7/7-7/12/2017: Etna, CA to Ashland, OR

Even though I wasn't super psyched about taking an unscheduled zero day in Etna to wait for my snow gear to come in, I really enjoyed my time in that little town. I spent my day off lounging at the community pool, checking out the local brewery, and camping in the city park with the other hikers. My microspikes arrived around 3PM on the 7th, and I was back on trail by 4.

Resupply organization at Etna

Fires in the distance

There was a lot of smoke off on the opposing ridgeline from a forest fire that had been started from a lightning strike a few days earlier. Because it was in a Wilderness Area, the authorities had decided to contain it to the area but let it burn for the health of the forest. Forest fires are very common and even normal for the ecology of California. It helps cycle through the stages of growth in forest development. These rejuvenating fires usually have to be stopped and put out nowadays to protect nearby towns and cities, but the effects on forest health are obvious from the trail. Lots of downed trees and debris and low undergrowth foliage are common all along the PCT in California. Burn areas are very interesting to see on trail. Most of the large trees are charred down to stumps and all kinds of unfamiliar flowers and greenery cover the ashy ground.

An old burn area with lots of wildflowers

One example of a cool flower found in burn areas

For the last few days I had been watching the reports diligently in town to see if the fire would close down the PCT. It was supposedly about 5 miles off, far enough away to not pose much of an immediate threat, but close enough that a windy day might cause the fire to jump a little too close for comfort. When I heard the report on the morning of the 7th that the trail was open and safe, and that trail crews were being sent in to clear emergency exits just in case, I felt confident enough to return to my hike.

It was definitely smoky back up on the PCT. You could see the fire off in the distance, and watch the smoke waft its way across the valley over to where the trail would lead me in the coming days. I was not looking forward to breathing smoke for two days…

Smoke overtaking the ridge ahead

But overnight, the cold air caused the smoke to sink down into the valleys. I woke up to clear air the next morning, and was able to cruise for about ten miles before my next challenge presented itself. I had been hearing about a snow section coming up that was rumored to be pretty nasty. Hikers were calling it “The Bowl.” Indeed, a few peaks appeared to have been sandwiched together, creating a northeast-facing curve in the ridgeline that had minimal sun exposure and was prone to cooler temperatures. It was a lot of snow. The PCT was buried underneath it all somewhere I couldn't tell, but from the maps I was able to discern that the trail popped out of The Bowl through a small saddle between two of the spires at the top. Fortunately the grading was relatively gentle, and between my new spikes and the trees I had enough traction to make it to the saddle with ease.

Full moon campsite

The smoke settled down in the valleys by morning

The view from the top of the infamous Bowl

What a vastly different snow experience than what I had gone through on Etna Summit! I had the right gear, the right navigation skills, and the right conditions, and I made it through with absolutely no stress! My friend Alpine Strider was sitting on the saddle resting when I reached the top and we concluded that either the rumors about The Bowl had been extremely exaggerated, or we were just total badasses. We resolved to call it an even split, and hiked on.

I played leapfrog with Strider for the next few days as the PCT descended into Grider Creek Canyon and Seiad Valley. I hiked more than twenty miles every day, including one 27 mile day into Seiad that was rewarded with many cool creek crossings and burritos for dinner in town

Leaving Seiad early in the day to beat the heat

Long exposure shot of the harvest moon from camp

Coming out of Seiad was challenging. Lots of poison oak and steep, shadeless climbing made for slow, sweaty miles. On my second day out of the valley, I woke up to a crick in my neck that was so painful I couldn't sit up without stabbing pain down my shoulder. I lasted about three miles that morning before I had to take a rest and lie down. I set my pack down in a shady spot, pulled out my sleeping pad and started looking for my shorts. I hike in a dress, so when I stop to sit down I usually put my shorts on so I'm not flashing everybody who walks by. I dug around my pack for a few minutes but couldn't find them anywhere. Uh oh. Had I left them behind? They must've fallen out of the top of my pack back near my campsite. Shiiiiittttt. I contemplated running back to get them, but three miles there and back would take over an hour. My neck was throbbing and I highly doubted I'd be able to run anyway. But those were my FAVORITE pair of shorts. I had gotten them from my boss at my very first running shoe store job, back in 2011. I had run my first half marathon and my first marathon in them. Those shorts were with me when I went to the USA Triathlon National Championships my freshman year of college. They were on my first backpacking trip, my first solo road trip, even my first PCT hike. They were faded and holey and, by all standards, basically crap. But I loved them so much. You get so attached to your gear on trail. When you have so few things, you depend on them all so much. Their emotional value increases astronomically.

