hike was just as exciting and rewarding: marmots showing off, sparring and rolling down hills, putting on mating displays (he so was trying to get lucky and she was so having none of it...), crystal clear lakes and babbling brooks, and gnarly trees lined my path that I hadn't even know were right next to me in my dark trek up.  My companions and I met back up at camp and laughed and re-lived our already eventful day.
  I guess I could tell you about crossing over Forester Pass, at 13,200 feet it's the tallest point on the Pacific Crest Trail, the very next day and how I wept out of sheer joy and contentment with my life when I got to the bottom, but that's for another post.  Suffice it to say that the Sierras are amazing, a cathedral of nature, a sanctuary, and my home for the next few weeks.  I might just float the next few hundred miles.  While the excitement of just beginning my journey bolstered me through the desert portion of the trail, I feel like I've just begun a totally different hike.  The excitement of the Sierras is a totally different animal and one that feeds me energy and nourishes my spirit in a way that the desert did not.  I'm going to slow down and enjoy the ride.
  800 miles and heading north in the morning.....

Socializing Angels

  I watched with breath held and eyes wide as the manly woman with the pink mohawk, heavy make-up, and tinsel halo wearing an apron with the body of a naked woman on the front approached my mother for a hug, cigarette lit and perched in an expertly held finger vise.  Her lined lips smiled broadly as she enveloped my 70 year-old mom and I watched as the inch long ash of the cigarette precariously clung to the lit stick. The woman then turned to my father who heartily embraced her warm greeting. My memory of her coming toward me with open arms is in slow motion, her clownish face pinched in a grin, smoke circling around me, as she pulled me toward her ample bosom.  I had just hiked 24 miles and I was unprepared for the scene that had unfolded around me.
  Trail angels and trail magic come in all sorts of forms. Sometimes people anonymously leave sodas and beer in a cold stream and others set up camp at a campground for 2 weeks during the summer and cook dinners and breakfast, make town runs, and basically pamper hikers passing through. All offerings are welcome and appreciated.  On this particular day, at this particular place, I was not in the mood for the magic offered at all. The Andersons are infamous trail angels who open their home to hikers, make taco salad every night, pancakes every morning, and offer copious amounts cold beer to anyone thirsty. Their generocity is legendary.  I, however, had had it up to my ears with the social scene on the Pacific Crest Trail. The trail had recently passed through several towns in a row with trail angels offering places to sleep, food, and showers: the trail had become clogged with hikers. Those who know me know me as a social person, but I also spend a lot of time alone. A lot. That is why I am sometimes so social: because most of my time is solitary. I knew that there would be an entire community of people hiking this trail, but I don't think I was truly prepared for the herd that we have become. Because of limited water supplies in the desert, many of us end up camping and congregating in the same vicinity and I was feeling a bit claustrophobic out here in the wilderness of California.  My social self and my private self were at odds and I was feeling a lot like a Scrooge constantly trying to have a quiet lunch to myself or setting up my tent at a group site and not hanging out with the gang. I was finding that though I enjoy the company of the majority of the hikers on the trail, there was certainly a fair amount of loud, obnoxious people who I didn't want to listen to. Or that chat of miles, water, caches, food, and all the other mundane topics that thru-hikers chat about had become mind-numbing.
  And on this day, after hiking 24 miles, after days upon days of a "backed up" trail, and loud, drunk people keeping me up at night I had had enough. My parents had driven down from Salinas for a visit and to do some angeling of their own and I finished my hike feeling great, like I'd just finished a marathon (which I nearly had), and I just wanted to sit with them, eat some food, have a cold drink, and get to bed. Instead, we went to the Andersons to drop some people off and I was inundated with a scene reminiscent of a loud, raucous party from my college days: old couches crowded the driveway, filthy hikers in borrowed Hawaiian shirts clapped in unison as new hikers arrived in a frat-like induction, piles of trash bags threatened to topple over in one corner of the lawn, hikers sat at a table painting rocks, music was throbbing from speakers, the port-a-potties were chock-a-block full, and beer was passed around freely. I was back in 1991 on Del Playa at UCSB shyly attending my first college party. Except this time I wanted none of it. Not only was I not in the mood for this chaos, but I certainly did not want to hang out with my parents in attendance. After making some cursory hellos to fellow hikers, I packed my bags into our 1978 VW Westfalia and peeled out to the nearest campsite where we shared a simple dinner, chatted with a couple of other nearby hikers, and got a good nights' sleep. Call me a Scrooge, but Bah Humbug partying is not what this experience is about for me. And after being around people all the time, the last thing I wanted was to be kept awake by them partying....I can get that experience at any festival I go to.
 Since then the crowds have spread out.  Many people stayed with the Andersons for 2 or more nights and the "herd"' has spread thin. I anticipate this will happen even more in the Sierras where we hikers are not so dependent on scant water sources and will have more ample campsites to choose from. I have reached the 703 mile mark of my journey and am reporting to you from a sweltering trailer in Kennedy Meadows, the gateway to the Sierra Nevadas.  I've officially completed the desert portion of the hike and am moving into what is arguably more desirable terrain. No more hauling 5 liters of water and scrounging for shade. No more night hiking. I anticipate being cold and sleeping in a little until the sun rises a little to warm the air. I relish the thought of being surrounded by some of the most majestic mountains in the Lower 48. Bring it.
  This week I will climb Mt. Whitney (14,500 ft) which is a short jaunt off the Pacific Crest Trail. I will also cross over Forester Pass (13,000+ ft.) which is the highest point on the PCT. Some exciting milestones to look forward to! But mostly I'm excited about slowing down my mileage (I've been averaging 20 miles a day), taking long breaks alongside a stream or lake, and seeking a spot of sun to sit in rather than a spot of shade...sounds lovely.
  For now, I will sit and enjoy the company of the community I have become a part of. The majority of folks are people I like and can relate to, but sometimes it's the inconsiderate loud folk that drive me to my solitary space away from everyone. I'm growing more accustomed to the amount of people around me at all times, making deeper friendships, and looking forward to more convenient places to get away and be by myself in an idyllic setting. As social as I can be, I still value my time alone as much as ever.
 Tomorrow I continue north!! The mountains await with their tidings.....

