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....
Monday, May 21, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Of Boy Scouts, Stalkers, and Dr. Sole
Sitting here in the backyard of Trail Angels named Ziggy and The Bear (an 80 year old couple who turn their backyard into a hiker haven for 2 months of the year) in White Water, California, in the windy, hot San Gorgonio Pass, surrounded by giant windmills and towered over by Mount San Jacinto, I find myself dumbfounded. More dumb than found, I suppose, but in awe nonetheless. Yesterday was a big day in my world of thru-hiking: I did my first 21 mile day, decended 7000+ feet in elevation, hiked past the 200-mile marker of the trip, and drank an icy cold Miller High Life under Interstate 10 as traffic whizzed by overhead. What a day.
After leaving Warner Springs, I continued through the mountains of the desert. One of the things I enjoy most about this trail is that the views and ecosystems seem to constantly change, even if subtly. Different bushes and shrubs appear, cactus come and go, wildflowers that I haven't noticed before sprinkle the hillsides and from out of nowhere a creek may flow through a valley. Water is a big deal in desert hiking and we hikers are always judging the length of our days by distance from spring to spring or cache to cache. I made my way to Idyllwild where my time was more idle than wild, but I did get a shower and some laundry done. Always bright spots in a hiker's world.
It was around this time in my hike when I discovered and named the Stalker Walker. On the early morning that we hiked 7 miles to get to the road to hitch into Idyllwild the small group of friends that I was hiking with was passed by at least 4 such Stalker Walkers. These are hikers that are absolutely flying down the trail at speeds that makes them look like they are late for an appointment or really, really have to use a bathroom. I try not to judge it, but I also don't understand it. Anyway, they are hiking so fast that when they come upon hikers moving at mortal speeds they have to put on the brakes behind the slowpokes. Now, if this were me I would simply say, "Hi! Mind if I pass?" or "Hey there! How's your morning?" or something that would a) greet and address slower hikers and let them know you are there and b) give them a chance to let you pass them on the trail. But no. This brand of hiker prefers to sneak up on you until they are literally on your heals and you are startled out of whatever reverie you are in when you realize a stranger is walking directly behind you and you have no idea how long they've been there. Stalker Walker. I find it quite rude actually and occasionally want to be passive aggressive and pretend I don't know they are there or that they may want to pass...how am I supposed to know what they want if they don't acknowledge me? But I repress those childish insticts and let them pass. Oh Stalker Walkers, learn some ettiquette would you? And what's the hurry?
The hike from Highway 74 out of Idyllwild began a new oddysey into the high alpine mountains of the San Jacinto Mountains. San Jacinto itself is 10,800+ feet and the second highest mountain in Southern California. None of this began easily for me and my hiking companions, Dan and Jamie, affectionately called the McBickersons. Jamie was feeling nauseous and as soon as we were dropped off at the trailhead by our hitched ride she began ducking into the bushes to lose her lunch and I realized that I'd left my hiking poles by the side of the road in Idyllwild where we'd been sticking our thumbs out. Feeling a bit dejected I wandered across the road to where I could see a tent set up and what was most likely "Trail Magic" happening. What I saw there was quite amazing. A man sat in the tent with a foot in his lap. A small group of 4 hikers sat around him in a circle, a girl sat facing the man with her foot on his knee and a grimace on her face. Her foot looked liked it was soaked in blood. Actually though, it was iodine and the man was the infamous Dr. Sole. This man volunteers his time during hiking season and tends to people's blistered feet along the trail. He punctures, trims, disinfects, and doctors the dirty, smelly, blistered feet of tired hikers who come limping into his station. While he works on one patient others sit around, waiting their turn, watching in facination and horror as wounds are exposed and treated. My blisters were nearly healed, so my treatment was cursory. I did get good news that my big toenail on my right foot will probably not come off. On about day 4 I ripped half of it off while moving my backpack (not recommended) and it has turned a funny color since. Not funny "ha!ha!", but more funny "peculiar". A large cooler of soda and beer was accessible to hikers and later in the evening Dr. Sole fried chicken for a small crowd and announced plans for chorizo breakfast burritos....what kind of MASH unit was this? People walked away with fresh bandages and some relief of that pesky blister pain.
Upon discovering that my poles were not longer by the road where I left them (dang.) we headed out on the trail first thing in the morning. As trail karma would have it, one of the spectators at the Dr. Sole show didn't want to walk with two poles anymore and was giving one away. I don't know the odds of this happening, but I gratefully accepted the single pole. The climbing began in earnest in this section of trail. And along with the climb we left the scrubby desert and entered a piney world of large granite boulders, sweeping desert views, trail built into the side of steep mountains, cooler temperatures, and a welcome preview of what we hope the Sierra Nevadas will be like. But bigger. I thoroughly enjoyed the continuous climbing as my knee has been responding very well (!) to the rehab I've been doing along the trail and I've been hiking mostly pain-free for about a week now. I'm still very stiff when stopped or getting going again, but I've gotten to where I'm not dreading every step, even down-hills, and can just enjoy the normal strain and exertion of my muscles growing stronger and stronger with every step. This hike is the best, most scenic, most fabulous smelling and rewarding "Buns of Steel" workout you could ever do. It feels great to just be regular exhausted at the end of the day and not limping in pain exhausted.
Up in this high elevation beauty I ran across two different troops of Boy Scouts. It was a Sunday morning and I'd just began the day with a grueling 3 mile climb to a water source that I then had to climb down 500 feet to get to. So it goes in the search for H20. The first troop I came across was from San Diego and I have to admit, they were prepared...more so than I. I was on my last scrap of toilet paper and when I asked if they had any extra they happily shared their bounty. Or maybe Bounty, or is that just paper towels? At any rate, San Diego and Scripps boy scout troops: good luck in New Mexico in August! Thanks for the kind words and interest in my hike!
We had unbelievable weather hiking across the San Jacintos and although it was definitely the most challenging hiking (some might call it "ass-kicking") it was stupendously beautiful and we felt super accomplished at the end of each day. And in a single day we left the cool temperatures, pine cones, frequent cool streams of fresh water, elevated views, and descended 7000+ feet into the harsh reality of the desert. Ah yes, the desert. The San Jacintos were a mirage, a tease, inspiration for the future, and a brief respite from the heat of the desert. I do find much beauty in the desert but sometimes the heat numbs my mind so much that I find myself dumbly stumbling one foot in front of the other with no thoughts other than moving forward. The cool, fresh air of the mountains invigorated me while the oppressive heat just dumbs me down. Yesterday I passed the 200 mile marker of the hike and I now only have about 500 miles of desert left before entering the Sierra Nevadas. It seems ridiculous to talk about miles to walk in terms of hundreds, but having 200 under my belt makes me feel confident and realistic about the future.
After taking a fairly leasurely pace for a bit to rehab my ailing knee and to take it easy on blisters, I'm finally ramping up my daily milage goal. Hoping to do about 15 miles a day now, but totally willing to be able to be flexible depending on how the day goes. But I'm feeling good and strong and I want to get through this desert! I'm definitely one of the slower hikers on the trail, but I'm enjoying my pace, taking lots of breaks, and getting to where I want to be at the end of the day. And isn't that what it's all about?
