Carowack: 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: