Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Do Not Hire This Man
This last batch of posts (kindly updated by reliable Andre Laboy) was supposed to have been posted for your reading pleasure weeks ago, but Joe Mohn is officially the worst blog manager in the history of the Internet. But now they're all there. So read. Do it. Done. Finito!
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Kiss My Royal American Part II
Greybeard hears us and starts stirring. "Did you get Nomad up?"
"We asked, but he said he didn't want to come up."
We climb in our tents and get ready to go to sleep, but Greybeard's still rooting around outside. It sounds like he's taking a piss like he usually does in the morning, but I don't think much of it. Then when he still doesn't get in his tent, I remember he asked us if we ot Nomad up, which is usually Greybeard's job in the morning. I'm thinking he thinks it's morning, but I feel bad asking him, not wanting to insult the guy, so I keep my mouth shut.
"Now wait a minute..." Greybeard stops in his tracks, wondering out loud to himself.
"What time is it?" he asks us.
"9:00."
"Shoot. Really?"
"Yup."
"Well kiss my royal American. I thought my watch said 5:00."
And he climbed back into his tent and went to sleep.
"We asked, but he said he didn't want to come up."
We climb in our tents and get ready to go to sleep, but Greybeard's still rooting around outside. It sounds like he's taking a piss like he usually does in the morning, but I don't think much of it. Then when he still doesn't get in his tent, I remember he asked us if we ot Nomad up, which is usually Greybeard's job in the morning. I'm thinking he thinks it's morning, but I feel bad asking him, not wanting to insult the guy, so I keep my mouth shut.
"Now wait a minute..." Greybeard stops in his tracks, wondering out loud to himself.
"What time is it?" he asks us.
"9:00."
"Shoot. Really?"
"Yup."
"Well kiss my royal American. I thought my watch said 5:00."
And he climbed back into his tent and went to sleep.
Kiss My Royal American
When the group I was hiking with decided to go into Yosemite Valley, one of our big planned stops was Half Dome. A bit of a touristy thing to do, but if it weren't good, it probably wouldn't be touristy.
The thing is just a giant piece of granite sticking straight up in the middle of a valley. One side is sheer cliff face, straight up a few thousand feet and the only way to get up it is to rock climb.
The back side, the easier side, has stairs cut right into the face and you can see the scars where the workers cut into the stone with jack hammers or claws or whatever rock cutting tool they used to build the thing. No fine finish on this one.
There's a nice false summit a few hundred feet below the actual top with some gorgeous camping spots that we had planned on using until a thunderstorm rolled in.
The weather on this trip had been nothing other than the epitome of good weather. Blue skies, sun, mild temperatures. Probably what you'll get if you make it to heaven, but last time I talked to god he said your chances are looking pretty grim.
First damn day of summer and the sky looking one way is blue, smattered with fluffy white clouds, and the other is a black and gray ceiling of about-to-rain.
It looked horrible, but we kept trudging up and up and up, climb all the way to the false summit, pick out camp sites and then we watch a single bolt of lightning strike way off in the middle of the woods somewhere.
If we had actually been at the good campsites (we stopped 100 yards short and didn't see them until later), we would have stayed. Flat, big and protected by trees. About as good as you can get for storm protection up there.
But without said information, we chose option B and dropped down a couple hundred feet. Sure enough when we got to our spot (off the trail to the left and surrounded by trees) it started raining. None of us were completely set up, but we did our best and pulled everything inside our tents before the worst of it started. It really wasn't that bad of a set up and it was actually enjoyable relaxing and listening to the rain.
So there we are, all five of us cozy in our tents, some sleeping, others reading, journaling or some other activity that we turned to because we pitched so early.
I end up having beef jerky, peanuts, cookies and peanut butter M&Ms for dinner while reading about John Muir's adventures in the Sierras.
After a while Slider calls over to me, "Hey Thrust, what's the sky look like?" It had stopped raining, but I figured it was probably still crappy out so I never bothered to look until he asked. Wouldn't you know, back to normal. Clear and blue.
As soon as I told him, Slider started gearing up to make a climb to catch the sunset and figuring that since who the hell knows when I'll be back in Yosemite, I decided to go up too.
