Snapshots of New Zealand

I lost my camera.
   On the one hand, I wasn't mugged for it or anything.  I lost it while hitchhiking back to the Te Araroa trail after resupplying in Hamner Springs.  It wasn't in my hip belt pocket, where it normally lives, and was either on the side of the road somewhere or in some stranger's car.  No bodily harm done, no biggie.
  On the other hand, you never want to lose your camera while in the middle of a big trip. Especially overseas. Especially when you're walking 3,000 kilometers and have no intentions of retracing your steps to get a few photos. *sigh*
   On the one foot, I'd switched out memory cards from my camera between the North Island and the South Island, so at least I had the first 1,700 km saved for posterity. Yay!
   On the other foot, the South Island has been the wilderness-loving, mountain-adoring, remote passes-seeking, high alpine-walking adventure that I'd been dreaming of since I decided to hike this trail.  The South Island has snapped me out of a zombie-like state that I wasn't even aware I was in on the populated North Island. And now I only have a few snapshots that I took with my camera-phone. *sigh*
   To be perfectly honest, I would not recommend to anyone to hike the Te Araroa route through the North Island of New Zealand.  It's not that there are not beautiful places to explore up there, but the TA links up some relatively small pieces of bush with miles and miles, days and days even, of road-walking that are the thru-hiker's equivalent of being a couch potato:  it's boring.  Even if you're walking through a stretch of native bush or a bucolic farm setting, the motion of walking on a flat surface is repetitive, not challenging (hills or no), and in it's own banal way very taxing on the body;  like when you are exhausted from laying on the couch all day binge-watching [your favorite TV series here] and you can't quite figure out why.  There is a reason that, seemingly, a majority of hikers ended up hitching large sections of the Te Araroa to skip the road walks.  A hardy few of us, I think of myself as "stubborn" more than "determined," have walked all the steps, road and trail, in a bullheaded attempt to actually have walked the entire length of New Zealand.  I wouldn't do it again. I would recommend picking some awesome, wild tramps in the North (on the TA or no), doing those and then thru-hiking the South Island.  That's just one girl's opinion.
  Here's what I can say about the North Island:  those Kiwis are some of the nicest, most hospitable, down-to-Earth people I've ever met in all my days.  I had human, cultural contacts and interactions that not one of the thousands of tourists that come here, rent camper vans, and tour around in their isolated cubicle could ever have.  Lots of people stopped along their drive to offer me a ride somewhere and I doggedly declined. Here are a few of my favorite memories of the North Island:
  Walking down the very long, very hot, very dusty Whanganui River road shortly before Christmas a car slowed down, passed me, and then backed up to where I was on the road.  Inside the tiny, pink sedan were three shirtless men.  My vision was filled with bright, burnt pink flesh, tidy white pot-bellies, and a nipple ring.  Having not spoken to anyone in a day or so I welcomed the unusual distraction but wondered what they could possibly want.  As it turns out they wanted nothing more than to say Hello, ask what I was doing, offer me some water and have a chat.  Two of them lived together in Whanganui and were entertaining a guest they'd met from couchsurfing.com.  They were a merry bunch and had spent the day sightseeing and swimming in the river.  The driver, Rob, was the chatty one and he insisted I stay with them in Whanganui when I got there.  George wrote down their phone number and address for me.  I warned them that I'd probably be walking in to town on Christmas day and Rob said he'd be working after two o'clock in the afternoon and George would be visiting family after three.  I thanked them and they tooled away, leaving me grinning. I shuffled down the bright road for a few more minutes before the pink car came zooming back toward me.  What now?  Rob came to a halt next to me and clarified, "You are MOST welcome to arrive on Christmas Day! You can visit the relly's with George...they'd love to have you! We'll see you then!" They turned around and zoomed off down the road once more. They came back just to tell me that:  that I'm really welcome.  Wow.  I did end up staying with Rob and George in their absolutely gorgeous home, enjoyed their beautiful gardens, simple meals, and cold Tui beers that they bought especially for me.  It was difficult to leave when they assured me I could stay as long as I wish, but I know where they hide the house key....just in case.
  Along that same road the next day, Christmas Eve, I saw a man sitting in a vehicle that looked like a 4-wheeler and a golf cart had had a torrid love affair.  A sweet 4WD rig with a tiny flatbed and an awning.  He was staring up a steep hill and whistling intricate whistles that made me think that the von Trapp children were scrambling into line somewhere nearby.  "That'll do, Rose!," he called.  I looked up the hillside to where 6 dogs were collecting and herding about 400 sheep across the slope.  Cool.  Still looking up, I walked over and said  hello.  I explained that I was super interested in his working dogs and did my best to explain Alaskan working dogs who pull heavy sleds and compete in races.  We chatted for a bit and he asked if I wanted to go with him to make sure the sheep got into the right paddock....uh, YES!! So I threw my pack in the little flatbed next to an excited dog who was pacing back and forth, anxious to be a part of the action. We headed up a sheer "track" that only the landowner would know was there and I simply trusted that he, Donald, had a sense of self-preservation and would not tip us off the hill.  The pack of pooches came and went, zig and zagged up and down and across the hill, gathering stray sheep and heeding the whistle of their master (somewhere Friedrich von Trapp was running down the stairs).  I became the official gate opener and closer.  After the sheep were all in their rightful place Donald took me on a tour of his seemingly enormous farmland:  sheep, cows, timber, bees, maize....we rallied up, down, and around steep hills that looked impossible to navigate, me white-knuckled and holding on tightly, while getting to know each other, me learning the history of his farm and how he'd grown up in this history-rich river valley and knew everybody up and down the vale.  It was fascinating and a piece of local lore I would have never known, particularly from a personal perspective.  The dogs kept up with us the whole time, herded some cows (surely nearby Louisa announced her name as Brigitta when Donald whistled loudly), and were waiting for their next chore as we bounced along the bumpy hills.  As we made our way back down to the river road I realized it was about 6 o'clock and time to think about where I was going to sleep that night. I asked Donald if I could pitch my tent in one of his paddocks..."Ah nah, you come on home and sleep in our garden."  