Onward to Big Bear!!
After leaving Warner Springs, I continued through the mountains of the desert. One of the things I enjoy most about this trail is that the views and ecosystems seem to constantly change, even if subtly. Different bushes and shrubs appear, cactus come and go, wildflowers that I haven't noticed before sprinkle the hillsides and from out of nowhere a creek may flow through a valley. Water is a big deal in desert hiking and we hikers are always judging the length of our days by distance from spring to spring or cache to cache. I made my way to Idyllwild where my time was more idle than wild, but I did get a shower and some laundry done. Always bright spots in a hiker's world.
It was around this time in my hike when I discovered and named the Stalker Walker. On the early morning that we hiked 7 miles to get to the road to hitch into Idyllwild the small group of friends that I was hiking with was passed by at least 4 such Stalker Walkers. These are hikers that are absolutely flying down the trail at speeds that makes them look like they are late for an appointment or really, really have to use a bathroom. I try not to judge it, but I also don't understand it. Anyway, they are hiking so fast that when they come upon hikers moving at mortal speeds they have to put on the brakes behind the slowpokes. Now, if this were me I would simply say, "Hi! Mind if I pass?" or "Hey there! How's your morning?" or something that would a) greet and address slower hikers and let them know you are there and b) give them a chance to let you pass them on the trail. But no. This brand of hiker prefers to sneak up on you until they are literally on your heals and you are startled out of whatever reverie you are in when you realize a stranger is walking directly behind you and you have no idea how long they've been there. Stalker Walker. I find it quite rude actually and occasionally want to be passive aggressive and pretend I don't know they are there or that they may want to pass...how am I supposed to know what they want if they don't acknowledge me? But I repress those childish insticts and let them pass. Oh Stalker Walkers, learn some ettiquette would you? And what's the hurry?
The hike from Highway 74 out of Idyllwild began a new oddysey into the high alpine mountains of the San Jacinto Mountains. San Jacinto itself is 10,800+ feet and the second highest mountain in Southern California. None of this began easily for me and my hiking companions, Dan and Jamie, affectionately called the McBickersons. Jamie was feeling nauseous and as soon as we were dropped off at the trailhead by our hitched ride she began ducking into the bushes to lose her lunch and I realized that I'd left my hiking poles by the side of the road in Idyllwild where we'd been sticking our thumbs out. Feeling a bit dejected I wandered across the road to where I could see a tent set up and what was most likely "Trail Magic" happening. What I saw there was quite amazing. A man sat in the tent with a foot in his lap. A small group of 4 hikers sat around him in a circle, a girl sat facing the man with her foot on his knee and a grimace on her face. Her foot looked liked it was soaked in blood. Actually though, it was iodine and the man was the infamous Dr. Sole. This man volunteers his time during hiking season and tends to people's blistered feet along the trail. He punctures, trims, disinfects, and doctors the dirty, smelly, blistered feet of tired hikers who come limping into his station. While he works on one patient others sit around, waiting their turn, watching in facination and horror as wounds are exposed and treated. My blisters were nearly healed, so my treatment was cursory. I did get good news that my big toenail on my right foot will probably not come off. On about day 4 I ripped half of it off while moving my backpack (not recommended) and it has turned a funny color since. Not funny "ha!ha!", but more funny "peculiar". A large cooler of soda and beer was accessible to hikers and later in the evening Dr. Sole fried chicken for a small crowd and announced plans for chorizo breakfast burritos....what kind of MASH unit was this? People walked away with fresh bandages and some relief of that pesky blister pain.
Upon discovering that my poles were not longer by the road where I left them (dang.) we headed out on the trail first thing in the morning. As trail karma would have it, one of the spectators at the Dr. Sole show didn't want to walk with two poles anymore and was giving one away. I don't know the odds of this happening, but I gratefully accepted the single pole. The climbing began in earnest in this section of trail. And along with the climb we left the scrubby desert and entered a piney world of large granite boulders, sweeping desert views, trail built into the side of steep mountains, cooler temperatures, and a welcome preview of what we hope the Sierra Nevadas will be like. But bigger. I thoroughly enjoyed the continuous climbing as my knee has been responding very well (!) to the rehab I've been doing along the trail and I've been hiking mostly pain-free for about a week now. I'm still very stiff when stopped or getting going again, but I've gotten to where I'm not dreading every step, even down-hills, and can just enjoy the normal strain and exertion of my muscles growing stronger and stronger with every step. This hike is the best, most scenic, most fabulous smelling and rewarding "Buns of Steel" workout you could ever do. It feels great to just be regular exhausted at the end of the day and not limping in pain exhausted.
Up in this high elevation beauty I ran across two different troops of Boy Scouts. It was a Sunday morning and I'd just began the day with a grueling 3 mile climb to a water source that I then had to climb down 500 feet to get to. So it goes in the search for H20. The first troop I came across was from San Diego and I have to admit, they were prepared...more so than I. I was on my last scrap of toilet paper and when I asked if they had any extra they happily shared their bounty. Or maybe Bounty, or is that just paper towels? At any rate, San Diego and Scripps boy scout troops: good luck in New Mexico in August! Thanks for the kind words and interest in my hike!
We had unbelievable weather hiking across the San Jacintos and although it was definitely the most challenging hiking (some might call it "ass-kicking") it was stupendously beautiful and we felt super accomplished at the end of each day. And in a single day we left the cool temperatures, pine cones, frequent cool streams of fresh water, elevated views, and descended 7000+ feet into the harsh reality of the desert. Ah yes, the desert. The San Jacintos were a mirage, a tease, inspiration for the future, and a brief respite from the heat of the desert. I do find much beauty in the desert but sometimes the heat numbs my mind so much that I find myself dumbly stumbling one foot in front of the other with no thoughts other than moving forward. The cool, fresh air of the mountains invigorated me while the oppressive heat just dumbs me down. Yesterday I passed the 200 mile marker of the hike and I now only have about 500 miles of desert left before entering the Sierra Nevadas. It seems ridiculous to talk about miles to walk in terms of hundreds, but having 200 under my belt makes me feel confident and realistic about the future.
After taking a fairly leasurely pace for a bit to rehab my ailing knee and to take it easy on blisters, I'm finally ramping up my daily milage goal. Hoping to do about 15 miles a day now, but totally willing to be able to be flexible depending on how the day goes. But I'm feeling good and strong and I want to get through this desert! I'm definitely one of the slower hikers on the trail, but I'm enjoying my pace, taking lots of breaks, and getting to where I want to be at the end of the day. And isn't that what it's all about?
Onward to Big Bear!!
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday Fellowship
As I walked down Highway 79, feet pounding on unfamilar asphalt sending aches all the way to my knees, cars and motorcycles zooming by, I asked myself, "Self, how did you end up here when the day started out so dreamy?" I received only the answer of a jacked-up Harley-Davidson blaring "Like A Rock" while roaring down the road.