I sat there weighing the options for a little while and finally, reluctantly concluded that I could not go back for them. As I hiked on, I felt sad about my decision. I mentioned them to a few southbounders I came across, hoping by some small, strange miracle they would be found and returned to me. But after a few miles, I started to let go. They were just shorts after all. They would've worn out on me eventually anyway. It was kind of fitting really, that I should lose them on my last day in California on the PCT. In a way, it felt like California had claimed them; a strange toll of sorts, a payment for all the wonderful experiences I've had in that state wearing those shorts.

I crossed into the state of Oregon a few hours later. I got a huge burst of energy leading up to the state line. Nothing looked all that different after, but it felt different all the same. I was, all-of-a-sudden, one state closer to my new home. It felt big, much bigger than the two short weeks I'd been on trail so far should've felt. Being in Oregon meant that the countdown was starting. “Less than 1,000 miles to go…”

California/Oregon border

1000 miles to go

Bear grass fields of southern Oregon

Dunsmuir to Etna

I took the train from Tacoma, WA to Dunsmuir, CA. I was supposed to board at 10:30, but the train was delayed in Seattle and showed up an hour late. Then it was delayed again in Portland. And again in Eugene. At some point I fell asleep, but miraculously I woke up right as the train arrived at Dunsmuir station three full hours behind schedule at 4 in the morning. I threw my things together as quick as I could and hopped off the train just in time. I had arranged for an old trail pal to pick me up at the station. Thankfully, Rocky was more prepared than I was and had been monitoring my train’s progress so she was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. I gave her the biggest bear hug I could muster at 4AM. It was good to see my old friend after two years. On the ride to her boyfriend's house we laughed about the odd scenario of our arranged pick up. It hadn't occurred to us until recently that we didn't actually know each other's real names, or really anything about each other. But that's the magic of the trail. It binds you so tightly to every person you meet. You rely on your fellow hikers, weathering the suffering together and learning to trust in the goodwill of others and each other. Someone you've only known for a few minutes, hours, or days can be family to you before you even realize it.

In the morning, Rocky, her boyfriend, and I had breakfast and tea at their house. Then Boyfriend drove both of us to the trailhead on I-5 at Soda Springs. Rocky, who has been missing the trail and is hoping to hike a little later in the season herself, opted to hike in the first 8 miles with me. We enjoyed a leisurely climb and caught up about trail rumors, conditions, adventures we've been on in the past two years as we walked. We had lunch at a creek crossing where some other PCT hikers were enjoying the shade and cold water. Among them was a couple from Florida named Shipwreck and Iguana, and a new guy on the trail named Alex who had only just started that day (like me) and was hiking Dunsmuir to Canada (like me!). Rocky gave me a hug and then hiked back to her car, and I pressed on.

The day was hot and sunny, the views gorgeous, and the trail somewhat gently uphill. But climbing is climbing and I am not in trail shape yet, so I struggled a bit. Having very little sleep on the train certainly didn't help either. Regardless, I enjoyed the miles. I took a power nap in the shade at one point, and let myself keep a leisurely pace. After all, it was only my first day back. I met another hiker named Black Swan who had hiked once before in 2014 and chatted with him a good long while at the top of the climb. The last 5 miles of the day were an easy traverse along a ridge with views of Castle Crags and Mt. Shasta. I caught up to Black Swan and Alex, and cowboy camped on a ledge overlooking Mt Shasta. All in all, it was a wonderful first day.