I said that the easier side has steps cut into it, and that's true, but once you reach the top of the steps, you climb the slope of some uncut rock up to a flat area, at the end of which you make the final push to the top.
Back before Half Dome had ever been summited, people thought it was literally impossible to climb, and truthfully I could see why. But in 1875, some guy went up there with a bunch of metal poles, cut one hole after another, inserting the metal poles into them and leaning against the one he had just inserted while he cut the hole for the next. And he did that all the way to the top.
I don't know how the guy did it. First of all it was pretty scary walking up even with cables to hold on to. I couldn't imagine sitting there chipping away at some rock leaning against a pole hundreds of feet above the approach below. And that's if you fell straight down. Go to either side and it's thousands of feet to the valley floor. Have fun!
One tip: don't try to climb as fast as you possibly can. The summit is higher than you think and if you're thru hiking, it's the first time you've really used your arms in months. Suffice it to say I was a bit out of breath at the top.
There were maybe five others up there waiting for sunset and two of them were lovely ladies who had apparently just finished posing naked. At least that's what they said we'd find if we checked out their camera, which unfortunately they didn't let us see.
One was American, the other Swedish and they met in France while they were both working in Paris. They talked to each other in mixed French and English with Zsa Zsa Gabor accents. Funny for a minute, very tired after that.
"Dates la fromage?"
"Ya. Ova here, dahling."
"And where are you from, dahling?"
Slider: "Connecticut."
Me: "New Jersey. Where are you guys from?"
"She is from Sweden, ya, but soon she will be Americain."
(Laughter)
And with that, I had had enough of them. You couldn't get a straight answer out of them over anything. Jokes, laughing and crappy accents were all that left their mouths. The one woman's husband served as their interpreter, giving us the old "You see what I have to put up with? Heh heh heh."
But they did offer us some of their dinner - chicken and rice - which made them a little more okay in my book.
I took a modest spoonful, not wanting to take advantage of the guy. Next thing I look over, the guy has his head turned and Slider is shoving a spoonful in his mouth so big that food is falling off.
That's also when I noticed the wine-filled Nalgene that was three quarters empty. So maybe they weren't annoying by nature only, so I guess I can excuse them a bit.
It would have been smart to bring a headlamp for the way down being that we were going up to watch the sunset. Naturally I had nothing and had to rely on my godawful eyesight and Slider's headlamp in front of me which was almost as good as my no headlamp.
Going down - much scarier than going up. Pretty easy to ignore danger when it's behind you, but when it's staring you in the face all the way back to the bottom, that's another story.
It would have been nice to bring some water being that it's a bit of a climb and we were bound to get thirsty. Naturally we brought nothing.
There was a daypack sitting just off the trail the first time we went up, still there when we went down, same going back up the second time and more of the same the second time we came down, evidence enough that it had been abandoned. So like divers to an unexplored shipwreck, we went treasure hunting. Bandaids and a nice unopened bottle of water. I knew there was a reason we didn't bring our own water.
We get back to camp and Gopher asks us if we actually went up there, so we start chatting a bit, maybe a little too loudly.
The thing is just a giant piece of granite sticking straight up in the middle of a valley. One side is sheer cliff face, straight up a few thousand feet and the only way to get up it is to rock climb.
The back side, the easier side, has stairs cut right into the face and you can see the scars where the workers cut into the stone with jack hammers or claws or whatever rock cutting tool they used to build the thing. No fine finish on this one.
There's a nice false summit a few hundred feet below the actual top with some gorgeous camping spots that we had planned on using until a thunderstorm rolled in.
The weather on this trip had been nothing other than the epitome of good weather. Blue skies, sun, mild temperatures. Probably what you'll get if you make it to heaven, but last time I talked to god he said your chances are looking pretty grim.
First damn day of summer and the sky looking one way is blue, smattered with fluffy white clouds, and the other is a black and gray ceiling of about-to-rain.
It looked horrible, but we kept trudging up and up and up, climb all the way to the false summit, pick out camp sites and then we watch a single bolt of lightning strike way off in the middle of the woods somewhere.
If we had actually been at the good campsites (we stopped 100 yards short and didn't see them until later), we would have stayed. Flat, big and protected by trees. About as good as you can get for storm protection up there.