My day typically starts at 5 AM when I wake up and begin packing for the day. It's a comforting routine done in the gloaming first hint of daylight. I try to hit the trail around 6 while it is still cool out and the morning light makes everything seem dreamy. Early mornings are when I have to work my kinks out and convince my stiff muscles that yes, we are indeed doing this again today.
Today was no exception to my routine and the early morning hike was particularly enjoyable as the trail left the desert hills and wound its way through several miles of grassy pastureland and black and white cows. There was a stiff breeze blowing the tall grass and everything seemed peaceful and right with the world. Walking over rolling hills and talking to cows was a perfect Sunday morning activity. The 8 miles that I needed to cover before getting to the next town, Warner Springs, went by in a flash, which I can't claim about all the miles on this trail thus far. My hiking companions, Dan and Jamie, whom I've been hiking with since the border, stopped to nurse some blisters and I carried on saying, "I'll save you a spot in the chow line!" Happy and enjoying a small creek and large oak trees that remind me of the hills of my youth, I trotted down the trail. My destination being a community center in Warner Springs that is serving as a hiker outpost.
Being the savvy hiker that I am and having such a great morning as I was, I naturally took the hike/bike trail that skirts around town to the Post Office and makes it possible to avoid walking along the Highway which is dangerous and painful on legs accustomed to dirt paths. So I whistled my way through neck high fields of grass taking pictures of barbed wire fences along the way. I arrived at the Highway and had to walk along it for a short bit before arriving at the closed Warner Springs Resort, a resort that just closed this year but in years past was the hot spot for hikers to relax, swim, resupply, and laze about. Seeing the empty golf course was a little jab in the ribs reminding me that this years' hikers would not be able to enjoy those luxuries.
Hot and sweaty, I arrived at a gate to a closed community and asked the man inside, "Where is the community center? Where they have provisions for hikers?" He responded, "Go back down Highway 79, around the bend, about a mile down you'll see it. Next to the high school." ...........What? It turns out that my pastoral detour around town had directly bypassed the place I wanted to be, sent me at least a mile out of my way (when miles really count!), and I had to walk back from where I'd come along the highway after all.
As I grew hotter and hotter, my legs more and more fatigued, and as a parade of monster trucks and fancy motorcycles zoomed along at dizzying speeds, my fanciful mood gradually ebbed away. Going a mile out of your way in a car is far different than two miles out of your way on foot. My head sank lower and lower and I kept chastizing myself for thinking I was soooooo rescourcful. Finally, finally the high school became visible and I finally saw the small, white community center that was filling in for lack of fancy resort. Dan and Jamie, who I'd left behind, had already wolfed down a homemade breakfast, had their shoes off, and asked innocently, "Where ya been?" I threw off my pack in the shade of a giant oak tree and trudged off to the community center.
Immediately I was snapped out of my funk as I realized what this community has done for us, the hikers of the PCT. Knowing that many of us depend on this small town for a resupply spot and a place to unwind, volunteers now staff the quaint, air-conditioned community center daily from 830 AM until 530 PM. There are 4 folding tables in the center of the room covered in plastic tablecloths with easter colors and cheery flowers decorating the edges. There are 3 computers with free internet available for hikers far from friends and family. A power strip allows us to recharge our cell phones and iPods. Local art adorns the walls, a hiker message board greets you at the door, and plastic flowers and plants sit atop the library of paperback books. A TV is playing bad dramas. A small room on the side houses the cashier and a roomful of hiker resupply items: Snickers, energy bars, first aid supplies, crackers. There is a foot bath with epsom salts. The sectioned off kitchen area hides two volunteers who will cook you breakfast all day or a hamburger or hot dog...all for a nominal fee. All proceeds go to the local schools.
And the best part, the most welcome part is the volunteers themselves. It harkens me back to a time when I would accompany my parents to "Fellowship" after church on Sunday mornings: everyone has snow-white hair, probably done up in curlers the night before and is just as pleased as punch to be here, meeting the hikers, and helping us in anyway they can. There are lots of smiles, questions of where we are all from, and a general feeling of hospitality. In their down time there are jigsaw puzzles being put together.
As I spend the rest of my day lounging around outside under the shade of the giant oak, drying my tent of the dew from last night, I periodically come inside to chat with the cheerful volunteers. Not only are they interested in our adventures, but they are excited to share stories of their travels and excursions, especially those who have been to Alaska. People who have been to Alaska love to talk about Alaska. So while a fancy resort with a hot springs pool may have been nice, I am enjoying the quaint homestyle hospitality of people volunteering their time to be here, people who see this as a community service, and the comforting feeling of fellowship that they have created for people they don't know and will never see again in this quirky little community center.
I think I'll go chat with Colletta.....
My day typically starts at 5 AM when I wake up and begin packing for the day. It's a comforting routine done in the gloaming first hint of daylight. I try to hit the trail around 6 while it is still cool out and the morning light makes everything seem dreamy. Early mornings are when I have to work my kinks out and convince my stiff muscles that yes, we are indeed doing this again today.
Today was no exception to my routine and the early morning hike was particularly enjoyable as the trail left the desert hills and wound its way through several miles of grassy pastureland and black and white cows. There was a stiff breeze blowing the tall grass and everything seemed peaceful and right with the world. Walking over rolling hills and talking to cows was a perfect Sunday morning activity. The 8 miles that I needed to cover before getting to the next town, Warner Springs, went by in a flash, which I can't claim about all the miles on this trail thus far. My hiking companions, Dan and Jamie, whom I've been hiking with since the border, stopped to nurse some blisters and I carried on saying, "I'll save you a spot in the chow line!" Happy and enjoying a small creek and large oak trees that remind me of the hills of my youth, I trotted down the trail. My destination being a community center in Warner Springs that is serving as a hiker outpost.
Being the savvy hiker that I am and having such a great morning as I was, I naturally took the hike/bike trail that skirts around town to the Post Office and makes it possible to avoid walking along the Highway which is dangerous and painful on legs accustomed to dirt paths. So I whistled my way through neck high fields of grass taking pictures of barbed wire fences along the way. I arrived at the Highway and had to walk along it for a short bit before arriving at the closed Warner Springs Resort, a resort that just closed this year but in years past was the hot spot for hikers to relax, swim, resupply, and laze about. Seeing the empty golf course was a little jab in the ribs reminding me that this years' hikers would not be able to enjoy those luxuries.
Hot and sweaty, I arrived at a gate to a closed community and asked the man inside, "Where is the community center? Where they have provisions for hikers?" He responded, "Go back down Highway 79, around the bend, about a mile down you'll see it. Next to the high school." ...........What? It turns out that my pastoral detour around town had directly bypassed the place I wanted to be, sent me at least a mile out of my way (when miles really count!), and I had to walk back from where I'd come along the highway after all.