We tooled down the road a minute and turned in to a beautiful home with an immaculate, landscaped yard.  As Donald turned off the 4-wheeler alongside a row of dog pens, a tiny bird of a woman came out the back door of the house to talk to him.  Donald explained to his wife, Petrine, that he'd met me on the road, that I was walking the length of the country, and that I'd be staying the night with them. She acted as if this were the most natural thing in the world.  And on Christmas Eve of all days. I set up my tent in their yard, took a shower, drank a cold cider, and they cooked beautiful lamb chops that Donald had gone and cut off of the sheep hanging in the walk-in refrigerator in the back yard.  We ate well and stayed up late chatting.  Petrine insisted I call my parents for Christmas.  I shared breakfast with them in the morning and Donald took me out back and showed me how he trains his dogs.  As I packed up and took off down the road, Petrine ran out with a handful of fruit for me to take along...freshings.
  In the Tararua Range I met Tina in a backcountry hut who shared her chocolate, sent me away up into the mountains with an extra meal she was carrying, and invited me to stay with her in Waikanae when I got there.  When I got there she cooked me a steak, deep fried some fries and we dorked out over maps and hikes all evening.
  I was eating a burger in Paekakariki on the Kapiti Coast at a cafe/bar/cinema.  An elderly woman made the trip all the way from Wellington to see a documentary film about a Kiwi woman named Jean Watson who spent many years and much time in southern India opening boarding schools for children in need and trying to get them out of some dire situations. (It's called Aunty and the Star People, for anyone interested). Jean Watson had coincidentally died the week before and this teeny cinema was the last place showing the documentary.  This place seated about 20 people, no kidding. Anyway, I asked the owner/barkeep about the movie and it sounded intriguing. I followed up with the question of how much the movie, at two in the afternoon, cost...the lady was the only one there to see it so far.  After paying for lunch, the $16 movie seemed a bit steep and apparently the woman, eating a scone nearby, heard the hesitation in my voice.  As she collected her tea and scone to move into the theater she stopped at my table and said, "Will you go see the movie if I share the cost of the ticket?" I gaped at her, said yes, and she laid $8 on my table. The movie was good, the company was priceless.
  Walking down the beach earlier that day, I'd met a man walking his dog. He stopped to chat, was super interested in my walk, and gave me his address and phone number for a place to stay in Wellington...the next day I was showered, eating lamb, drinking red wine, and sleeping in a bed in Wellington.  Terry and Maura "adopted" me for several nights in the big city and shared in my celebration of finishing the North Island. Me:  a total stranger on the beach.
  I actually had to say no to strangers who offered me dinner at campsites, breakfast cooked over a fire at the beach, a cup of tea...just not the right timing after I'd already been treated by strangers and needed to walk some kilometers.  Turns out this trail doesn't just hike itself.  I have a dozen more stories like this and some others just simple interactions of people interested in my hike, introducing them to the concept of walking the length of New Zealand (many, many Kiwis do not know about the Te Araroa), and that a girl from Alaska would want to do such a thing in their country.  People smile at me. People congratulate me. Small, genuine, positive interactions that bring me lots of happiness.
 So, North Islanders, please don't be offended when I say I'd never hike that route again. Please understand it's not personal. If it were personal I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat just to see who else I'd meet.
  The South Island is where I've come alive again in a "Oh yeah, that's why I'm doing this!" kind of  way.  Let's face it, I live in the "middle of nowhere" in Alaska:  I love wilderness. Mountains make me whole. Being away from people and hubbub and the busyness that most people don't even notice is where I prefer to be.  The South Island has provided me with jaw-dropping alpine vistas, challenging ridge walking, crystal clear rivers to drink from, and days of solitude.  My climbing muscles have awoken and are a force to be reckoned with while the road walking monotony has been forgotten. Or at least forgiven.
 It was disappointing to realize that my camera, with all these photos from the wilderness I love, was gone, but no harm came to me and it didn't change the fact that I experienced stunning hiking and vistas; places photos really don't do any justice anyway, but do serve as nice reminders of the exposure to the beauteous backcountry I'd enjoyed. I did my due duty and as soon as I realized that the camera was missing I hitched back to Hamner Springs, stopped at all the spots where I'd stood and stuck my thumb out, to the lawn in front of the library where I'd been using their free wifi but to no avail:  no camera.  I hitched back to the trail and headed south, lighter in pack, and resolved to make do with only memories and a camera phone photo here and there for the must-have moments.
  But..... But. It turns out the North Island does not have a monopoly on nice people.  The woman who picked me up and gave me a ride the 25 minutes to my trail was an enthusiastic chatter and we shared a lot about our lives in that time. Her partner is a commercial fisherman here in New Zealand out of Christchurch and we talked a lot about Alaska, commercial fishing, farmer's markets, and travel.  She invited me to come and stay with her, her partner, and her son in Sumner (near Christchurch) and jotted down her number when I got out of her car.  I gave her a call asking about the camera though I knew she was out of cell phone range.  4 days later when I arrived in Arthur's Pass there was no message from her so I wrote off my last hope of being reunited with my camera.
  Heavy rains prompted me to make a pretty conservative decision to get off the trail 2 days before I'd intended to get to Arthur's Pass and I have come down to sunny, broiling hot Christchurch to stay with a couple of friends whom I met while we were living in India for 6 weeks attending a yoga teacher training course in 2010.  They now have two wee boys.  As I turned on my cell phone to let Ali know I'd be coming down from the mountains for a visit to wait out some stormy weather, it made a blingy noise and alerted me of a voice message.  Sure enough, Liz from Sumner has my camera...it was in her car.  She's picking me up tomorrow and I'm going to stay a night with her and her partner and her son and to talk about fishing and Alaska and show them photos from my hike on the beautiful South Island.
 New Zealand:  where anything can happen if you let it. There may not be wizards and hobbits, but there is magic.
 