But without said information, we chose option B and dropped down a couple hundred feet. Sure enough when we got to our spot (off the trail to the left and surrounded by trees) it started raining. None of us were completely set up, but we did our best and pulled everything inside our tents before the worst of it started. It really wasn't that bad of a set up and it was actually enjoyable relaxing and listening to the rain.
So there we are, all five of us cozy in our tents, some sleeping, others reading, journaling or some other activity that we turned to because we pitched so early.
I end up having beef jerky, peanuts, cookies and peanut butter M&Ms for dinner while reading about John Muir's adventures in the Sierras.
After a while Slider calls over to me, "Hey Thrust, what's the sky look like?" It had stopped raining, but I figured it was probably still crappy out so I never bothered to look until he asked. Wouldn't you know, back to normal. Clear and blue.
As soon as I told him, Slider started gearing up to make a climb to catch the sunset and figuring that since who the hell knows when I'll be back in Yosemite, I decided to go up too.
I said that the easier side has steps cut into it, and that's true, but once you reach the top of the steps, you climb the slope of some uncut rock up to a flat area, at the end of which you make the final push to the top.
Back before Half Dome had ever been summited, people thought it was literally impossible to climb, and truthfully I could see why. But in 1875, some guy went up there with a bunch of metal poles, cut one hole after another, inserting the metal poles into them and leaning against the one he had just inserted while he cut the hole for the next. And he did that all the way to the top.
I don't know how the guy did it. First of all it was pretty scary walking up even with cables to hold on to. I couldn't imagine sitting there chipping away at some rock leaning against a pole hundreds of feet above the approach below. And that's if you fell straight down. Go to either side and it's thousands of feet to the valley floor. Have fun!
One tip: don't try to climb as fast as you possibly can. The summit is higher than you think and if you're thru hiking, it's the first time you've really used your arms in months. Suffice it to say I was a bit out of breath at the top.
There were maybe five others up there waiting for sunset and two of them were lovely ladies who had apparently just finished posing naked. At least that's what they said we'd find if we checked out their camera, which unfortunately they didn't let us see.
One was American, the other Swedish and they met in France while they were both working in Paris. They talked to each other in mixed French and English with Zsa Zsa Gabor accents. Funny for a minute, very tired after that.
"Dates la fromage?"
"Ya. Ova here, dahling."
"And where are you from, dahling?"
Slider: "Connecticut."
Me: "New Jersey. Where are you guys from?"
"She is from Sweden, ya, but soon she will be Americain."
(Laughter)
And with that, I had had enough of them. You couldn't get a straight answer out of them over anything. Jokes, laughing and crappy accents were all that left their mouths. The one woman's husband served as their interpreter, giving us the old "You see what I have to put up with? Heh heh heh."
But they did offer us some of their dinner - chicken and rice - which made them a little more okay in my book.
I took a modest spoonful, not wanting to take advantage of the guy. Next thing I look over, the guy has his head turned and Slider is shoving a spoonful in his mouth so big that food is falling off.
That's also when I noticed the wine-filled Nalgene that was three quarters empty. So maybe they weren't annoying by nature only, so I guess I can excuse them a bit.
It would have been smart to bring a headlamp for the way down being that we were going up to watch the sunset. Naturally I had nothing and had to rely on my godawful eyesight and Slider's headlamp in front of me which was almost as good as my no headlamp.
Going down - much scarier than going up. Pretty easy to ignore danger when it's behind you, but when it's staring you in the face all the way back to the bottom, that's another story.
It would have been nice to bring some water being that it's a bit of a climb and we were bound to get thirsty. Naturally we brought nothing.
There was a daypack sitting just off the trail the first time we went up, still there when we went down, same going back up the second time and more of the same the second time we came down, evidence enough that it had been abandoned. So like divers to an unexplored shipwreck, we went treasure hunting. Bandaids and a nice unopened bottle of water. I knew there was a reason we didn't bring our own water.
We get back to camp and Gopher asks us if we actually went up there, so we start chatting a bit, maybe a little too loudly.
Trail Magic Over
(Thursday July 17, 2008)
No sooner did I get a quarter of the way through the Trail Magic post when I decided to go get a late lunch down at Billy Goat's Tavern in the downtown area of Mt. Shasta City. After telling me they were out of my first two choices, I went for the fish tacos.