As I grew hotter and hotter, my legs more and more fatigued, and as a parade of monster trucks and fancy motorcycles zoomed along at dizzying speeds, my fanciful mood gradually ebbed away. Going a mile out of your way in a car is far different than two miles out of your way on foot. My head sank lower and lower and I kept chastizing myself for thinking I was soooooo rescourcful. Finally, finally the high school became visible and I finally saw the small, white community center that was filling in for lack of fancy resort. Dan and Jamie, who I'd left behind, had already wolfed down a homemade breakfast, had their shoes off, and asked innocently, "Where ya been?" I threw off my pack in the shade of a giant oak tree and trudged off to the community center.
Immediately I was snapped out of my funk as I realized what this community has done for us, the hikers of the PCT. Knowing that many of us depend on this small town for a resupply spot and a place to unwind, volunteers now staff the quaint, air-conditioned community center daily from 830 AM until 530 PM. There are 4 folding tables in the center of the room covered in plastic tablecloths with easter colors and cheery flowers decorating the edges. There are 3 computers with free internet available for hikers far from friends and family. A power strip allows us to recharge our cell phones and iPods. Local art adorns the walls, a hiker message board greets you at the door, and plastic flowers and plants sit atop the library of paperback books. A TV is playing bad dramas. A small room on the side houses the cashier and a roomful of hiker resupply items: Snickers, energy bars, first aid supplies, crackers. There is a foot bath with epsom salts. The sectioned off kitchen area hides two volunteers who will cook you breakfast all day or a hamburger or hot dog...all for a nominal fee. All proceeds go to the local schools.
And the best part, the most welcome part is the volunteers themselves. It harkens me back to a time when I would accompany my parents to "Fellowship" after church on Sunday mornings: everyone has snow-white hair, probably done up in curlers the night before and is just as pleased as punch to be here, meeting the hikers, and helping us in anyway they can. There are lots of smiles, questions of where we are all from, and a general feeling of hospitality. In their down time there are jigsaw puzzles being put together.
As I spend the rest of my day lounging around outside under the shade of the giant oak, drying my tent of the dew from last night, I periodically come inside to chat with the cheerful volunteers. Not only are they interested in our adventures, but they are excited to share stories of their travels and excursions, especially those who have been to Alaska. People who have been to Alaska love to talk about Alaska. So while a fancy resort with a hot springs pool may have been nice, I am enjoying the quaint homestyle hospitality of people volunteering their time to be here, people who see this as a community service, and the comforting feeling of fellowship that they have created for people they don't know and will never see again in this quirky little community center.
I think I'll go chat with Colletta.....
 |
| Footbath and pinecone display anyone? Yes, please! |
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tales from the Trail
When I pictured myself documenting the adventure of my epic hike, I envisioned nightly sessions in my tent frantically writing all the musings from the day: random thoughts, physical observations, and reflection on the natural surroundings. I even saw myself with a little notepad tucked away in my shirt pocket so as something brilliantly funny or profound entered my head I could jot it down on the trail. Turns out that lots of things that you thought before the trail are not what happen in actuality. The reality is that a) very little of interest actually happens in my wee brain while hiking (though I did come up with an idea for an awesome new greeting for my voicemail), b) there is a strong chance that the desert heat has drained most creativity from my struggling musings, and c) in the evening it takes all of my remaining energy from the day to set up camp, cook dinner, tend to my blistered feet, and then die in a pile.
So now, in a public library in Julian, CA, I will do my best to summarize my first 6 days of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.
First of all, the trail itself is a hiker's dream. The climbs are relatively gradual (relative to hiking straight up which is the case in many scenarios), switchbacks are plentiful. The desert ecosystems are a delight to one accostomed to tundra and taiga and the sweeping vistas with layer after layer of shaded blue mountains are reminiscent of patriotic songs. Lizards scurrying across the trail and doing push-ups in the sun are frequent. Unfamiliar bird calls tickle the ear. Cacti and wildflowers are in full bloom making me wish I could afford the weight of an identification book. But there's another element: The Heat. I am familiar with it's rival, The Cold, but The Heat is a whole other ball of wax. It's an extra weight on my shoulders to combine with the weight of my pack. It sits on my head and covers the back of my hands. It makes each step heavier than it should feel. It's one thing to sit in my cabin in Cantwell and know it's going to be hot and a totally different thing to experience that heat. The only thing that makes sense is to wake early and travel in the cooler morning hours, take a break during the mid-day heat, and make a few more miles in the fading sun. I also carry a parisol which may look funny, but provides a few degrees of cooler temps and shade directly over my dome and allows me to carry on just a little bit further. The Heat is the big challenge of this section of trail.
One unexpected aspect of The Heat is that it killed my appetite. Just when I would expect that I would be ravenous and needing thousands of calories to get down the trail, I have zero appetite. Not only zero appetite, but anything remotely sweet-- granola bars, nuts, and (gasp!) even my beloved Snickers bars-- are difficult to choke down. Like a cat trying to remove the hair from its tongue after a good bath, I chew, flick my tongue, shake my head and force the food to go down because I know I need the energy it will give me. The only food my body can abide is salty goodness. And so, this is why my food bag resembles a frat boy's dorm: Ramen, dried meat sticks of any variety, Pringles, tuna in a foil packet, corn nuts of various MSG-enhanced flavors...you name it. I suppose my body is craving all that salt that I am sweating out by the buckets throughout the day. Hey, whatever it takes. But my trip to the market today was almost embarrassing in the junkiness of it....
Being only a week into a multiple-month hike, my body is getting used to its new regimen. And, again, while you think you can prepare for foot care, have dealt with blisters on many trips in the past, it's just never the same as living it. Perhaps it is my shoe choice or perhaps it is the heat, but I've gotten blisters in unfamiliar places. Not a one on my heels. But the ball of my left foot has grown into a continuous blister from under my big toe all the way across four toes and up between each one. It also feels like someone has been pounding it with a hammer, just for fun. Each night is spent with my Leatherman and my first aid kit, lancing blisters, cleaning, putting on ointment, and bandaging. I wept in my tent the night it spread across all four toes. But this too shall pass, my feet will toughen up, I may get new shoes, and all my aches and pains will gradually disappate into sheer strength. I have to say, I think I have a rather high pain tolerance to keep hiking with them and my bum knee. That or I'm very, very stupid.
Socially, I've been blessed as well. The crew of people that started hiking around the same time as I did are similar minded and focused. We are extremely supportive and easy-going with each other and kindnesses performed by one are passed on by another. There is a definite sense of karma on the trail and good deeds turn into good deeds done unto you when you need it most. I get a sense that there is or will be a "party" atmosphere among some of the hikers and I'm glad to have missed that wave of people as that is not why I'm on this journey. Many, many of the hikers seem to be graduates of the Appalachian Trail and I've heard lots and lots of stories and comparisons. They, on the other hand, have heard lots and lots of stories about Alaska and how this trail differs from my experiences there....we meet in the middle, here on the PCT. Also, people surrounding the trail are exceptionally nice. In the two trail towns I've been in, vendors and townsfolk are accostomed to having hikers strewn around town, downing soda and chips, airing out nasty socks or sleeping bags, and yet they always have a smile and ask how the trip is going. It is such a nice reception particularly when you feel like you are hobo and definitely smell like one.