Morning at Lake Constance, perfect for a swim

Lake Constance from climbing up Waiau Pass

Sabine River, Nelson Lakes region

Travers Sadle, Nelson Lakes region

Donald and Petrine's yard, a perfect place for Christmas

Walk in cooler in your backyard with sheep you raised yourself? Yes, please! 

Cozy and welcoming in Whanganui with Freddy Mercury in the window of the shed

Night of The Living Tri Tip

  I felt nauseas.  My eyesight was playing tricks on me in the fading daylight.  My knees and feet were protesting vehemently but I continued carefully picking my way down the never-ending ridge.  My eyes were looking two steps ahead for safe foot placement while stealing glances around for potential camp sites:  nothing. Must keep walking.
  I'd been hiking all day, but had begun this 6 kilometer stretch of "trail" at 4:30 pm with a snack of Cadbury Caramello bar slathered in creamy peanut butter.  I sat at the boundary of Hunua Regional Park, a beautiful park easily accessible to Auckland with heaps of mountain bike trails, looking at a sign that read something like this: "You have reached the park boundary. There is no trail beyond this point. We are not responsible for you. You'd better bring water, maps, and a form of communication so we can locate your body later." I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. I was entering a thick section of what the Kiwis insist on calling forest, or bush, that in all actuality must be jungle where no trail had ever existed and yet was the route the Te Araroa was leading me to. This was not a problem as the route had been marked with the sometimes present orange triangles nailed to trees along the way.  I shouldered my pack and headed into the dark green.
  I'll say this:  at no point was I nervous about getting lost.  While there was no trail per say, I was also not the first thru-hiker to come through and there were plenty of triangles to follow.  The terrain, on the otherhand, was as challenging as any I'd come across thus far.  Straight up, muddy, roots, vines, razor fronds, steep down, and logs to crawl over were my path across this high ridge, but it also wound in winding S's not going in a straight line for even 15 feet.  It was slow going and as I was traveling alone and  I was hyper-aware of the perils of even one careless step turning into a sprained ankle or worse.  (Sometimes the "what ifs" and "that was closes" scare the crap out of me.)  It was also the end of the day and I was already tired so needless to say the going was slow.  Almost embarrassingly so, but I persisted.
  Near the end of the 6 km an actual trail emerged and I slapped one foot in front of the other as I doggedly made my way down to a paddock that I knew was below me.  I had not stopped moving forward in 2.5 hours, I was slack jawed, and I was exhausted from concentration.  Finally, below I saw the very first patch of flat ground that I'd seen in about 12 kilometers and I menatally claimed it as my own, no matter what.  The thick forest/jungle gave way to an open view of lush, green paddock with 30 or 40 cows contentedly eating dinner.  I reached the level ground and came to an abrupt stop.  At last I could stop.  Before dropping my pack, resting my feet, or eating some food I just looked out across the paddock at the cows and listened.  No sounds of footsteps or labored breathing filling my head, my aural senses picked up the distinct accoustic cadence of grass being ripped from the earth.  Times 40. I just stood there and listened to the simple sound of grass ripping.  Inexplicably, a huge smile came across my face.  I don't know, it just made me happy that no matter my tiny struggle, effort, or focus, life, for these cows and for everyone else on the planet, carried on as usual. It was somehow reassuring. The cows kept eating but casually made their way across the paddock to the fence that separated us and grazed as close as they could to me while I set up my camp, cleaned up, and prepared to die in a pile for the night. It was nice to have their company.
  Fast forward to the next evening when I had completed about 33 kms of walking and it was time to find a place to camp.  I'd been walking through private farm land for a while and had been told that past the next fence would be a fine place to camp, right along the Waikato River. Great.  I trudged the one kilometer it took to get past the barrier, carefully crawled over the electric fence and started looking for my campsite. "Boy," I thought to myself, "there sure is a lot of cow shit around here!"  It took several minutes to find a feces-free bit of grass and I popped my tent up nice and taut.  I turned my back to my tent for a brief minute to enjoy my view of the Waikato River and when I turned around there was a single cow about 8 feet away from me.  Where did you come from?  And then I looked up at the tiny hill behind my camp:  dozens of cows looking down on me. Now, I'm not afraid of cows, trust me, but when they are curious and outnumber you, even the dumbest of 1,200-pound beasts are intimidating.  I picked up my hiking poles and started the showdown.
  I clacked my sticks together in the direction of the brave interloper but she merely blinked and balked.  I lunged forward and clacked and shouted, "Heeyaw! Heeyaw!"  She startled and looked ready to run.  Then she made to walk closer.  "Heeyaw! Go on, GIT!"  The other cows, still chewing cud, curiously looked to their leader to see how they should behave. A few more clicks of the sticks, cowboy shouts, and feints and the cow turned away and headed up the hill.  Satisfied with my brave outwitting of this cow, I grabbed my camera and walked the 35 feet to the river's edge to take a picture of the beautiful evening light behind some clouds.  Only a few seconds passed by but by the time I turned around to walk back to my tent all of the cows were down off the hill grazing all around my portable abode and about 8 of them were in a semi-circle around my collapsable casa LICKING the rainfly.  My victory was extremely short-lived.  Now I'm just screaming "HeeYaw! GO ON GIT!" in every direction at any bovine beast that would pay attention.  Some were timid and easily scared and others were unshakable.  I spent the next several minutes whooping and hollering in a grassy, poop-filled meadow herding cows away from where I sincerely wanted to lay down and go to sleep.  In a series of small stampedes they finally cleared the area.  Deep down I knew I should pull up camp and move out of their paddock, but, you know, my tent was up already.  I simply didn't have the gumption to relocate.  So I got into my sleeping bag, stashed my hiking sticks nearby, and took a sleeping pill.  (It's very unfair that despite hiking 30-35 kilometers per day my insomnia still occasionally gets the best of me....as if the inane, asinine thoughts that ramble through my head while I'm walking deserve more consciousness. Argh.)
  Predictably, sometime in the middle of the night I was awoken from a deep slumber by the aforementioned sound of grass being pulled from the earth, an occasional snort, and a chorus of boorish farts.  These sounds were close and coming from 360 degrees around me, my sleep-addled brain registered before my exhausted body could even move.  The cows were upon me.  I laid still and contemplated my options. Would they start licking my tent again? Would they nibble at it?  I tentatively reached my hand out of my sleeping bag, flicked the side of my tent, and loudly said in a stern voice, "Hey!!" (no pun intended). A small scurry of thundering hooves as the cows got the hell away from the mysterious talking tent.  But there were more cows.  I waited for the next batch to come close to my tent and I began to wonder if the cows would instinctively avoid my tent or was there a chance they might actually trample me.  I could see the headline: Woman Trampled By Cows In Freak Midnight Paddock Massacre.  There's really no glory in going out that way. I shifted in my sleeping bag and the loud, squeaky noise that emanates from my first generation NeoAir (sleeping pad) every single time I move (ugh, don't get me started...) finally came in handy and scared away the next batch of cows without me even trying.  Once again untrampled, I waited for the next group to wander through my domain.  I realized how ridiculous this was: me in my tent, unseeing of my foes, and scaring them with a mere shift of my body on a squeaky air mattress. Ridiculous, yet genius. This cycle happened about four times until I heard no more snuffing, shuffling of hooves, or grass being pulled. I'd won.  I'd vanquished my foes to the outlying lands to be bullied no more by the....zzzzzzzzzzZZZZzzzzzZZZZzzzzz.

Cows. Behind a fence. Where they belong....

  In the light of day, after I'd packed up and began walking again, I discovered that if I had walked around a bend for apporimately two more minutes I'd have climbed over another fence into an empty paddock and been bothered by nary a cow.  Ah well, such is life. I'm happy to report that I was not trampled to death by cows in my sleep and my tent is intact.
  Later that day, after the midnight stand down--or lay down as the case may be--I was pitted 60 to one against another herd of heifers.  I had to cross their paddock along the trail and they were not the nervous Nelly's that I've oft come across...these cows were quite curious indeed and circling me from all angles. Only my previous night's experience and sheer bravery got me through unscathed.
 I tell you what...there is no lack of adventure along the trail. No lack of adventure for those willing to see it....