Right in the middle of the second taco, something in my stomach did a backflip. It went away almost immediately and I just chalked it up to indegestion. Later that night I'd be chalking it up to the work of the Devil.
Two words: liquid fire.
Two more words: lava butt.
And finally two last words: dragonmouth anus.
All night I'd wake up every hour and a half with my intestines very loudly percolating. It felt like jellyfish massing into a Portuguese Man-o-War and heading into my colon to hunt for prey.
The final battle came at 4:30am, after which I was able to sleep until 7:30am and also regained the ability to fully control my bowels and walk at the same time.
Guess I jinxed the good luck.
No sooner did I get a quarter of the way through the Trail Magic post when I decided to go get a late lunch down at Billy Goat's Tavern in the downtown area of Mt. Shasta City. After telling me they were out of my first two choices, I went for the fish tacos.
Right in the middle of the second taco, something in my stomach did a backflip. It went away almost immediately and I just chalked it up to indegestion. Later that night I'd be chalking it up to the work of the Devil.
Two words: liquid fire.
Two more words: lava butt.
And finally two last words: dragonmouth anus.
All night I'd wake up every hour and a half with my intestines very loudly percolating. It felt like jellyfish massing into a Portuguese Man-o-War and heading into my colon to hunt for prey.
The final battle came at 4:30am, after which I was able to sleep until 7:30am and also regained the ability to fully control my bowels and walk at the same time.
Guess I jinxed the good luck.
Friendly Bumblebees
(Friday July 18, 2008)
I don't know what's with West Coast bumblebees, but they love to hang out on you. One flew on Chickety's hat the other day and was just hanging out. One was sitting on my leg yesterday doing the same thing. And just a minute ago I had to beat two away that insisted on hovering around my head while yelling "You are not my friend! I don't like you." I hit one really hard and he rolled into the street, got up and started flying around again. Weak human strength.
Trail Magic Part III
The chef was introduced to us later on and was applauded. The meal was that good. And she wasn't even the head chef who was off that day. I know whatever I say can't adequately explain how exquisite this meal was (and when have I ever even used the word exquisite before), but the least I can do is recommend that you try to get there once in your life. Now, you won't get all that for $10, not by a long shot, so for you it won't be the best deal in the country, but it will be one of the best meals you'll ever eat.
Also, actual guests of the resort gave us beer and food for the trail. Bam!
Another 3/4 of a day later (23 miles well before 4:00) we hit Old Station where the Heitmanns live. They're trail angels who've been supporting hikers for years, so this stop was expected, but no less welcome.
Shower and laundry again (if you're counting, that's an unheard of three days in a row), homecooked dinner and breakfast the next morning, Internet, beer - another great stop.
The Heitmanns also are the ones, along with one other guy, who fill water caches for the Hat Creek Rim section just after Old Station, the hottest, driest, most miserable place on the entire PCT.
And wouldn't you know, the next day, just before we went into the hottest, driest, most miserable portion of the Hat Creek Rim, there is a trailhead parking area where we met a family who is trying to get rid of some extra food. At this point I start shaking my head because I just can't believe it, but can't believe it even more when the mom pulls out this huge bag of roast beef slices. A double take would not have been inappropriate. So we feasted on Skittles, chips, grapes and roast beef. They had Coors Light too, but I didn't want to dehydrate myself or drink a can full of piss water.
The next day we hike eight miles to highway 299 and go into the town of Burney. What is reputed as the hardest hitch on the entire trail takes us a combined total of 30 minutes to get one in and out. J.B., another guy hiking with us, catches a ride from a guy who takes him back to his house and oil wrestles with him in a kiddie pool in his basement...just seeing if you were paying attention...let's him use his shower.
After resupplying and feasting in Burney (forgot to mention that a woman drove up to me Neighbor and Chickety and gave us a bottle of water) we hiked a grueling, body destroying eight miles more to Burney Falls State Park where we camped for free and got to sample all the goodies the park store had to offer (which wasn't all that much different from a 7 Eleven, but still, junk food is junk food).
But the store did have beer, which caused everybody en masse to buy a six pack, all of which were fair game, leading to many a drunk hiker and me writing drunken blog posts for all to read.