I forget sometimes how much gets packed into a day when you're on trail. Every day had challenges, some old and some new. Each day my legs and feet ached worse than the last, and every morning my muscles felt stiffer as though someone had poured concrete around them, but I keep telling myself “Hey, being miserable builds character!” The sun made for oppressively hot conditions, but cool breezes on exposed ridges kept me content to keep walking most of the time. I let myself take afternoon siestas when I felt over tired or my feet ached too much. I ate well every day. I'm really enjoying these simpler meals I've made for myself to cook each night. I've also discovered that the solution to my intense distaste for oatmeal in the mornings is easily solved by granola, especially if it has chocolate in it. As it was before, some days I listen to music, some days I don't. I really missed spending so much time inside my own head, interrupted only by incredible views, funny animals, or occasional swear words uttered in reflex response to a steep climb, unexpected stumble, or fresh pain. I've had conversations with deer that were happily napping on the trail until I walked up and disturbed them. I have swatted and cursed angrily at relentless flies circling my head for reasons I cannot fathom except maybe to drive me insane. I got in the zone one day, and hiked so fast and so easily that I overshot my intended campsite by 2 miles and ended up hiking a total of 25 miles! The next morning I did yoga with the sunrise to work the kinks out of my legs, which were understandably beat from big miles the day before. And then came the snow.

Not much snow, mind. But enough to really scare me. I had not expected to see snow this early, if at all. It was a high snow year, but I had assumed I would be far enough north to follow the melt all the way to Canada. I had assumed I wouldn't need snow gear at all. I assumed incorrectly. The last day out I had to navigate about a dozen or so snowfields, hardly any of which were flat. Instead, they lay blanketing the trail diagonally, leaving me with three unsavory options: 1) climb up the slope to go over, 2) scramble down to go under, or 3) take a deep breath, suck it up, and try to kick step my way across without slipping. I tried all three options multiple times, making the decision based on the size, shape, and slope of the field. All three options took an enormous amount of extra time and effort. Kick-stepping in particular was draining because I had to kick into the ice and slush as hard as I could over and over until I felt I had made a stable foothold for myself. Even then, I had no way of knowing if the snow would hold my weight. One poorly timed weight shift could send me careening down the slope into the rocks or trees below. It usually wasn't a far slide, but regardless I didn't feel like trying it. The last traverse of the day was the scariest by far. The slope was incredibly steep. I was going to have to kick step vertically up the wall of snow to reach the crest of the ridge. It was about 20-30 feet up, with a decent slide below into a tree cluster. I was already pretty tired of crossing these snowfields. They were unnerving at best, and I was hiking alone so I felt even less confident in myself. But I had to get across. So I started slow. With every few steps, a new wave of doubt would wash over me. My legs were shaking from fear and effort, I felt nauseous, my breathing was ragged and I wanted to cry. Each time this would happen I'd have to stop and gather myself. “Suck it up dude, because there isn't another option. You have to make it across.” When I finally reached the top, I started to cry. When I finally made it off the snow and onto dry land again, I sat down and began to sob uncontrollably. I felt so traumatized by that small patch of snow, and so embarrassed at myself for being so traumatized and for not having the proper gear to navigate that with ease.

The last few miles into town were pleasantly graded and downhill, but I walked like a zombie.

When I reached the town of Etna, CA, I finally started to process the experience and realized I had been missing two things that would have made that incident ok. One was the right gear. The other was people. I needed to know that I wasn't alone in my fear, that someone else was there to support me, and I them. And so I set out to rectify those holes in my sense of security. I began making friends with a lot of other hikers, particularly Shipwreck and Iguana, who arrived in town the same day I did. I ordered some microspikes to be shipped here to town as well, resolving to not approach a snowy section again without some better equipment. According to the trail reports, there is more snow up ahead…

I'm happy to be back on trail, all things considered. But it definitely looks like there will be all new challenges and obstacles for me to grapple with this year!

Some photos from this week on trail:

Good advice

Cowboy campsite view on the first night

Crossing not-so-scary snowfields

Note left for me by a new trail friend!