As I mentioned, my injured knee from my ski trip of a month ago is giving me a bit of a problem. Today is what we hikers call a "Zero Day" which means that I'm taking a day off and hiking zero miles. Five and a half days of hiking has already brought me 78 miles from my start point and it's a good time to rest up my feet and my knee. I'm icing, elevating, stretching, and taking Vitamin I (ibuprofen). Feeling better already. Keep your fingers and toes crossed that I can baby my aching joint into accepting that my intent is walking to Canada....
I worry about my knee, but otherwise my spirits are good. I love this trail. Every day is different; there are high points and low points, and there is magic. We gage miles by distance between one water source to the next. We take frequent breaks. We are thankful for every inch of shade we can squeeze in to and for every breath of air that cools the sweat from our brows. We are living the simple life. We walk for a living. I couldn't ask for more.
So now, in a public library in Julian, CA, I will do my best to summarize my first 6 days of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.
First of all, the trail itself is a hiker's dream. The climbs are relatively gradual (relative to hiking straight up which is the case in many scenarios), switchbacks are plentiful. The desert ecosystems are a delight to one accostomed to tundra and taiga and the sweeping vistas with layer after layer of shaded blue mountains are reminiscent of patriotic songs. Lizards scurrying across the trail and doing push-ups in the sun are frequent. Unfamiliar bird calls tickle the ear. Cacti and wildflowers are in full bloom making me wish I could afford the weight of an identification book. But there's another element: The Heat. I am familiar with it's rival, The Cold, but The Heat is a whole other ball of wax. It's an extra weight on my shoulders to combine with the weight of my pack. It sits on my head and covers the back of my hands. It makes each step heavier than it should feel. It's one thing to sit in my cabin in Cantwell and know it's going to be hot and a totally different thing to experience that heat. The only thing that makes sense is to wake early and travel in the cooler morning hours, take a break during the mid-day heat, and make a few more miles in the fading sun. I also carry a parisol which may look funny, but provides a few degrees of cooler temps and shade directly over my dome and allows me to carry on just a little bit further. The Heat is the big challenge of this section of trail.
One unexpected aspect of The Heat is that it killed my appetite. Just when I would expect that I would be ravenous and needing thousands of calories to get down the trail, I have zero appetite. Not only zero appetite, but anything remotely sweet-- granola bars, nuts, and (gasp!) even my beloved Snickers bars-- are difficult to choke down. Like a cat trying to remove the hair from its tongue after a good bath, I chew, flick my tongue, shake my head and force the food to go down because I know I need the energy it will give me. The only food my body can abide is salty goodness. And so, this is why my food bag resembles a frat boy's dorm: Ramen, dried meat sticks of any variety, Pringles, tuna in a foil packet, corn nuts of various MSG-enhanced flavors...you name it. I suppose my body is craving all that salt that I am sweating out by the buckets throughout the day. Hey, whatever it takes. But my trip to the market today was almost embarrassing in the junkiness of it....
Being only a week into a multiple-month hike, my body is getting used to its new regimen. And, again, while you think you can prepare for foot care, have dealt with blisters on many trips in the past, it's just never the same as living it. Perhaps it is my shoe choice or perhaps it is the heat, but I've gotten blisters in unfamiliar places. Not a one on my heels. But the ball of my left foot has grown into a continuous blister from under my big toe all the way across four toes and up between each one. It also feels like someone has been pounding it with a hammer, just for fun. Each night is spent with my Leatherman and my first aid kit, lancing blisters, cleaning, putting on ointment, and bandaging. I wept in my tent the night it spread across all four toes. But this too shall pass, my feet will toughen up, I may get new shoes, and all my aches and pains will gradually disappate into sheer strength. I have to say, I think I have a rather high pain tolerance to keep hiking with them and my bum knee. That or I'm very, very stupid.
Socially, I've been blessed as well. The crew of people that started hiking around the same time as I did are similar minded and focused. We are extremely supportive and easy-going with each other and kindnesses performed by one are passed on by another. There is a definite sense of karma on the trail and good deeds turn into good deeds done unto you when you need it most. I get a sense that there is or will be a "party" atmosphere among some of the hikers and I'm glad to have missed that wave of people as that is not why I'm on this journey. Many, many of the hikers seem to be graduates of the Appalachian Trail and I've heard lots and lots of stories and comparisons. They, on the other hand, have heard lots and lots of stories about Alaska and how this trail differs from my experiences there....we meet in the middle, here on the PCT. Also, people surrounding the trail are exceptionally nice. In the two trail towns I've been in, vendors and townsfolk are accostomed to having hikers strewn around town, downing soda and chips, airing out nasty socks or sleeping bags, and yet they always have a smile and ask how the trip is going. It is such a nice reception particularly when you feel like you are hobo and definitely smell like one.
As I mentioned, my injured knee from my ski trip of a month ago is giving me a bit of a problem. Today is what we hikers call a "Zero Day" which means that I'm taking a day off and hiking zero miles. Five and a half days of hiking has already brought me 78 miles from my start point and it's a good time to rest up my feet and my knee. I'm icing, elevating, stretching, and taking Vitamin I (ibuprofen). Feeling better already. Keep your fingers and toes crossed that I can baby my aching joint into accepting that my intent is walking to Canada....
I worry about my knee, but otherwise my spirits are good. I love this trail. Every day is different; there are high points and low points, and there is magic. We gage miles by distance between one water source to the next. We take frequent breaks. We are thankful for every inch of shade we can squeeze in to and for every breath of air that cools the sweat from our brows. We are living the simple life. We walk for a living. I couldn't ask for more.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
WeeBee: Sponsored Athlete
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| Loving the Alaska Love |
Don't be intimidated. Don't be afraid to come up and talk to me. If you want an autograph, please bring your own pen as thru-hikers don't waste ounces on pens. Finally, after all these years of biking, hiking, and skiing I've finally been acknowledged for the fine-tuned machine that I am (fine-tuned plus winter weight and slightly gimpy knee, of course...).
Before my imaginary ego gets too out of control, here's the real story:
When contemplating what kind of hat I would be wearing to keep the intense Southern California sun off my Alaskan cheeks (...the ones on my face), I realized that this hat would be making a statement. It will be one of the first things folks along the trail will notice (it's hard to ignore something that is perched above one's face), and will also be in every dang long-arm photo I take (Look! Here's my double chin, my hat, and a rattlesnake!). I also had to consider if my hat had a logo or writing on it that I would essentially be a walking billboard. My forehead is valuable advertising space. If I sported a logo or an emblem, I would, in fact, be telling the world that I can be associated with said restaurant/outfitter/slogan/what-have-you. Yes, this seems like a lot of thought to put into which hat I'm going to wear for the next few months, but I don't want to grab the nearest hat I find and have people think that "One tequila! Two tequila! Three tequila! FLOOR! Cabo San Lucas, Mexico" is in any way representative of me. Not that I have a hat like that... just sayin'.
So, while other hikers reach out to international wool garment companies, sleeping bag makers, camping food providers, and sunglasses businesses to help sway the cost of their hike (very resourcefully and practically, I might add....wish I'd thought of that) I reached out to a small, cottage industry in Alaska. One with a powerful message. One whose drift I catch in a big way. Alaska Love.