Two days later we get to a place along the trail called Ash Camp and there's a guy hanging out there who gives us all yogurt and soda. He also, when Slider tells him about the busted sandals he's wearing, gives him the sandals off of his feet to hike in. The sandals off of his feet! Claimed he didn't like them anyway.
The next day we get to I-5 and a few guys are there ahead of us. Slider met a guy who lived in Mt. Shasta City while hiking who offered to come pick us up and drive us into town.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, the guy pulls up, loads eight of us into his van (a VW Vanagon that is incredible shape for its age) and takes us into town. On the way there he asks us where we're staying, we tell him that we're looking for a cheap place in town, he says, "How about a backyard?"
Lets us camp in his backyard, use his shower and bathroom as we need to and (this one I couldn't believe) tosses the keys on the table on his deck and tells us to use it for whatever we need. Two hours later after posting my bail, he tells me drug running was not what he meant.
Well, this one is true anyway. He and his wife own a spa in town and said we could have massages at a discount, so I ended up getting a 30 minute foot massage and a 25 minute leg massage for $46. Ballin'!
Two nights we ended up staying there, and amazingly that's not the end of it. But the other bit of trail magic happened before all of this and is part of another story that I'll tell you later on.
Also, actual guests of the resort gave us beer and food for the trail. Bam!
Another 3/4 of a day later (23 miles well before 4:00) we hit Old Station where the Heitmanns live. They're trail angels who've been supporting hikers for years, so this stop was expected, but no less welcome.
Shower and laundry again (if you're counting, that's an unheard of three days in a row), homecooked dinner and breakfast the next morning, Internet, beer - another great stop.
The Heitmanns also are the ones, along with one other guy, who fill water caches for the Hat Creek Rim section just after Old Station, the hottest, driest, most miserable place on the entire PCT.
And wouldn't you know, the next day, just before we went into the hottest, driest, most miserable portion of the Hat Creek Rim, there is a trailhead parking area where we met a family who is trying to get rid of some extra food. At this point I start shaking my head because I just can't believe it, but can't believe it even more when the mom pulls out this huge bag of roast beef slices. A double take would not have been inappropriate. So we feasted on Skittles, chips, grapes and roast beef. They had Coors Light too, but I didn't want to dehydrate myself or drink a can full of piss water.
The next day we hike eight miles to highway 299 and go into the town of Burney. What is reputed as the hardest hitch on the entire trail takes us a combined total of 30 minutes to get one in and out. J.B., another guy hiking with us, catches a ride from a guy who takes him back to his house and oil wrestles with him in a kiddie pool in his basement...just seeing if you were paying attention...let's him use his shower.
After resupplying and feasting in Burney (forgot to mention that a woman drove up to me Neighbor and Chickety and gave us a bottle of water) we hiked a grueling, body destroying eight miles more to Burney Falls State Park where we camped for free and got to sample all the goodies the park store had to offer (which wasn't all that much different from a 7 Eleven, but still, junk food is junk food).
But the store did have beer, which caused everybody en masse to buy a six pack, all of which were fair game, leading to many a drunk hiker and me writing drunken blog posts for all to read.
Two days later we get to a place along the trail called Ash Camp and there's a guy hanging out there who gives us all yogurt and soda. He also, when Slider tells him about the busted sandals he's wearing, gives him the sandals off of his feet to hike in. The sandals off of his feet! Claimed he didn't like them anyway.
The next day we get to I-5 and a few guys are there ahead of us. Slider met a guy who lived in Mt. Shasta City while hiking who offered to come pick us up and drive us into town.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, the guy pulls up, loads eight of us into his van (a VW Vanagon that is incredible shape for its age) and takes us into town. On the way there he asks us where we're staying, we tell him that we're looking for a cheap place in town, he says, "How about a backyard?"
Lets us camp in his backyard, use his shower and bathroom as we need to and (this one I couldn't believe) tosses the keys on the table on his deck and tells us to use it for whatever we need. Two hours later after posting my bail, he tells me drug running was not what he meant.
Well, this one is true anyway. He and his wife own a spa in town and said we could have massages at a discount, so I ended up getting a 30 minute foot massage and a 25 minute leg massage for $46. Ballin'!
