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.

Ray(s) of Sunshine

  *Attention Gentle Reader: There is a well-meaning, non-vulgar F-Bomb in this entry. Brace your tender selves.*

  The way I see it, when Death visits your life you can either think about Life or you can think about Death.  Some people probably begin thinking about mortality and what might happen to themselves after someone they know passes.  Unfortunately, I recently had the occasion to know that I am not one of those people:  Death makes me think about Life.
  Alaska contains a unique mix of people and we are very tight knit.  We are a Tribe.  And a month ago our Tribe lost one of its Elders, ending a life before its time.  I saw this news on the internet shortly before arriving in South Lake Tahoe and had no details of what had happened to Ray Garrity for the last 25 miles or so that it took for me to hike to town.  My mind reeled.  Ray had been in Alaska since the 70's and was part of the heart of its music community.  For years and years I've heard stories of the early days in Fairbanks and the antics of my Elders, who were not so "Eld" at that point, and wished that I'd been around for those days.  Rumors of a traveling Medicine Show.  People who now live in homes with flush toilets living in dry cabins with outhouses. Early music festivals.  These days seem wild and glorious and I feel lucky to hear these stories from friends of mine who see me as a "youngster" and have accepted me into their Tribe as one of their own.  Ray migrated down to Homer and has been an institution there for years.  He and his partner, Jen, host amazing parties full of decadent food and homemade music.  And though you may have been sitting in an unfinished house, tapping your toe on a plywood floor, and maybe even a window might get blown out, you never felt like you were anything less than in the company of the best people in the world.  And at the center of this, in his continually in-progress home, was Ray.  I can't claim that Ray and I were close, but I can tell you this:  Ray was the guy who brought life to a room without trying. People just wanted to be around him, to know him.  He didn't need to be the guy louder than everybody because people would quite down to hear what he had to say.  As part of the "younger" generation of Alaskans, I can confidently say that we all look up to him.  His talent playing music or playing host are talents we aspire to.  He was friendly and encouraging and interested.
  So as I sat in South Lake Tahoe, staring at a computer screen and trying to write a blog about my hike through the Sierras I just couldn't focus.  I couldn't stop thinking about Ray. My times with Ray. And my Alaskan Tribe. The simply amazing group of people that I have been lucky enough to not only call friends, but think of as family.  My hike seemed smaller at that time. I wouldn't say it felt unimportant, but my mind was in Homer, with my friends, mourning and celebrating the life of Ray.
  As I absorbed the news of Ray's accident and had hundreds of miles to think about it and what it means to me I inevitably thought of Life.  If I ever had an impact on my friends the way Ray has it will be a life well spent.  If I can be as welcoming and hospitable as Ray, I'll be glad.  I know I'll never be as good of a musician, but I sure can dance and celebrate and enjoy the music of others as well as play what I can in earnest and have fun with it.  I guess what it comes down to is that happy people make for great inspiration.  That is how I've tied this journey I'm on on the Pacific Crest Trail into Ray's life:  being content and happy makes for a better world, no matter what you are doing.  Ray was happy and spread that to those he encountered in his world and I'm fortunate to have been a part of that.  The PCT and the fact that I came back to it after a debilitating injury makes me ridiculously happy, therefore I'm doing my best to Be Like Ray.  I want to share his generous spirit in whatever way I can for his impact is lasting and he will be a part of our Tribe wherever we go. 
  Some called him Brother.  Many called him Uncle. We all called him King.  Our Tribe is missing an Elder, but we will all live out his spirit and his life will carry on in all of us.  Long live the King!
  There is a favorite, bittersweet event at the end of every festival or gathering of our Tribe that lingers in my mind and is a dear memory for me:  all of my friends, generally in a circle, arms around each other or holding hands. Some have their eyes closed, some are looking around the circle giving eye-contact and smiles.  All of us are shout-singing the chorus to our anthem, a grateful prayer to the Gods of Fun, emphatically meaning the words: "We are so fucking lucky." And we are. 
Go. Be Like Ray. It will make the world a better place.

Live life with your Fun Meter in the RED!!

 I just had to get that off my chest. Now, about the Pacific Crest Trail.....Life is grand!  I'm currently in Dunsmuir, California with only two more stops until I reach the Oregon Border!! I've logged over 1,000 miles on my tiny hooves and I'm feeling fabulous.  I'm hiking about 21-24 miles per day right now and still managing to have a 2-3 hour siesta to sit out the heat of the day.  Turns out Northern California is HOT.  I've enjoyed the views of the volcanoes, Lassen and Shasta, as well as the ever-growing forests...the trees are getting taller and everything is lush! I'm pretty much hungry all the time but have still managed to lose about 17 pounds eating nothing but Pop Tarts, Snickers, and Ramen. Go figure. All body parts are functioning and really the best I feel is when I'm walking.  When I crawl out of my tent in the mornings I'm pretty sure I look like a grandma/zombie, but once everything loosens up I'm all good. I've got a really fantastic hiking partner who I met and have been hiking with for about 950 miles and we laugh a lot and certainly help each other through the challenging moments.  Like when she dumped her just-cooked Ramen lunch on the ground. That was a rough one..... I'm happy, healthy, and headed for the border!!

Hello, Old Friend

May 15, Cantwell, Alaska:  I went to my last day at work at Denali National Park and had not packed a bag nor cleaned my cabin.

May 16, drive to Anchorage, 215 miles away.

May 17, fly to California.

May 18, pack for PCT.

May 19, drive to trail head at mile 478 in Southern California, near the Andersons.