Weapons and Drugs on the Te Araroa

*Gentle Reader, to be as true and honest as possible, this post will contain strong language. By strong I mean foul. Foul meaning vulgar. Proceed at your own comfort level, but there is no way to write this without it....*

  Our morning started out quite pleasantly;  waking up on the freshly mowed lawn of a generous Maori couple who had offered to let us camp in their yard.  Mary and I arise at six every morning, packing up our sleeping bags and tents swiftly as to get on the trail and make some kilometers.  This morning our kind host brought us hot tea on the grass.  We gratefully quaffed our drinks and hit the road.  We began our day with a road walk, but as it was fairly early there was not much traffic.  The biggest bummer about the paved road walks is that New Zealand roads have no shoulders.  Like none.  So we walk against traffic and scoot over as best we can when a car passes us.  This morning was calm and quiet and we passed through pasture lands at a clip:  by 9:15 we had already walked 10.5 kilometers.  At this point we had been walking on a steep, windy section of road and when I spotted a wide pullout that turned out to be a small gravel quarry, I decided it would be a nice place for a break.  Time to take a load off the hooves and eat a snack.
  In the pullout there were about a dozen small piles of perfect pea gravel.  As an Alaskan trail-builder and home owner, I appreciate really nice gravel.  I plopped myself onto a soft pile and commented to Mary that it would be great to redo the trail leading to my cabin back home.  We both dug into our bags for snacks and I pulled out a small jar of peanut butter and a spoon.  Gee, what a beautiful, quiet morning it had been.
  I stuck my spoon into the jar and retrieved a big scoop of the creamy goop.  Then the world changed.  An aged, burgandy Jaguar came roaring up the hill and passed us going fast.  We watched it pass by and then, unexpectedly, screech to an almost immediate halt, skidding in the gravel half-on and half-off the road, the reverse lights came on while still in a forward motion and the car came roaring back toward us totally disregarding the vehicle approaching behind it.  The Jag again came to an abrupt, skidding stop in reverse directly  in front of us, sitting on our gravel piles, and a woman looking remarkably like a bedraggled Ellen Barkin was rolling down the passenger window to talk to us.  We saw her lips moving but all we heard was Patti Smith with the volume set to 11.  I paused with my spoon of peanut butter halfway to my mouth, curious. Curious, indeed.
  The music snapped off and the woman shouted at us, "ExcusethemusicWhenyou'redrivingthesecountryroadsyoujusthavetorockouttoPattiSmith!Do yous girls need a ride?"
"No, we're OK! We're walking the Te Araroa, so we're fine...Thank you!"
She obviously had no clue what the TA is (I've found most Kiwis don't) but did not skip a beat when she asked us, "Are yous carrying weapons?" I don't really consider my little Leatherman blade that I use to pop blisters on my feet and slice cheese a weapon, so Mary and I looked at each other then back to her and said, "No."
*Unleash the Beast*
 "Areyousfuckin'idiots?," we heard from the car as the motor snapped off and she hurled her door open and stomped around the front of her car to confront us.  She was rail thin:  no butt, no muscle tone in her tight, black spandex pants.  She wore a shearling jacket that was buttoned incorrectly and sitting askew with a sheer black shirt tail hanging down to her knees.  I can almost guarantee that the whole shirt was sheer and she was wearing a black bra underneath, but I can't prove that.  She wore cheap, white flip flops and sported toenail polish the bubblegum, Barbie pink that a 15-year-old girl might choose.  Her hair was half piled on top of her head in a bun and half everywhere else.  She may have been in her late 50's, but it was very difficult to tell. She stood in front of us with her hands on her hips and began the rant.  I lowered my peanut butter-covered spoon, mouth agape.
 "WhatareyousdoingrunningaroundthiscountrywithoutweaponswheredoyouthinkyouarethereareMaorisalloverthiscountrywaitingforgirlslikeyoutowalkthroughthebush! Haven'tyouheardwhathappenedtoMeredithandherboyfrienduphereGOOGLEITgoaheadgoogleitYou'llhaveheardwhatIdidtenyearsagoGOOGLEITgoahead!" Mary, who was holding her iPod in her hand, began to explain that she didn't have cell service, "Acutally,---" The woman interupted and continued in one never-ending sentence, "Youscan'tbewalkingaroundthiscountrywithoutweapons! YoumustprotectyourselfI'vegotanarsenalinhereI'msittingonfourthouingoldI'mgoingtogiveyousomeweapons!" She continued talking, non-stop, as she went around the back of the car to find us some weapons from her traveling arsenal.  Mary and I looked at each other with huge, saucer-sized eyes.  Neither one of us feels the need to carry a weapon, but we were way too curious to stop her. Plus, we couldn't get a word in edgewise.  She was still talking.
  I honestly had no idea if she was going to pop the trunk of the ancient Jaguar, black smoke pouring from its undercarriage, to reveal an array of firearms in a gun rack, a box full of knifes and blades, or a suitcase with a golden light pouring out of it a la Pulp Fiction.  Honestly, anything seemed possible at this moment.  She came back around to our side of the car where we sat stupidly on our gravel piles, frozen.  Spoon of peanut butter untouched.
  Marching around the truck of the car she stopped in front of me. I didn't even have the wits about me to stand up, I just sat there as she talked at me.  She held up a nail file. "This! Holditlikethis [plastic handle in her palm, thumb on the base of the QVC file] Youwannajabituplikethis [vigorously and repeatedly jabbing in an underhand motion, stopping just inches away from my torso] foralivershotGottagoforthelivershotifsomeoneevenwalkstowardyouGoforthelivershotthenkickhimintheballs [aggressively demonstrates a knee to the groin, twice] Don'tevenlookbackjustwalkawayandgetoutofthereGoforthelivershot!" She handed me the nail file.
  She turned to Mary and pulled out a pair of scissors about 4 inches long. "Whatyoudowiththeseisholdthemlikethis [index and middle fingers in the holes of the handle, also underhanded and making a fist] andjabjabjab [demonstrates fiercely] withalivershotHe'llnotrecoverfromalivershotandkneehimintheballsandrunawayDon'tlookback!"
  The "conversation" (we had yet to get a word in) from here became quite rambling and convoluted and generally all over the board. "MynieceHeathersaiditwassweetthatIwastakingGrampaGram'spassporttotheairportandwhatdoyouknowI'vebroughtthewrongfuckingpicturetotheairportExcusemeIcusslikeasailor."
"No probl--" "...IfellandbumpedmyheadatthemarketandmysistermadegointothedoctorbecausemaybeIhadananuerysmandtheytookmylicenseawaysothecopsareafterme [looking over her shoulder] Fuckingcopsdon'ttrustthemeitherthey'refuckingcorruptuphere....."
 She spoke so fast that when she introduced herself to us I don't even remember registering her name I was so flummoxed by her presence.  She asked my name as she shook my hand.  "WeeBee," I stammered, eyes glazed, nail file in my right hand, a spoon of peanut butter in my left. "Ohthat'sacutenameWhereareyoufromImean,theStates,butwhere?"  Stunned that she paused to listen I said, "Alask--" "OhI'vealwayswantedtovisityourcountry!"
  She asked her name and shook her hand and where was she from? Mary started, "Georgi--" "OhI'vealwayswantedtovisityourcountry!" As she shook our hands she pointed out some small words on her left ring finger fingernail, on top of the French manicure. It said Pure Fiji. "That'smycompanyHydrogenatedoilsandfatsthat'swhat'scausingalzheimer'sandI'vestudiedthisforsixyearswithMensaYouknowMensa?Istudiedphysicsmetaphysicsforsixyears....[looks over shoulder, presumably for cops]"
  She began to walk around to the driver's side of the aged Jag as if to leave.  I flimsily held the nail file between my thumb and forefinger, lightly waving it, and saying, "Thanks for the weapon! Hopefully---" "NOTLIKETHATYOUDON'THOLDITLIKETHATYOU'LLFUCKINGSLICEYOURHANDOPEN!" At this point we each got a full refresher course on how to hold our respective weapons without slicing our palms open while vigorously administering a clean liver shot.
 She again went around the front of her car, this time getting in.  Mary came out of her stupor when she realized this woman had a cigarette in her hand and asked, "Do you mind if I bum a cigarette off of you?"
"HonesttoGodthisismylastfuckingone [again getting out of the car and coming all the way around the front] buthereyouhaveitIhatethesefuckingthingsanyway." She handed Mary a pack of menthol Pall Malls with one cigarette in it. Also another empty pack which she mysteriously wanted back when given afterthought. I sat dumbly on my gravel hill, spoon of peanut butter in my clenched fist, resting on my  knee.  She again walked back to the driver's side and opened the door. "DoyougirlssmokedopeDoyouordon'tyouDon'ttakeallday!" Mary and I silently looked at each other and shrugged an unspoken "Why not?" Mary said, "Uh...yeah?" But she was already coming back around the car and shoving a small ziplock bag from Bank of New Zealand into my hand with a small amount of weed in it, rambling on and on about I'm not sure what. "That'sallI'vegotbutyoumightaswelltakeit...." I quickly tucked it into the pocket on the front of my backpack without looking at it.
"Cheersgirlsbesafe....." She literally kept talking, mouth moving a mile a minute, as Patti Smith came blaring back on, she started the Jag, sending billows of black smoke onto us, and peeled out, spraying us with gravel and dust.  The already speeding car made its way back onto the paved road with a swerve, a honk, and a manicured hand waving a menthol Pall Mall goodbye out of the sky light.
  Seconds later the birds started chirping again and it was as calm and still as it had been approximately 10 minutes before the Jag entered our world. We stared at each other with huge doe eyes.  We looked at the weapons in our hands, unbelieving.  I stuck my spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth.
  And that, my friends is how I acquired weapons, drugs, and a lesson on how to shiv a man, on the Te Araroa trail. Some things you just can't make up.
 