Two nights we ended up staying there, and amazingly that's not the end of it. But the other bit of trail magic happened before all of this and is part of another story that I'll tell you later on.
Trail Magic Part II
They dropped us off at the grocery store in Chester and Neighbor and Chickety are sitting there hanging out underneath some trees in the corner of the parking lot closest to the street.
We pretty much end up plopping down in that spot for five hours or so going in and out of the grocery store as our hunger gets the best of us.
The hotel rates in town are pretty pricey for a small place like Chester, so we're planning on trying to find a spot in town to camp, maybe a park or some woods out of the way. We had our hearts set on this baseball field, but the bathrooms were locked, gates all chained up and signs posted offering rewards for turning in trespassers. Not such a good option.
Not to mention the local cop on duty drove by about three times, very conspicuously checking out us suspicious hikers making sure we weren't dirtying up his nice little mountain community. Once he saw that we had disappeared from our hangout so suddenly, it would have been all the excuse he needed to go on a townwide manhunt and get his picture in the paper.
Who he should have been watching out for was the dirtbag kid that came over wearing a Hooters t-shirt, drinking a large soda and smoking. It must have been his first week smoking because he was coughing the entire time and hocking up some fierce loogies, and doing it considerately in the grass next to us and the creek running behind us. Real upstanding young gentleman.
He overheard us talking about where we were going to stay and offered us spots next to his trailer in the trailer park across the street. Although the trailer wasn't actually there yet, but would be he assured us when his friend came with it later that day.
Naturally his friend shows up trailerless in a white trash mobile. Not that any of us for a second entertained the idea of taking him up on his offer to rob us in the middle of the night.
Either way, I don't know what exactly we were doing there all day. I checked out one hotel and it ended up being $80 per night which would have worked out to $20 per person. Sweet enough deal, but we never attempted to make the reservations even though the place was right across the street.
We chatted up a guy who actually lived at the trailer park where the dirtbag kid claimed to and he told us the place was in the process of being sold and that if we went to the back along the stream that ran next to it, there was plenty of room and no one would bother us.
Seemed like our best option until a guy in a jeep rolls up. He asks us if we need a ride to the trail in the morning (which we do...score) and Neighbor shoots right back at him. "You know of a lawn we could camp on?" Turns out the guy is the manager of the Best Western down the street, which is somehow affiliated with the motel in the adjoining parking lot. Gives us two rooms in the other motel for $60 per night and we get full use of the Best Western's facilities. Basically for us that meant Internet and ransacking the continental breakfast.
And this Best Western was super nice. Way nicer than I expected, and thankfully the aesthetics also carried over to the continental breakfast. Hardboiled eggs, a waffle maker, the sweetest nectar of tropical and non-tropical fruits, pancakes, all kinds of cereal, english muffins, the works. This thing had it all. Presentation surpassed expectations as well. The whole nine yards with linen table cloths. Didn't think we could do any better until...
The Drakesbad Ranch. Not even a full day's hike away. Basically like taking a 3/4 day after a zero. But let me tell you (and I know how I rave about everything on this trail), this place is the best bang for your buck of any place in the country. Yes, I said it. Not the county, but the country in its entirety. I defy you to find something better (well, it also helps that you get this deal only as a PCT hiker, but still).
We got showers (Clairol soap included), laundry (with loaner clothes so that we could wash everything), use of their hot spring pool, dinner and dessert for the grand total of $10.
Now I know you just went "Psshhh" and did a little flip of the hand to show that you don't find that deal remotely exciting. But that's because you didn't get to taste any of the food. Easily (easily!) one of the best meals I have ever had in my life and worthy (definitelyly more so) of a place on the menu of any restaurant you've ever been to.
The meal changes every night, and we had just missed prime rib and duck earlier that week. We came on turkey night. Turkey has pretty much been a miss for me ever since I was a kid. Always dry, fills you up but is never the best thing on the plate. So pardon my low expectations and wishing that we had gotten there on a different day.
Salad comes out. All good, dark greens. None of that iceberg garbage. Lightly covered in homemade raspberry vinagrette with yellow bell pepper sliced thin. Mmm mmm good.
