Someone, and I really do not know who, because it happened before I arrived, had the genius idea to hike a fifteen mile stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail. Fifteen miles is not a problem for S. and N., who are bizarrely fit without making any kind of effort, but F. and I are slightly less naturally athletic, and I'm not sure I have ever in my life hiked fifteen miles in one go.
Of course we had to start out with a good night of sleep and pancakes and coffee, and then we had to drop the car off at the trailhead where we were going to leave the trail, so it was 1:15 pm before we actually started hiking.
Obstacles encountered:
Of course we had to start out with a good night of sleep and pancakes and coffee, and then we had to drop the car off at the trailhead where we were going to leave the trail, so it was 1:15 pm before we actually started hiking.
Obstacles encountered:
- 15 miles
- Lots of uphills (these are mountains, after all)
- Lava fields in the afternoon sun
- Fifteen miles
- F.'s bum knee and, as he said to me later, "the eighty to a hundred pounds I have on you"
- Forgetting to eat/drink enough
- All those MILES.
Four and a half hours and 6.5 miles into the hike, S. insisted that N. and I leave her behind with F., so that we at least could complete the entire planned trail, and hopefully see the sunset from the final lava field. She and F. would cut off a few miles and meet us at the trailhead. N. and I had been hiking far ahead anyway, and then sitting in the sparse bits of shade on the lava, throwing pebbles across the path at each others' water bottles while we waited for S. and F. to show up.
"Midnight is panic time," she said. "If we aren't out by then, start walking back up the trail to find us."
If anyone could get F. over the pass and through the trail, it would be S. She is infinitely patient with the slow people on these sorts of trips. Last year, she got a forty-something, out of shape woman who had never before climbed a mountain up a fairly large one. She cajoles and persuades and feeds and bullies, and somehow the slow people keep going.
So we set off, N. and I, with me in front to set a pace that I could maintain. It took us just over four hours to do the remaining 8.5 miles. We hiked through alpine meadows and stunted pines, over lava and obsidian, and up and down through the woods. We barely stopped to rest. I wasn't sure I could keep going once I stopped, although I didn't say that out loud.
"Do you want to climb down to that waterfall?" I asked at one point.
"Not really. Do you?"
"No," I said. "I would rather let that be a moment of beauty rather than a detour of beauty."
"Let's just keep going," N. said, and we turned our backs to the waterfall.
Even N., the invincible one, began to say that he was tired. "I've been standing on a boat for six weeks," he said, referring to his salmon fishing in Alaska. "Good," I said. "That's the only reason I am even close to keeping up with you." I tried not to complain so that I could pretend that I can hike on his level, even though I know that I can't. Not at all. He climbs mountains for fun. Not the kind we hiked last year all in a day, six miles up and six miles back, but the kind that are over 14,000 feet and that require helmets and crampons and ice axes.
We entered the final 3 mile stretch of woods just as the sunlight faded.
"What is a good hike without a need for headlamps?" I said.
After thinking for a minute, I answered myself. "Probably a better hike, actually."
"Let's not use the headlamps until one of us falls or runs into a tree," N. said, and we set off nearly blind in the almost-dark, until I said, after nearly tripping over a root, "I hope you are prepared to carry me the rest of the way down this mountain when I sprain my ankle."
I thought those woods would never end. We kept walking and walking, silent now, too tired to talk, too focused on the ground beneath our feet. Finally, I began to stumble over nearly every root, and I realized that I hadn't eaten in hours.
We sat down on a log, and N. took off his backpack and sighed. "That feels good," he said.
"It would feel a lot better if I didn't have a splinter in my ass," I said, picking out the offending bit of wood. I realized that I felt sick. I took out a granola bar, but I was too nauseous to eat it. It was too sickly sweet. I settled for choking down a coconut scone and some water.
Half an hour later, we finally stumbled into the parking lot. I have never been so happy to see a pit latrine.
Two hours later still, after checking four campgrounds, one youth camp, and a resort for water, we filled up the water jugs at a spigot in the parking lot at the resort, and screamed around corners all the way back up to the pass, trying to get back to S. and F. "Are you scared?" N. kept asking, as I clutched at the door and laughed.