The Last Good Year and Utter Happiness

I've hit my stride.  My knee is happy. My feet are happy.  I'm very happy. I may be wee, but I've never been a shrinking violet and my body is strong. The muscles in my legs are propelling me forward over miles and miles of southern California with more and more ease. Don't get me wrong, I work my tail off and am exhausted at the end of each day. But the satisfaction of that exhaustion is indescribable to one who has not worked so hard for it. But I am amazed each time I check the map and see the miles I've covered and how quickly they seem to have gone by.  A few days ago I hiked 11 miles before 10 o'clock without stopping. I covered 21 miles and lots of elevation gain by the end of the day and still managed a 7 hour break during the heat of the day.  It's crazy.  Who does that? On the Pacific Crest Trail it's normal and my feats aren't feats at all, just what everyone is doing. I'm nothing special. But I'm feeling pretty dang proud of myself. Day after day I've been walking 20 miles and suddenly I find myself approaching the 400 mile mark of my journey. It's mind-boggling, even for me, to think of miles walked in terms of hundreds, but it is becoming more rote.  My little body puts one foot in front of the other time after time after time, everything I need on my back, and I'm walking the length of California. Wow. I'm feeling kind of badass these days.
 Along with the happiness of my physical health and strength, I'm emotionally free and ecstatic.  I think we've established that I'm not the brightest bulb in the tanning bed. I'm a simple girl. I don't remember the details of important historical events.  I have strong opinions about things that I have a hard time backing up with facts, but I still know why I believe them. I'm not known as a philanthropist though I care for the welfare of others. I live simply and in the moment and hiking this trail is absolutely my happy place. I see new territory every single day and will until I reach Canada. Looking down at my feet walking along the trail makes me unbelievably satisfied.  The dried salt patterns on my gray pants and the stiff, starchy feeling of my disgustingly dirty shirt are a badge of honor as the sweat that made them that way was hard earned.  Sitting on the edge of a mountain, looking out over deep valleys is satisfying beyond words and when one songbird, singing a simple 5-note song over and over, is joined in perfect unison by another bird it brings tears to my eyes in the same beautiful way that the high notes of "Bring Him Home" from Les Miserables does every time. It's totally corny, but absolutely true. I love putting my tent up at night and going through my cleaning ritual. I love laying in my sleeping bag and looking at the stars through the mesh of my tent. I think I'm the luckiest girl in the world because I get to climb mountains, splash in mountain streams, eat all the junk food I want without consequence, get to smell desert wildflowers and warm mountain pine needles, only have walking clothes and sleeping clothes, I get to live in the dirt. It brings me great joy to raise my arms straight out to my sides, spread my hands as wide as these tiny mitts will expand, and utter a loud "RAWR!" as lizards scurry out of my way...I feel very tall and powerful to make lizards flee. I feel brave everytime I pass a snake. Every interaction I have with day-hikers is positive and leaves me smiling as I hike away.  I'm content with the ever-present thoughts in my head, as inane as they usually are. My day to day life is at once repetitive and brand new. This simplicity and total immersion in nature suits me to a "T".  I'm not changing political policy, helping those less fortunate than myself, or leading a revolution. But I can honestly say I go to bed each night tired, happy, and satisfied. I hope that counts for something.
  There are rumors floating around the trail that this is The Last Good Year.  Already this year's hiking class has the most registered people with suggestions of over 700 people attempting the trek.  But this year a book called Wild came out and if Into the Wild is any indication, this trail will explode with people in future seasons potentially saturated with "lost", newly single, or grief-stricken women. I will admit that I have not read the book, so I only know loosely what it is about (because I am living it sans personal drama), but I do know what Into the Wild did to the Denali area and I know how the hoardes of avid fans dream of recreating the steps of adventurers like this in homage or perhaps in finding their own story.  Hundreds of hikers have come up to Denali in the years since Into the Wild came out in order to make a pilgrimage to "the bus" where Christopher McCandless spent his last months. The book, Wild, alone assures a greater number of people and piqued interest in the Pacific Crest Trail, people who may have never have heard of it. But on top of this, rumors of Reese Witherspoon buying the movie rights to the book are flying around and apparently a movie will be filmed on location on the trail next season. More traffic and this sort of hubbub would most certainly dampen the experience for a great amount of thru-hikers. Therefore, many people are referring to 2012 as The Last Good Year. We'll see what happens.
 I've got to go get some food, hitchhike to the trailhead, and get a campsite for the night...big day of hill climbing awaits tomorrow. More news when I can...but I am doing well and having the time of my life....