Main course - turkey with sweet mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce and a vegetable. I hate cranberry sauce and you know my thoughts on turkey. Absolutely loved both. Would have eaten seconds and thirds if I could have. The cranberry sauce was nothing like that trash in the can. Light, sweet and quite cranberry-y. As for the turkey - Best. Bird. Ever. Tender enough you could just cut it with your fork and moist like I never imagined it possible for turkey to be.
Next came bowls of homemade chocolate ice cream and raspberry sorbet. Bellisimo! Rich is the best way to describe it.
Not to mention they had an endless conveyor belt of all kinds of breads coming out to us throughout the whole meal. Couldn't tell you what kind, but they were tasty as hell.
We pretty much end up plopping down in that spot for five hours or so going in and out of the grocery store as our hunger gets the best of us.
The hotel rates in town are pretty pricey for a small place like Chester, so we're planning on trying to find a spot in town to camp, maybe a park or some woods out of the way. We had our hearts set on this baseball field, but the bathrooms were locked, gates all chained up and signs posted offering rewards for turning in trespassers. Not such a good option.
Not to mention the local cop on duty drove by about three times, very conspicuously checking out us suspicious hikers making sure we weren't dirtying up his nice little mountain community. Once he saw that we had disappeared from our hangout so suddenly, it would have been all the excuse he needed to go on a townwide manhunt and get his picture in the paper.
Who he should have been watching out for was the dirtbag kid that came over wearing a Hooters t-shirt, drinking a large soda and smoking. It must have been his first week smoking because he was coughing the entire time and hocking up some fierce loogies, and doing it considerately in the grass next to us and the creek running behind us. Real upstanding young gentleman.
He overheard us talking about where we were going to stay and offered us spots next to his trailer in the trailer park across the street. Although the trailer wasn't actually there yet, but would be he assured us when his friend came with it later that day.
Naturally his friend shows up trailerless in a white trash mobile. Not that any of us for a second entertained the idea of taking him up on his offer to rob us in the middle of the night.
Either way, I don't know what exactly we were doing there all day. I checked out one hotel and it ended up being $80 per night which would have worked out to $20 per person. Sweet enough deal, but we never attempted to make the reservations even though the place was right across the street.
We chatted up a guy who actually lived at the trailer park where the dirtbag kid claimed to and he told us the place was in the process of being sold and that if we went to the back along the stream that ran next to it, there was plenty of room and no one would bother us.
Seemed like our best option until a guy in a jeep rolls up. He asks us if we need a ride to the trail in the morning (which we do...score) and Neighbor shoots right back at him. "You know of a lawn we could camp on?" Turns out the guy is the manager of the Best Western down the street, which is somehow affiliated with the motel in the adjoining parking lot. Gives us two rooms in the other motel for $60 per night and we get full use of the Best Western's facilities. Basically for us that meant Internet and ransacking the continental breakfast.
And this Best Western was super nice. Way nicer than I expected, and thankfully the aesthetics also carried over to the continental breakfast. Hardboiled eggs, a waffle maker, the sweetest nectar of tropical and non-tropical fruits, pancakes, all kinds of cereal, english muffins, the works. This thing had it all. Presentation surpassed expectations as well. The whole nine yards with linen table cloths. Didn't think we could do any better until...
The Drakesbad Ranch. Not even a full day's hike away. Basically like taking a 3/4 day after a zero. But let me tell you (and I know how I rave about everything on this trail), this place is the best bang for your buck of any place in the country. Yes, I said it. Not the county, but the country in its entirety. I defy you to find something better (well, it also helps that you get this deal only as a PCT hiker, but still).
We got showers (Clairol soap included), laundry (with loaner clothes so that we could wash everything), use of their hot spring pool, dinner and dessert for the grand total of $10.
Now I know you just went "Psshhh" and did a little flip of the hand to show that you don't find that deal remotely exciting. But that's because you didn't get to taste any of the food. Easily (easily!) one of the best meals I have ever had in my life and worthy (definitelyly more so) of a place on the menu of any restaurant you've ever been to.
The meal changes every night, and we had just missed prime rib and duck earlier that week. We came on turkey night. Turkey has pretty much been a miss for me ever since I was a kid. Always dry, fills you up but is never the best thing on the plate. So pardon my low expectations and wishing that we had gotten there on a different day.