May 20, begin hiking to Canada.  

 While all of this was indeed a whirlwind, this year's hike on the Pacific Crest Trail really began last July when I limped off the trail at Barker Pass, barely able to make camp much less walk down the path.  In an 8 day span from Tuolumne Meadows to South Lake Tahoe I had damaged my body beyond convenient repair and sat helpless and in pain while my fellow hikers marched toward Canada.  My dreams of walking from Mexico to Canada were dashed and I only hoped to walk normally and pain-free once again.  

  Fast forward an entire winter and the PCT never left my mind.  While I applied for summer jobs in Denali National Park, I always kept the option of hiking again open as my unfinished trek was never far from my mind.  Not only do I not like to leave a goal unfinished, I would look at photos from my hike, keep in touch with trail friends on the interwebs, and think about the simplicity of trail life frequently throughout the long winter months.  The PCT was never far from my mind.  

  As the time got closer and closer to make a decision about what I would do this summer, I absolutely knew what I had to do:  get back on the trail and go for it again, no matter if I succeed or fail.  I knew that if I didn't hike again this year I'd have to wait an entire another year to find out if my body was up for the task.  One thing I knew for sure: my mind wasn't up for the task of waiting to find out.  I had so much momentum and steam built up last year that my injury, months of recovery, and exceedingly slow build up of my strength was eventually only a bump on the trail to Canada...in the big picture.  

  And so, after all the hemming and hawing and deciding, suddenly there I was walking away from my parents who had driven me back to the trail, as far south as I could reasonably start considering the date, and I felt like it had all happened so fast.  My heart was beating and I was....nervous?  I have a new backpack and been doing training hikes in Denali while all my friends were still skiing, but I really didn't have total confidence in how my body would hold up.  There really is no way to know how thru-hiking will affect you until you put yourself out there and do it.  Hike. Every. Day.  Will I hike a day and feel the familiar pain in my hip? Will I make it 3 weeks and then begin limping? 

  I anxiously walked the short distance along the road until I came to the very familiar Pacific Crest Trail marker that those of us who have spent any significant time on the trail know and love.  I turned left and took my first steps back on the trail in many months.  An amazing thing happened:  after about 5 steps up the trail I was overcome with the feeling of being welcomed back by an old friend.  This trail that goes through so many environments and can be affected by weather and mood is one thing: consistent.  It is there for everyone, no matter what you have going on with your body, in your heart, or in your mind.  The trail isn't there to judge or try you, it just is there for you.  People bring their own joy or drama with them to the trail and as I walked those first steps up the first hill I felt my worries melt away and realized that once you hike this trail, whether as a thru-hiker, a section hiker, or someone who has done their first backpacking trip, you have a personal relationship with this trail.  This one trail means so much to so many people and no one interpretation or experience is definitive or superior to another.  The trail reminded me of my strength, of the wonderful people that are drawn to it, and that it was there for me any time I decided to return to it. If I choose to turn this into some sort of personal test of strength or success, that is my choice.  The trail that I spent so much time on last summer was just happy to have me back and I broke into a huge grin as I reacquainted myself with this glorious adventure of a trail. 

 Of course things are a little different this year.  Starting at mile 478 made me a stranger and a late-comer to those who had started at the Mexican border this year.  While I understand them seeing me as the "new kid," they could not possibly understand, yet, the relationship I had already established with this trail by walking 1,100 miles of it.  And because it was only a year ago that I had been walking the exact same steps, it all felt so familiar to me.  The trail knew I was no rookie.  But I also remember that feeling of ownership and hard work of having walked 500 miles and then seeing a new face on the trail.  It's OK. I don't mind. The trail and I know the truth. 

  Amazingly, my mind and body fell right into step and I have felt fit and healthy thus far.  The largely waterless desert section makes it difficult to start slow and work your way up to bigger mile days and I quickly found myself hiking an average of 20 miles per day:  the same exact miles I hiked in the same location last year when I had 500 miles already under my tiny hooves. I amazed myself.  I am faithful to a stretching routine and try to keep my muscles loose and happy.  I've got 21 days on the trail so far and have hiked over 300 miles including to the top of Mt. Whitney and over Forrester Pass, the highest point on the PCT.  Since entering the Sierras I have dropped my daily average of miles down to 17 and am delighting in the leisurely pace it feels like.  I have so much more time to linger with my feet in a brook!  Time to splay out in the high alpine meadow and watch marmots run around.  Time to lounge. At this pace, the trail practically hikes itself and I find that I am not crashing into camp with just enough energy to set up my tent.  I feel refreshed and energized by the sights of the day and the leisurely pace.  It's truly delightful.  

  I am constantly monitoring my body and every single twinge and tweak sends my mind into evaluation mode.  But I have had no major pains.  No unusual aches.  No dramatic blisters.  If it is possible to will something to be--mind over matter--it seems I have willed my body back into shape and am quietly kicking ass on the Pacific Crest Trail. But I mean that in a humble way. I will not let myself get comfortable or cocky. I will not take for granted that I am strongly hiking the same trail I weakly limped off of less than a year ago.  I will continue to stretch. I will continue to put my health first. I will continue this friendship with a trail that feels like an old friend not only to me, but to the thousands of people who have hiked it. It is here for everybody. And I will not blame it if my body gets bent out of whack again.  No matter what, it will always be here for me and it does not care if I walk the entirety in one summer or if it takes the rest of my life....it'll be here. 

 And so. I had no reason to be nervous on those first few steps back on the trail on May 20th.  I just needed my old friend to remind me of that.