 

From The Trail, to Trails, to a new Trail

   It turns out that there is life after the Pacific Crest Trail.  Other hikers lament in their blogs about feeling empty or restless or sad or aimless.  I cannot relate.  One week after celebrating my finish at the Canadian border I was in Flagstaff, AZ preparing for a raft trip on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon with friends new and old.  It was amazing.  I then proceeded to spend three months on an organic farm in northern California, just west of the Sierras and the PCT, tending greens, hogs, and being a crazy chicken lady to nearly 40 chickens. It was a blast. In February I returned home to my beloved Alaska and skied my days away culminating in a week-long backcountry adventure with 3 of my best friends. Obviously I had no time to lament finishing the PCT.
  In May I began my job at Denali National Park as a trail crew laborer.  It felt very right to go from hiking a trail to giving back to the hiking community by vastly improving a trail in the DNP entry area and making it accessible to more of its visitors.  The work was labor intensive and even getting to our work site involved climbing 1500 feet up Mt. Healy every morning.  My co-workers and I guesstimated that we climbed a minimum of 95,000 feet last summer getting to our work place.  Then would begin the work of moving giant rocks and boulders with sheer muscle and rock bars to create staircases that looked like they'd been there forever. Ta da! Nothing to it, really....
  I skim over all of this to get to where I am now:  New Zealand.  As I was contemplating what I wanted to do this winter to escape the December/January blues in Interior Alaska, I recalled the Te Araroa trail:  a route that goes the length of New Zealand from Cape Reinga on the tip of the North Island to Bluff on the bottom of the South Island.  Of course I thought:  Why not?
And so. Here I am in a public library in Kerikeri, New Zealand, 138 miles into a 1,900 mile journey. Let's review some highlights, shall we?


The Trail
The Te Araroa (henceforth called the TA) is nothing at all like the PCT.  Only established as a complete route in 2011, the TA  connects existing  trails via beaches, roads, farmlands, and waterways.  What constitutes a trail in New Zealand is up for debate as well:  none of this 18-inches wide, clear pathway that we were accustomed to in America.  I remember some brushy areas on the PCT and we lamented that a crew really needed to get in there and do something about it. Ha!! Walking through the Herekino and Raetea Forests here in New Zealand was like a cross between Lost, the Hunger Games, and Vietnam.  I don't know exactly what constitutes a "forest" versus a "jungle," but my environment was lush and green and the greens had greens growing on them.  A large tree trunk would be covered in moss and plants and vines and probably also had a fern growing from the crook of it's branches.  The trail bed?  Mud. Steep mud.  Like a ladder whose rungs consisted of trees roots holding a bowl of mud for you to step in.  Climbing up was far less hazardous than the slippery decent which was slick and sphincter puckering.  Much of the time you could not even see where you needed to plant your foot as there would be giant fern leaves in your way. Once you moved those with your trekking poles and proceeded to move forward your face would be sliced by razor sharp palm fronds. So you duck your head and take a step only to step on one end of a snaking vine, unawares, and as you bring your other foot forward it conveniently snags in the loop that was created by the stiff vine.  Now you're off-balance with forward momentum in a mud bog with two long sticks in your hands and a giant pack on your back.  For about 13 miles.  Fun times, people, fun times.  This was some of the most physically and mentally gruelling hiking I've done in many years....feels good that I can still get through it! Maybe not entirely gracefully or without swear words, but still....
 The trail begins with a very long beach walk along 90-Mile Beach.  The first hour or so were spent frolicking, poking beached jellyfish, and ogling brightly colored clam shells.  The next hour was spent in reflection and listening to the waves.  The next three days were spent wondering if the beach would ever end.  Beach walking is flat....really flat. There are the dunes on the left.  There are the waves on the right.  And as far as the eye can see, flat, sandy beach.  It creates quite the repetitive motion for a body as the same exact muscles are used over and over again:  no climbing, no descents.  Just walking.
  There are miles of road walks along the TA. Some have been on paved, busy roads, but most have been on gravel, bucolic country roads in farmland. On the PCT we moaned if we had a 6-mile road walk into town or a poodle dog bush detour....Bah! I've probably already done more mile on road than all of the PCT! Really, it's just a different mind set and accepting that this is a route, not a trail.  One day I spent 5 miles walking in a river...just part of the getting there.