The premise is simple and to the point. The logo is essentially the Alaska flag, with the Big Dipper and the North Star on it, but done with hearts rather than stars. And the only words along side the emblem are : "alaska love". This really sums it up for me as I happen to love Alaska (see previous post for more gushing). This is a message I can carry with pride along 2,650 miles of trail. A message that accurately represents my stance to people I first meet or even just pass along the trail with a nod. This logo says it all.
I blindly contacted Alaska Love (www.alaskalaughter.com OR www.facebook.com/alaskalove), explained my hike and that I'd like to represent Alaska in this way along my journey but that I couldn't necessarily justify paying more money for a trucker hat when I have about 9 trucker hats and have just spent a small ransom on new gear for this trek. I asked if their company would like to donate a hat for my cause. I promised massive exposure. Happily I received an enthusiastic YES and not only did Marne at Alaska Love give me a trucker hat, she also supplied me with a t-shirt and a couple of stickers!! I love Alaska Love!
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| This is how much I love Alaska Love! |
Along these lines, I'd also like to thank Jim and Carol from Arctic Treks (www.arctictreksadventures.com) for getting me a killer deal on freeze-dried food and Juliette Boselli from Denali Mountain Works (www.akrivers.com) for the socks. Support your local small businesses, people!!!
My hat and I are nearly ready for the trail and I anticipate sneaker on desert action on Friday morning bright and early.....
Monday, April 9, 2012
Limbo
As I drove south from Cantwell, the weather matched my mood. There were clouds down to the base of the mountains and I couldn't see any of the majestic peaks that usually make this section of the Parks highway my absolute favorite. I drove away from the home I built, the friends I love, and the place on earth that makes me feel whole.
It has been a hectic week, to say the least. Between unpacking from travel and ski trips I also had to gather my gear for the Pacific Crest Trail and move some things out of my cabin so a friend can move in for the summer. This is after an 8-day ski trip and a 3-day snow machine trip and a 25K ski race in the previous 2 weeks..... Some might say I had bitten off more than I can chew, but I got my poop in a group and accomplished nearly everything I wanted to. In between these chores were evenings spent at potlucks, slideshows, and Music Night. Never a dull moment! I feel I've got to see most of my close friends for quality time and goodbyes though a couple have slipped through the cracks. All my ducks are in a row, I was able to leave at a reasonable hour for the drive south, and I no longer have to worry about my cabin or what condition it's in: it is what it is. I wish I'd cleaned it for myself like that back in cold, dark January!!
As I was driving south to Anchorage I couldn't shake this feeling of sadness and nostalgia. Rather than being pumped up about the PCT, I was thinking about how difficult it is to leave Alaska. Particularly during the glory time!! We survived the extreme conditions of winter and now is when the sun and warmth arrive and bless us with our short summer season which is practically considered sacred around these parts. Migrating birds return, baby animals are born, ice transforms into rushing water, leaves appear in what seems like a day, flowers start to bloom and then are suddenly so prolific that entire highways are framed in bright pink and entire hillsides look like an ad from a seed catalog. But beyond the physical beauty and my wonderful community of friends there is just something intangible about my relationship and feelings for where I live.
Though not born in Alaska, I feel I got here as quickly as I could. I always say, "I can't help where my momma was when she borned me!" I've had a relationship with the 49th state since I was a young pup of 22 and like all relationships we've had our ups and downs. I've left her for other states and always come back. She forgives me and welcomes me back with open arms. I tire of the long winter and vacation somewhere hot only to find my mind and body yearning, craving the crisp cold air of Alaska, the freshest in the world. She coddles me in sunshine and sweet ski conditions one day and beats me down with hurricane winds the next. It's a dynamic relationship, to be sure, and I know who wears the pants in the family, but I love it--I love her--and am grateful for the beauty and magic she has shown me; about herself and about my own self. Sometimes she lifts me up and makes me feel like a superhero and other times she lets me know I've grown too big for my britches and teaches me humility.
As I continued my drive south with my melancholy mood, Alaska tried to cheer me up. I got a strip tease out of her. She began by lifting her cloud-dress just a little, to reveal some of the glacial river valleys below. I gave her a side-glance. Then she shimmied her cottony shift above her ankles to reveal some of the Alaska Range foothills. My eyebrows raised. Farther and farther up the billowy gown went until I was treated to a full frontal: Denali, in all her glory, from head to toe, stripped naked of all her cloudy garments. Meow! Jaw wide open, eyes popping. Standing tall in her blues and purples with a backdrop of powder blue, Alaska gave me her most thoughtful send off. She told me she'll be here, just like this, when I get back. The cabaret continued to the south with the bold, brazen, and completely naked chorus girls of the Chugach Range. Alaska really gave it her all.
In my indomitable pursuit of living in the Now, I find myself in limbo. Yes, I'm still in Alaska, but I'm not at home. I am close enough to look to the north and feel the pull of my ginormous backyard. To feel the presence of my friends who feel more like family and who I will not see for the next 6 months. My consolation is that I am still in Alaska for one more day and it's a gorgeous, sunny day. And while I don't necessarily connect with Anchorage as a place, it sure contains some really wonderful people whom I will celebrate with this evening. Tomorrow I will be in California, but I will not be on the Pacific Crest Trail. I will get to spend time with my parents, childhood friends, and get down to the nitty gritty of truly packing for this epic journey.
But for now: limbo. Not at home and not on the trail. If you ask me how I'm doing today or ask if I'm excited about my trip I might tear up a little bit. My sadness is absolutely no reflection on my feelings for the PCT, I am excited for it. It is a dream come true! But my melancholy stems from saying farewell to a place that has so thoroughly worked its way into my soul that I sometimes find it difficult to distinguish between Place and Self. Over the years I've found that I define myself by Alaska. I wasn't born here, but I am Alaskan. The place, the people are all a part of who I am. And now I'm going to a new place with new people and I think it's OK to take an afternoon to go ahead and miss this place and these people.
Lord knows that once I'm on the trail I won't be missing anything......
It has been a hectic week, to say the least. Between unpacking from travel and ski trips I also had to gather my gear for the Pacific Crest Trail and move some things out of my cabin so a friend can move in for the summer. This is after an 8-day ski trip and a 3-day snow machine trip and a 25K ski race in the previous 2 weeks..... Some might say I had bitten off more than I can chew, but I got my poop in a group and accomplished nearly everything I wanted to. In between these chores were evenings spent at potlucks, slideshows, and Music Night. Never a dull moment! I feel I've got to see most of my close friends for quality time and goodbyes though a couple have slipped through the cracks. All my ducks are in a row, I was able to leave at a reasonable hour for the drive south, and I no longer have to worry about my cabin or what condition it's in: it is what it is. I wish I'd cleaned it for myself like that back in cold, dark January!!