"Um... no," I said, as calmly as I could, as we skidded around a 15 mph turn at 35 miles an hour. "It's like a roller coaster."
S. and F. had been waiting for an hour and twenty minutes. We felt bad. But we had water!
We all took ibuprofen, except S., who said that she felt fine. F. went straight to bed. N. heated up chili, and N., S., and I sat huddled in silence over warm bowls of it, each with our headlamps glowing down on the food. A more pathetic bunch of hikers you never did see. This morning, N. said only his feet hurt, and S. still said that she felt fine, and F. said he felt fine but was afraid that tomorrow would be that much worse.
I tried to pretend that I wasn't limping.
"Midnight is panic time," she said. "If we aren't out by then, start walking back up the trail to find us."
If anyone could get F. over the pass and through the trail, it would be S. She is infinitely patient with the slow people on these sorts of trips. Last year, she got a forty-something, out of shape woman who had never before climbed a mountain up a fairly large one. She cajoles and persuades and feeds and bullies, and somehow the slow people keep going.
So we set off, N. and I, with me in front to set a pace that I could maintain. It took us just over four hours to do the remaining 8.5 miles. We hiked through alpine meadows and stunted pines, over lava and obsidian, and up and down through the woods. We barely stopped to rest. I wasn't sure I could keep going once I stopped, although I didn't say that out loud.
"Do you want to climb down to that waterfall?" I asked at one point.
"Not really. Do you?"
"No," I said. "I would rather let that be a moment of beauty rather than a detour of beauty."
"Let's just keep going," N. said, and we turned our backs to the waterfall.
Even N., the invincible one, began to say that he was tired. "I've been standing on a boat for six weeks," he said, referring to his salmon fishing in Alaska. "Good," I said. "That's the only reason I am even close to keeping up with you." I tried not to complain so that I could pretend that I can hike on his level, even though I know that I can't. Not at all. He climbs mountains for fun. Not the kind we hiked last year all in a day, six miles up and six miles back, but the kind that are over 14,000 feet and that require helmets and crampons and ice axes.
We entered the final 3 mile stretch of woods just as the sunlight faded.
"What is a good hike without a need for headlamps?" I said.
After thinking for a minute, I answered myself. "Probably a better hike, actually."
"Let's not use the headlamps until one of us falls or runs into a tree," N. said, and we set off nearly blind in the almost-dark, until I said, after nearly tripping over a root, "I hope you are prepared to carry me the rest of the way down this mountain when I sprain my ankle."
I thought those woods would never end. We kept walking and walking, silent now, too tired to talk, too focused on the ground beneath our feet. Finally, I began to stumble over nearly every root, and I realized that I hadn't eaten in hours.
We sat down on a log, and N. took off his backpack and sighed. "That feels good," he said.
"It would feel a lot better if I didn't have a splinter in my ass," I said, picking out the offending bit of wood. I realized that I felt sick. I took out a granola bar, but I was too nauseous to eat it. It was too sickly sweet. I settled for choking down a coconut scone and some water.
Half an hour later, we finally stumbled into the parking lot. I have never been so happy to see a pit latrine.
Two hours later still, after checking four campgrounds, one youth camp, and a resort for water, we filled up the water jugs at a spigot in the parking lot at the resort, and screamed around corners all the way back up to the pass, trying to get back to S. and F. "Are you scared?" N. kept asking, as I clutched at the door and laughed.
"Um... no," I said, as calmly as I could, as we skidded around a 15 mph turn at 35 miles an hour. "It's like a roller coaster."
S. and F. had been waiting for an hour and twenty minutes. We felt bad. But we had water!
We all took ibuprofen, except S., who said that she felt fine. F. went straight to bed. N. heated up chili, and N., S., and I sat huddled in silence over warm bowls of it, each with our headlamps glowing down on the food. A more pathetic bunch of hikers you never did see. This morning, N. said only his feet hurt, and S. still said that she felt fine, and F. said he felt fine but was afraid that tomorrow would be that much worse.
I tried to pretend that I wasn't limping.
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