The Hiking Partner
  Mary gave me a droll look, took a drag from her cigarette--a habit which she had given up in August when she decided to come on this hike with me--,  and croaked out poignantly with her exhale, "I. Don't. Quit."
  It was the second day into our hike and we were sitting under a clump of trees just off the beach, soaked to the bone and shivering.  We had descended a very long staircase onto 90-Mile Beach where I stopped to eat a snack when I said, "Well, the weather's a little grey, but it could be worse!" Shortly after, it began raining heavily on us with a strong, gusty wind coming directly off the Tasman Sea.  The saturated brim of my trucker cap dripped horizontally to my left.  It was rather grim walking.  Neither one of us had immediately put on rain gear as it the rain started off as just harmless drizzle.  Shortly both of us were completely soaked to the bone and unable to stop walking lest we give ourselves a chance to get cold.  We saw several tourist buses (they drive up and down the beach for some reason) and Mary looked over at them longingly, joking about hitching a ride to town.  There were several comments made by Mary about getting "out of here" or "meetin' ya in town" or "wouldn't have come if I'd known..." I was starting to worry that Mary might actually ditch me. 
  Mary and I worked together on the Denali trail crew last summer and hit it off right away.  She's got a mouth on her and says exactly what she's thinking.  She's a really hard worker and I thought she'd be fun to hike with and that we would get along quite well.  But since she's never thru-hiked I guess I didn't really know how she'd take to it.  I didn't expect her to talk about quitting on the second day, however.  When I worriedly asked her in all earnestness, "You're not really going to leave me out here are you?" is when she told me that she never quits. Not even cigarettes.
Never have I been so happy to see Mary smoking. And now when she moans about something (as mentioned, the Raetea gave us much to moan about), I know she's not thrilled with the present conditions, but she is going to hang in there with me. Once she starts something she sticks with it.
Whew! The Pacific Crest Trial is not a problem to take on solo, but between trail conditions and questionable trail markings (it IS possible to get lost out here!), I'm very glad to be part of a duo on this adventure. Mary doesn't complain all the time, she's actually a joy to travel with....


Animal Life
 New Zealand only has one native mammal and it's a bat.  This is a land of birds. Birds that became so complacent from not having any predators that some of them don't even know how to fly.  Of course humans have changed the entire landscape here, but it's interesting nonetheless.
  While slipping and sliding through the jungle of Herekino and Raetea, I was relieved that the birds that sounded like shrieking monkeys were indeed not so and I didn't have to worry about one dropping down to attack me for my Cadbury chocolate bar.  I was also happy to not have to worry about blindly stepping on a snake or grabbing a python in an attempt not to fall on my butt....it seemed like a perfect place for slithering creatures. There are, however, crazy sounding birds. Everywhere.  Birds that sound like R2D2.  Birds that sound like Mocking Jays.  One bird that landed between mine and Mary's tents that sounded part alien and part chicken.  Like maybe a chicken had been abducted by an alien, probed, planted with a mind chip and then sent back to Earth. This same bird also pooped purple diarrhea on my rain fly.  There is a giant pigeon-looking bird that looks like it's wearing a wife-beater tank top.  Sea birds with long beaks.  Or long legs. Or both.
  On the other hand there are cows, cows, cows, and sheep, sheep, sheep.  Often our route takes us right through the middle of their paddocks.  The sheep run away and I'm tempted to attempt a little recreational mutton-busting, but the cows pretend to be spooked and then want to follow you at the same time. Thank goodness they don't realize that they could flatten me if they had a brain in their head.
 Also, an entire day can be entirely made by seeing a sow with five tiny piglets running around with her.  Four shiny, pink-as-a-newborn piggies and one shiny, black-as-a-newborn piggy.  I'm not sure that is the politically correct way of saying that, but I'm also pretty sure not all newborns are pink. Regardless, seeing baby animals can perk up the weariest of hikers.


 Well, there is more to be said, but I'm tired of being inside a library on my rest and relaxation day.  There are chips and Coke and chocolate cake to be eaten in bed just down the street. I'll do my best to keep y'all updated on the journey....so far, so good! Having a blast, getting reacquainted with the joys and pains of thur-hiking and getting to know New Zealand again 20 years after coming here to go to college for a year. Oh how things have changed.....and stayed the same.

Done did it!!

Looking south toward Granite Pass in the N. Cascades.
Just days later is was covered in feet of snow.