As I was driving south to Anchorage I couldn't shake this feeling of sadness and nostalgia. Rather than being pumped up about the PCT, I was thinking about how difficult it is to leave Alaska. Particularly during the glory time!! We survived the extreme conditions of winter and now is when the sun and warmth arrive and bless us with our short summer season which is practically considered sacred around these parts. Migrating birds return, baby animals are born, ice transforms into rushing water, leaves appear in what seems like a day, flowers start to bloom and then are suddenly so prolific that entire highways are framed in bright pink and entire hillsides look like an ad from a seed catalog. But beyond the physical beauty and my wonderful community of friends there is just something intangible about my relationship and feelings for where I live.
Though not born in Alaska, I feel I got here as quickly as I could. I always say, "I can't help where my momma was when she borned me!" I've had a relationship with the 49th state since I was a young pup of 22 and like all relationships we've had our ups and downs. I've left her for other states and always come back. She forgives me and welcomes me back with open arms. I tire of the long winter and vacation somewhere hot only to find my mind and body yearning, craving the crisp cold air of Alaska, the freshest in the world. She coddles me in sunshine and sweet ski conditions one day and beats me down with hurricane winds the next. It's a dynamic relationship, to be sure, and I know who wears the pants in the family, but I love it--I love her--and am grateful for the beauty and magic she has shown me; about herself and about my own self. Sometimes she lifts me up and makes me feel like a superhero and other times she lets me know I've grown too big for my britches and teaches me humility.
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| Feeling nostalgic for afternoons like this in my backyard. |
In my indomitable pursuit of living in the Now, I find myself in limbo. Yes, I'm still in Alaska, but I'm not at home. I am close enough to look to the north and feel the pull of my ginormous backyard. To feel the presence of my friends who feel more like family and who I will not see for the next 6 months. My consolation is that I am still in Alaska for one more day and it's a gorgeous, sunny day. And while I don't necessarily connect with Anchorage as a place, it sure contains some really wonderful people whom I will celebrate with this evening. Tomorrow I will be in California, but I will not be on the Pacific Crest Trail. I will get to spend time with my parents, childhood friends, and get down to the nitty gritty of truly packing for this epic journey.
But for now: limbo. Not at home and not on the trail. If you ask me how I'm doing today or ask if I'm excited about my trip I might tear up a little bit. My sadness is absolutely no reflection on my feelings for the PCT, I am excited for it. It is a dream come true! But my melancholy stems from saying farewell to a place that has so thoroughly worked its way into my soul that I sometimes find it difficult to distinguish between Place and Self. Over the years I've found that I define myself by Alaska. I wasn't born here, but I am Alaskan. The place, the people are all a part of who I am. And now I'm going to a new place with new people and I think it's OK to take an afternoon to go ahead and miss this place and these people.
Lord knows that once I'm on the trail I won't be missing anything......
Monday, April 2, 2012
Adventures in Falling or How I Nearly Ended My PCT Hike Before I Started It
I just returned from an 8-day, 65-mile ski trip with the Denali Ladies Ski Club. It was totally epic, a challenge, and a jaw-dropping reminder of why we live here and put up with January. January, you are forgiven. March negates you. March infuses Alaskans with absurd quantities of optimism and superhero-like energy which is the antithesis of January's contribution to one's mood. Every year at this time the DLSC takes advantage of daylight, good snow conditions (hopefully!), and the beauty of our backyard and does a multi-day ski trip, completely self-sufficient, self-propelled. We wear backpacks and drag sleds behind us. We like to be warm and well-fed therefore we travel "slow and heavy" rather than "fast and light." Our destination changes every year though we always find nooks and crannies of valleys and ridges that we hope to return to someday. There is just so much to see in our own backyard which also happens to be the Alaska Range. With the exception of last year when we flew above the Arctic Circle and skied for 16 days through Gates of the Arctic National Park, we generally meet at someone's cabin and ski right out the front door. We're lucky like that.
This year we met at Anne and Shannon's compound, they are neighbors, and skied up the Yanert Valley. We hauled ourselves up and over a pass on Dean Creek and dropped into the stunning Wood River valley. From there we left the ease of following snowmachine trails and broke trail up the unmarked snow of Little Grizzly creek, over another pass, and dropped into Dick Creek. Dick empties into the Yanert and we closed the circle and skied back home. 5 women in the wilderness for a week, working hard and playing hard and giggling an awful lot along the way.
On our way up Little Grizzly Creek on day 4 we encountered quite a bit of route-finding and bushwhacking. As we wove our way around willow and alder stands, we sometimes found ourselves side-hilling on moderately steep terrain on the shoulder of the creek. As all of us have been skiers for many years, this does not cause much of a problem. The Denali Ladies keep our risks to a minimum and therefore avoid any really steep terrain, sketchy snow conditions, or any other situations that make us feel uncomfortable or unsafe. This being said, sometimes we find ourselves in awkward positions: side-hilling with a sled on, bushwhacking on a slope with skis on, or breaking trail thru deep powder while hauling a 50 pound boat of a sled. That sort of thing.
So while we avoided the dense thickets of brush in the creek bed, we stayed high on a gentle shoulder above the drainage. We had some steep climbs, were stopped by side drainages that were too deep and snow-filled to cross and had to climb more to avoid, and were finally skiing back down to the creek at a point where we could see that the vegetation thinned out. After all of this, I was about 50 feet from the bottom of the valley, skiing a steep-ish slope at an angle and all my concentration was focused on getting down without falling. Having covered hundreds of miles of terrain while pulling a sled, I knew to expect that the sled would not track behind me on such a slope and that it would swing out to my right on the downhill side. I'm also trying to check my speed so I don't go barreling out of control. While I've got my knees turned in in somewhat of a snowplow, I feel the sled sliding out from behind me and I try to brace myself for this contradiction of directions I'm about to be pulled in: at an angle across the slope and a sudden jerk directly downhill. This technique has worked for me before and I can sort of control my descent with some sort of dignity.
On this particular slope, on this particular day, I did not manage to do much with dignity. As the sled dislodged itself from my ski tracks everything slowed down into slow motion in my mind, which is saying something because I'm not all that quick upstairs. I was poised to receive and counterbalance the inevitable jerk to the downhill side and then things went wrong. I don't know if it was the angle of the slope or a small ripple in the boiler-plate surface of the snow, but when the jerk arrived, my right knee remained turned in but my right foot popped out from the tucked position and flailed downhill. All the momentum of the sled was suddenly concentrated into my right knee and I felt a "pop." Physically, I fell and grabbed my knee and slid to a stop on the slope with my body downhill and my legs uphill, my backpack awry on my frame and the weight of the sled anchored by my body. I'm not sure, but I believe my exact words upon skidding to a standstill and gripping my knee were something like, "OH FUCK! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!" (x50). (Sorry about the language, but pain will do that to even a demure gal like me.) Mentally, my experience was more like this:
OK, here we go...here comes the sled...OUCH!! Oh shit. We are going to have to use Shannon's SPOT emergency device. Someone is going to have to come out on a snowmachine and haul me out of here. Well, at least we are only a few days out by skis and a couple hours away by machine. Dammit, I don't want to have to be rescued.