Happy Feet! Happy and clean

How Hike #2 Is Different From The Last One

To borrow a loose definition from the Pacific Crest Trail Association, a long distance hike is any trek exceeding 400 walking miles. Something I find most striking about the preparation for this, my second long distance hike, is how vastly different the preparatory experiences have been so far. Some differences are more obvious, like mileage. My last hike was 1,500 miles long, while this hike is slightly shorter at 1,200 miles. Conditions are wildly different between the two hikes as well. 2015 was a dry year, meaning the total snow pack for the year in the Sierras was far less than normal. This meant long, waterless stretches of trail in the desert, and so in that year, heat and dehydration were constant concerns. This year the Sierras got hammered. This is great news for on-trail water availability and, incidentally, the state of California which has been suffering from a drought the past several  years. However, residual snow pack on the trail might pose a problem.

My pack is different this time as well. It’s blue now, and weighs a lot less. For my full gear list (and comparison between years!) go here: http://carowack.blogspot.com/p/2017-pct-hike-orwa.html

Some of the differences are more intimate, emotional, and personal. Last time, the biggest thing I remember about planning the trek was fear. I had no idea what to expect, and as a result I sat stewing around in my own anxiety for months trying to reason out all the unknowns and what-ifs. This year, I know what it feels like to be on trail. I know how I will handle hard moments, scary moments, moments that ask you to adapt quickly. I also know what I like when I’m on trail now! I know I don’t like wearing very much clothing for one thing. Sports bra and running shorts was plenty enough for me by the time I reached Northern Cali last time, regardless of the sun or even cold sometimes. I know I like my pack to weigh less so that I can carry more food, and what kind of music I like to listen to on my headphones on a sucky day. I know how hard it is to clean my hands at the end of the day to take my contacts out, and how much easier it is to wear glasses. I know I do not like processed dehydrated meals such as Knorr’s or Rice-A-Roni. They make me sick and as a result I don’t each much and lose weight rapidly. In effort to counter this problem (because these are the most readily available thru hiker-friendly food in grocery stores along the trail) I have now discovered a whole new pre-trail stressor: maildrop organization. Last time I rarely concerned myself with food drops along the trail. My wonderful mother and amazing friends often sent me treats and goodies with my paper map copies, but that was about it usually. When I decided I was going to go back to the trail a few months ago, I started dehydrating frozen packages of vegetables and canned chicken like my life depended on it. My plan is to add plain veggies and chicken to all of my meals to add nutrient density. I learned how to make little packets of seasonings that I like out of straws (works great for salt, chia seeds, and Siracha, here’s the link! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXSfPZP4nWo) I bought the flavors of Cliff bars, Honey Stinger waffles, and electrolyte tablets I like in bulk. But with all this prep, I also know how often I get cravings on trail for weird foods (Honey Mustard and Onion Pretzel Bits!!!) and I will still want to buy food in my town stops to accommodate those. Colloquially in hiker culture, this style of resupply for is referred to as “mixed,” consisting of both shipped food to specified drop spots and buying along the way.

There are other, more subtle differences that I have noticed too, still falling under the umbrella of all the things I learned from my first trek. The one I am most proud of is my unshakable faith that things will work out for the best, the way they are meant to. My itinerary changes last minute? Alright, not a problem! I’ll make it work. A friend is hiking on the trail this summer but is doing a different section that doesn’t overlap with mine? No biggie! The trail provides, we will hike our own hikes and trust that we’ll be reunited one way or another. This ability to have faith in the powers that be is one of the most valuable life lessons I could possibly have gleaned from the trail. It allows my life to be fluid and open, given to chance encounters and wonderful surprises. This faith pulled me across the country in my car without a plan. It helped me build a life for myself, all my own (but not without the help and council of many great friends and family members). Now, my faith helps me let go of something beautiful to go find the next beautiful thing, like leaping across a chasm to see the view on the other side. I know it will be beautiful no matter what. I just have to be brave enough to go there.