  It was sweltering hot, about 200 miles from the Canadian border, and I was cresting a very small climb. Actually, a very insignificant climb in the scope of Washington climbs. It was a gorgeous section of trail just south of Stevens Pass and I was saturated with sweat.  Somewhere around mid-morning I had started dragging my feet and all of the sudden it all hit me at once:  the miles, the heat, the months of walking, the sheer exhaustion.  I sat down alongside the trail with my pack still on and put my head in my hands.  Siesta, my hiking partner, came up behind me with a questioning look on her face.  We'd just taken a break and had scoped a lunch spot about 2 miles further up the trail.  I looked at her as my face crumpled with tears in my eyes and I said, "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute." She carried on and I put my head in my hands and briefly cried.  I was so tired. Not "I Had A Long Day At Work" tired, but tired to the very core of my essence, weary bone marrow tired.  Somehow letting go of some stoicism and shedding some tears seemed like the only thing that I could do.  Putting one foot in front of the other seemed insurmountable. My tears only lasted for a few minutes and I closed my eyes, collected my breath, and got right in my head.  I had no option but to walk. At that point in the hike, on that specific day, just standing up, gathering the gumption to move, was my biggest challenge.  I put music in my ear and put one foot in front of the other.
  That was hands down my most difficult day on the Pacific Crest Trail this year, mentally or physically.  I arrived at the lunch spot and laid down and was completely uncertain how I would muster the energy to eat food much less get up and start hiking again.  But I did.  Actually, I had two big ascents and one big descent to do before my day was over and I just let my brain turn off as much as possible and put my body on automatic pilot.  I resigned myself to being exhausted and that I wouldn't truly be able to absorb the beauty around me. It was a tough but necessary.
  The last 500 miles of the Pacific Trail were, for me, a concentration in being in the now. I knew very well at the time that I was living the moments and the lifestyle that my nostalgia would be made of, but I still had to muster the energy to actually finish the trek. It's a tricky balance.  I arrived in Stevens Pass the day after the exhaustion and re-evaluated my attitude.  I had a talk with myself (while laying horizontal on the bed) and made a conscious decision to not be too tired to enjoy the rest of the hike. Despite the fact that my brain was bursting and overloaded with images of beautiful mountains and valleys, abundant blueberries, and quiet lakes, I would continue to stop and look around, taking in even more of nature's own bad self.  There is an argument for mind over matter and the proof that it is possible lies in my trail experience in the last 10 days of my PCT hike:  I felt energized, excited, and present.  Standing up from breaks was no longer monumental.  I no longer questioned how I could possibly finish my walk to Canada because I was so motivated to finish and enjoy the show.  I blazed up 3000 foot climbs knowing that my body is a machine, made for walking;  that in few days I'd have more than enough time to rest and recoup and relax; that in a mere few days I'd long for the quiet solitude and routine of the trail.  The wilderness of the Northern Cascades did not disappoint and I was able to respond in kind with appropriate praise, awe, and adoration.  Generally I dragged my jaw along the trail behind me.  It was awkward.  I feel very satisfied in the way my trip ended.  High spirits, a big sense of accomplishment, and a healthy body make for a happy WeeBee.  The last morning of the entire trip I was camped at 4800' about 3 miles from the US/Canadian border and awoke to falling snow.  The small group that had assembled there packed up as swiftly as possible and set out to walk the final three miles of our epic journey.  Siesta, Caveman, and I walked in a tight unit and spoke of excitement, future, favorite trail days, desert memories, and the unreal fact that today was the day we were actually walking to Canada.  After all the miles and smiles, September 27 turned out to be our day to reach Monument 78, a place I'd hardly let myself envision for most of the trip for fear of unforeseen circumstances taking me off the trail yet again.  The giddiness was palatable. When we reached a set of descending switchbacks we knew we were nearly there and we let out a set of shrieks, whoops, and cheers and we careened forward.  Then, suddenly it seemed, there was the open space containing the monument itself and not a wall, but an infinite and ridiculous-looking clear cut denoting the border.  My already huge smile got even bigger and I found myself laughing and crying and hugging bearded men in shared admiration and mirth.  I set my pack down and we all continued to hug, shout, and glow.  Siesta and I had each carried a bottle of champagne 80 miles from Stehekin and a cork was popped and we toasted our success.  A million photos were taken and I ignored the cold as I stripped naked and had a picture taken next to the monument.  How many times is a girl going to finish the Pacific Crest Trail for the first time? It was a joyous event and properly celebrated.  There was one last climb in the post-PCT, 8-mile, Canadian portion of the trail and the three of us powered up in and then walked three abreast on a long decline down an old forest road.  We were already reminiscing about the experience.  I think I will be reminiscing about this experience for quite a while.
  As it turns out, September 27th may have been the last best day to finish the Pacific Crest Trail for 2013.  The light snow that was falling on me at 4800' was just the beginning of a series of big storms dumping snow on the North Cascades at elevations above that.  Many many hikers have had to turn around and take refuge in small towns near the trail to wait out the weather.  Mountain passes that were bare or with only an inch or two of snow on them when I crossed now have 2, 3, or more feet of snow on them and are nearly impassable.  People are renting snowshoes, bulking up on winter gear and attempting tiring, harrowing efforts of breaking trail to get through.  People have called it quits for the year.  The government closing has thwarted efforts of lower alternate routes.  Already tired bodies and minds are now frayed and exhausted with exploring alternative, decision making, and frustration.  I really feel for all my PCT brothers and sisters who walked so far only to be denied the border experience only 50 miles (or less) from the goal.  And I feel so fucking lucky. And grateful.  And blessed.  It would be impossible for me, even with my gift for gab, to try to verbalize what finishing this quest means to me.  Not just finishing what I set out to do, but the journey of the whole experience.  I don't think I'll even know how the trail has effected me until some time has passed.  I do know that it will always be special to me and I will always share a unique bond with the friends I've met along the way.
 And thus closes the Pacific Crest Trail adventure of 2013.  Victory is mine!

We are the champions, my friend! 

My Body of Work

   As I sit in the lobby of the Timberline Lodge, on the shoulder of Mt. Hood in northern Oregon, full as a tick, I am taking stock of my body.  I only have 47 more miles to walk until I cross the Bridge of the Gods and into Washington, my final state of this epic journey.  Alternately, I have walked more than 1,600 miles from where I started in the desert of California.  You are probably thinking to yourself, "Wow, WeeBee! You must be in great shape!" Yes, well, I'd have to say that is debatable....let's discuss the state of my physicality, starting at the top, shall we?

As far as I'm concerned this is what I actually look like.