Ah man, I don't have insurance anymore!! If this is my ACL I'm going to have to have surgery and holy cow is that going to be expensive and what a long recovery and.....oh. my. gawd. The PCT. THE PCT!! I've got the next 6 months of my life mapped out based on my physical health!! If my knee is truly messed up what the hell am I going to do for the next 6 months?? Ugh...get a job?? Not what I had in mind! Oh shit! All my eggs are in one basket...what if I can't do the PCT? What will I do? My life just took a turn for the different.....
OK, calm down, WeeBee...[I was starting to hyperventilate a little] Breathe. Calm down and breathe. One thing at a time....Oh fuck.
All of those thoughts sort of simultaneously appeared in my head and yet were all distinct ideas. And all in a matter of a second or so. Very shortly after my fall, my ladies were by my side, my pack was off and hauled to the bottom of the slope, and we got me righted. After feeling that "pop" my mind went into worst-case-scenario mode and I already had myself receiving a cadaver ligament. As it turns out I did not do any major ACL damage but merely sprained or strained it. I was able to hobble down the hill to my sled where I popped some ibuprofen and applied ice to my knee while the ladies got themselves down the hill and we decided to make camp. The next 4 days of the ski trip were spent babying my knee, icing it, giving up my sled and some gear to my girlfriends, and walking and skiing as gently as possible. Inconsistent snow conditions and downhills were stressful and strenuous. When we finally got back to the Yanert River and the flat, solid conditions there, I was quite comfortable to ski and it actually felt good for my knee. Since the trip has finished I'm taking it easy and aiming for full recovery shortly.
Still, and all, it was a really scary, eye-opening second in my life where I realized that in one false move I could have changed my entire future and compromised my whole Pacific Crest Trail bid. Funny that the part that terrified and disappointed me the most was the thought of having to work this summer. I'm happy to report that though a little stiff, my knee seems to be on the mend and I look forward to hiking in boots which feel a little more predictable than having long boards strapped to my feet. Onward!! Finally, there are no more adventures between me and the Pacific Crest Trail. I fly to California in a week and hit the trail shortly after....!!
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| Denali Ladies Ski Club: backpacks and sleds on nice, flat terrain. |
On our way up Little Grizzly Creek on day 4 we encountered quite a bit of route-finding and bushwhacking. As we wove our way around willow and alder stands, we sometimes found ourselves side-hilling on moderately steep terrain on the shoulder of the creek. As all of us have been skiers for many years, this does not cause much of a problem. The Denali Ladies keep our risks to a minimum and therefore avoid any really steep terrain, sketchy snow conditions, or any other situations that make us feel uncomfortable or unsafe. This being said, sometimes we find ourselves in awkward positions: side-hilling with a sled on, bushwhacking on a slope with skis on, or breaking trail thru deep powder while hauling a 50 pound boat of a sled. That sort of thing.
So while we avoided the dense thickets of brush in the creek bed, we stayed high on a gentle shoulder above the drainage. We had some steep climbs, were stopped by side drainages that were too deep and snow-filled to cross and had to climb more to avoid, and were finally skiing back down to the creek at a point where we could see that the vegetation thinned out. After all of this, I was about 50 feet from the bottom of the valley, skiing a steep-ish slope at an angle and all my concentration was focused on getting down without falling. Having covered hundreds of miles of terrain while pulling a sled, I knew to expect that the sled would not track behind me on such a slope and that it would swing out to my right on the downhill side. I'm also trying to check my speed so I don't go barreling out of control. While I've got my knees turned in in somewhat of a snowplow, I feel the sled sliding out from behind me and I try to brace myself for this contradiction of directions I'm about to be pulled in: at an angle across the slope and a sudden jerk directly downhill. This technique has worked for me before and I can sort of control my descent with some sort of dignity.
On this particular slope, on this particular day, I did not manage to do much with dignity. As the sled dislodged itself from my ski tracks everything slowed down into slow motion in my mind, which is saying something because I'm not all that quick upstairs. I was poised to receive and counterbalance the inevitable jerk to the downhill side and then things went wrong. I don't know if it was the angle of the slope or a small ripple in the boiler-plate surface of the snow, but when the jerk arrived, my right knee remained turned in but my right foot popped out from the tucked position and flailed downhill. All the momentum of the sled was suddenly concentrated into my right knee and I felt a "pop." Physically, I fell and grabbed my knee and slid to a stop on the slope with my body downhill and my legs uphill, my backpack awry on my frame and the weight of the sled anchored by my body. I'm not sure, but I believe my exact words upon skidding to a standstill and gripping my knee were something like, "OH FUCK! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!" (x50). (Sorry about the language, but pain will do that to even a demure gal like me.) Mentally, my experience was more like this:
OK, here we go...here comes the sled...OUCH!! Oh shit. We are going to have to use Shannon's SPOT emergency device. Someone is going to have to come out on a snowmachine and haul me out of here. Well, at least we are only a few days out by skis and a couple hours away by machine. Dammit, I don't want to have to be rescued.
Ah man, I don't have insurance anymore!! If this is my ACL I'm going to have to have surgery and holy cow is that going to be expensive and what a long recovery and.....oh. my. gawd. The PCT. THE PCT!! I've got the next 6 months of my life mapped out based on my physical health!! If my knee is truly messed up what the hell am I going to do for the next 6 months?? Ugh...get a job?? Not what I had in mind! Oh shit! All my eggs are in one basket...what if I can't do the PCT? What will I do? My life just took a turn for the different.....
OK, calm down, WeeBee...[I was starting to hyperventilate a little] Breathe. Calm down and breathe. One thing at a time....Oh fuck.
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| This is actually just before my mishap, but a great example of how squirrelly the sleds can be on steep slopes. |
All of those thoughts sort of simultaneously appeared in my head and yet were all distinct ideas. And all in a matter of a second or so. Very shortly after my fall, my ladies were by my side, my pack was off and hauled to the bottom of the slope, and we got me righted. After feeling that "pop" my mind went into worst-case-scenario mode and I already had myself receiving a cadaver ligament. As it turns out I did not do any major ACL damage but merely sprained or strained it. I was able to hobble down the hill to my sled where I popped some ibuprofen and applied ice to my knee while the ladies got themselves down the hill and we decided to make camp. The next 4 days of the ski trip were spent babying my knee, icing it, giving up my sled and some gear to my girlfriends, and walking and skiing as gently as possible. Inconsistent snow conditions and downhills were stressful and strenuous. When we finally got back to the Yanert River and the flat, solid conditions there, I was quite comfortable to ski and it actually felt good for my knee. Since the trip has finished I'm taking it easy and aiming for full recovery shortly.
Still, and all, it was a really scary, eye-opening second in my life where I realized that in one false move I could have changed my entire future and compromised my whole Pacific Crest Trail bid. Funny that the part that terrified and disappointed me the most was the thought of having to work this summer. I'm happy to report that though a little stiff, my knee seems to be on the mend and I look forward to hiking in boots which feel a little more predictable than having long boards strapped to my feet. Onward!! Finally, there are no more adventures between me and the Pacific Crest Trail. I fly to California in a week and hit the trail shortly after....!!
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