Hair:  While I've never been accused of having an actual hairstyle, I do think I generally have healthy hair.  Not so much "kempt" as "shiny." Regardless, having it long makes it easy to put in a braid and forget about while I'm hiking.  Seems easy enough, right? Well, my hair seems to have a mind of it's own. It wants to let it's freak flag fly.  Mere seconds after I tightly braid my tresses and put on my "Spread The Awesome" trucker hat my braid migrates to the left side of my neck, resting on my left shoulder for the remainder of the day.  Stray hairs spring out behind my ears and subtly, very sneakily, my braid loosens and resembles a toilet brush.  It's as if each individual strand of hair wants to catch the view, to feel the wind in it's....self.  This has left me with somewhat straw-like hair that will need to be dealt with at the end of this odyssey.
Head/Face:  I don't see myself in a mirror very often, so I can't really comment on what I look like.  I can make one observation though:  according to the scale in Sierra City (approximately 900 miles ago) I'd lost nearly 17 pounds.  When I see photos of myself I'm convinced I've lost most of this weight from my cheeks, jowls, and wattle.  My normally cherubic cheeks have apparently been hiding cheekbones all these years. Who knew?
Shoulders:  Considering that my shoulders heft the weight of my current worldly belongings on them for about 10 hours a day they are in good shape.  And by that I mean I can still use my arms and do not shout out in pain every time I put my backpack on.  They, too, seem a bit thin, but otherwise sturdy.  The only alarming thing about my shoulders seem to be a permanent pink discoloration above the collarbone and perhaps a "lumpy" texture at the bone itself.  My collection of sleeveless gowns will remain in the closet for a while.
Arms/Hands:  While I do use my arms to lift my pack onto my back and I hike with trekking poles, the lower half of my body is doing all the hard work.  My strong Alaska-girl arms have atrophied into tiny T-Rex-like appendages and I'm finding it more and more difficult to do basic tasks like feeding myself and taking my hat off my head.  I have developed a fetching tan from below the elbow to the tips of my fingers which I like to display in a short sleeved t-shirt on laundry days.  My career as a hand* model is indefinitely on hold. My hands are constantly filthy. Not dirty, but filthy.  My trekking pole handles are generally dirty which leads to grime getting ground in to every crevasse and line in my palm.  Particularly dirty are the two triangle-shaped calluses in the webbing of my palm between my thumb and forefinger.  Overall, it's amazing I use these tools at the end of my arms to eat with.  On the bright side, because I use trekking poles and keep my hands moving and generally around the level of my heart, I avoid the dreaded "sausage fingers" that many hikers traditionally get. 
*Also true for feet and bikini line, but for different reasons.
Torso:  While my waist has shrunk, I feel like I have zero core strength.  It may seem as if I'd use my core a lot while climbing a hill or something, but I think that the hip belt just holds everything in place and lets it get lazy.  I'm actually convinced that my core and back muscles would just allow me to collapse and therefore I need to strap myself in to my pack everyday just so I can walk upright.  I will be a wet noodle walking around sans pack in late September.  I have no bruises or tenderness on my protruding hipbones, but I do have a permanent bruise-colored discoloration on my left hip.  Thank goodness bikini season is almost over.
Butt:  A shadow of its former self.  A lot less junk in the trunk.  Gluteus muscles are often painfully tired while trying to sleep at night.
Legs:  From the waist to the knee I am a tree trunk.  From the knee to the ankle I am a hamhock.  I could crush the average human with a twitch of my calf muscle.  Knees are feeling fine.  I'm trying to keep up on my stretching to maintain my ability to walk, but there is no doubt about it:  no matter how long you hike and how strong you are there will always be the "hiker hobble."  While I'm hiking I feel fine, no problems.  As soon as I sit down for a break, eat a meal, or get up in the morning I'm like a little old lady shuffling from one place to another.  You'd look at me and wonder how I manage 25 miles per day.....
Hooves:  Oh, tiny hooves.  I'm so sorry.  While the blisters long ago hardened into calluses, the feet just put up with sooooo much. I walk so far. Carry my world on my back.  They generally feel good, but of course they tire.  At this point I start to worry more once I stop hiking.  The balls of my feet feel like someone wailed on them with a paddle and the overall foot and ankle are swollen.  I know what it means to be a "tenderfoot." My toes don't want to bend in any direction other than the walking movement therefore pointing my toes or sitting back on my heels with my toes on the ground is nearly impossible for any amount of time.  I am curious to see how long it will take for my hooves to get back to normal after this excursion....
  So, yes, in some ways I am strong and fit!! And in other ways I wonder what damage long distance hiking does to one's body.  I doubt I could ride a bike very far, hold a yoga pose for long, or run down the block.  But when it comes to walking I am an expert! A whiz! A machine! But it's also a strange existence to only be good at walking and eating...there is little energy for anything else these days.
 I will head into Washington on Wednesday and have no clue if I'll have access to a computer again. If I don't, please root for me to make it to the border!! My hopeful finish date is September 22, the Equinox.  I'll let you know how it goes afterward....until then, I'll be walking north!!

Smilestones

Time to pick up where I left off.

  It was shortly before six in the evening when I approached the Forest Service road.  I'd hiked about 600 miles so far and had been enjoying revisiting terrain that I had first seen last summer on my first attempt on the Pacific Crest Trail.  I had endured the heat and winds of the Mojave desert (again), climbed Mt. Whitney and all the high passes of the Sierra Nevadas (again) and made it back to this one road.  I had reminisced about old campsites, remembered difficult climbs, recalled terrain that lay ahead of me for the day and it all led me back to this one road.  I'd anticipated the road, looked forward to what it meant for me.  What I hadn't anticipated was my reaction when I got to the road.
  I moved energetically to the crest of the ridge, where the road was, and saw the sign.  It was a standard Forest Service sign marking a trail head, but this was Barker Pass and it also marked the place on the trail where I'd had to limp off the trail for good last summer.  It is mile 1,126 on the PCT and as I approached the sign I suddenly felt so much emotion boiling up in me that I hadn't realized was in me.  I knew that I was excited to see new stretches of trail, but the reality of stepping onto that road had me feeling like I had come full circle. There was not one part of me last year that believed that I was off the trail permanently when I decided I needed to rest my body.  I thought I'd rest for a few days, maybe a week, and would be merrily resume my hike to the Canadian border.  I thought I'd see that Forest Service road much sooner that one full year. And so, when I finally stepped in front of the big sign just shy of a year later I stood below it, wide-eyed and full of awe that I was finally indeed back where I'd left, and whooped and hollered with joy.  At the same time unexpected tears sprang from the corners of my eyes.  I mourned for the sad, limping girl of last summer, for a dream delayed, for the miracle of healing, for the support and understanding I've had along the way, for being hard-headed and dedicated enough to come back and make this happen.  I realized that I'm so happy I hiked back to that spot rather than just picking up where I'd left off;  the new steps I was about to take meant so much more because I'd retraced my path to get there.  I felt like I'd earned the unknown. The tears were brief and my smile was huge.  My hiking partner, Siesta, came to the road shortly thereafter and I said to her, "Ask me where the next campsite is." She did so.  I smiled and replied, "I DON'T KNOW!! I'VE NEVER BEEN BEYOND HERE!" All the steps past Barker Pass have been wonderful and unknown.
  The next milestone for me was crossing the midpoint mark of the trail.  This is in northern California and unbelievable that I've come so far (1,330 miles)....and have the same amount of miles yet to hike.  Yikes! But just knowing that I'm closer to Canada than Mexico is very exciting.  Closer to poutine than ceviche. Closer to "ay" than "aye aye aye!" Plus, it should be all downhill from there, right?
  Now I'm in Etna, California (PCT mile 1,606) only one town stop away from the Oregon border.  There are a lot of hikers here right now and the general feeling is weary.  People have been pushing big miles on the relatively "easy" terrain, it has been very hot (95-100 degrees around Hat Creek Rim), and California is one long freakin' state.  Crossing into Oregon will be an inspiration and energy change for everyone.  There will also be less than 1,000 miles left to the Canadian border! Triple digits! They will practically walk themselves! Well....
 Today I'm enjoying my first full day off since South Lake Tahoe.  My body is tired and thankful for the rest! My hooves are kicked up. My hiker hunger is in full swing and I definitely had a milkshake with breakfast. Only the first of the day, mind you.  I'm grateful for the milestones I've celebrated along the way and look forward to those to come.  I also look forward to my next milkshake.