Salad comes out. All good, dark greens. None of that iceberg garbage. Lightly covered in homemade raspberry vinagrette with yellow bell pepper sliced thin. Mmm mmm good.
Main course - turkey with sweet mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce and a vegetable. I hate cranberry sauce and you know my thoughts on turkey. Absolutely loved both. Would have eaten seconds and thirds if I could have. The cranberry sauce was nothing like that trash in the can. Light, sweet and quite cranberry-y. As for the turkey - Best. Bird. Ever. Tender enough you could just cut it with your fork and moist like I never imagined it possible for turkey to be.
Next came bowls of homemade chocolate ice cream and raspberry sorbet. Bellisimo! Rich is the best way to describe it.
Not to mention they had an endless conveyor belt of all kinds of breads coming out to us throughout the whole meal. Couldn't tell you what kind, but they were tasty as hell.
Trail Magic
(Monday July 14, 2008)
Have you ever read an old issue of Outside Magazine in Mt. Shasta City, CA while taking a dump in a toilet? Wait a minute...that's not an interesting bowel movement. But it is a bit of trail magic.
I just knocked on wood (the wood of the halfpipe in the backyard of the guy's house I'm currently staying at) but I'm sure this post will jinx the unbelievable lucky streak that I and the group I'm with have been on for the last ten days.
What we gon' do right here is go back...way back...back into time...
Fourth of July on the PCT was uneventful. Didn't see or hear any fireworks, no rousing renditions of You're a Grand Old Flag around the campfire, nobody pulling out their Uncle Sam costume that they had mailed to them just for the ocassion. It was just a longer-than-normal day because there was absolutely no place to camp.
Brit and Irish camped at probably the best non-campground campsite I've seen on the entire trail. A small square of land with small tree stumps for chairs, right next to a river that was pooling into two or three large lagoons. Nice and flat. Bellisimo!
Unfortunately it was really only big enough for two, so Neighbor, Chickety and I went on ahead and Slider followed a little bit behind us. We got to another spot and there was room for three, but not four, so we kept on trudging.
We only found out there was room for three and not four after Neighor, Chickety and I had started to set up and Slider came down and couldn't make it work. We pack up, keep walking and I realize I left my sandals sitting on the ground a quarter mile back. Diggity damn.
Back and then forth once more, I reach an opening and there's the gang setting up shop in a huge open spot next to a tiny dam. Right next to water, good spots to cook and room enough for the eight of us that eventually were camped there and the other 42 that didn't show up. The ground was hard as my bony b-cheeks, but it worked and our merry band slept sweetly, soundly, patriotically and with killer morning wood (well I guess I can't speak for everyone on that account).
The good thing about hiking 30+ like we did on the 4th was that it put us within three or four miles of town, so in less than two hours we hit the road, and twenty minutes later we walked into Sierra City for a day off.
Before we walked in, we met Gopher and Rapunzel, two people that we hiked with through the Sierras that were on their way out of town. They informed us of some nice trail angels in town that had rented an apartment for the week and were allowing hikers to stay with them.
Sure enough, there's an apartment full of hikers above a restaurant in the middle of town. Free laundry, free showers and actual beds, plus a fridge filled with the leftover goodies of hikers that had stayed the night before.
Slider and Greybeard ate breakfast at the restaurant below the apartment and had their meal paid for by someone who lived in town. That's also where they met the guy who offered to give us a ride out of town to Quincy.
We had to hitch 138.2 trail miles around some forest fires and although the road distance was less, it was still a decent hitch. So this guy piled us into his van and drove us about halfway.
Our group split up a bit here and the second ride we caught was with a real woman of the mountain named Lew. She talked a mile a minute and a blue streak simultaneously, which diverted some power from the sector of her brain that controlled the car as we sped as much as an old Subaru wagon can speed, braked as late as possible and took turns that shoved us hard into the doors. This fazed Lew not and all the while we learned about the natural features of the area, the Native Indians living in the area (her words) and that both of her sons were in a race to get preggers (also her words).
She couldn't take us all the way, but it was closer than we had been so we put out our thumbs once more in front of a grocery store. 15 minutes later and we're in the back of a four door truck with two ranchers, the one riding shotgun drunk as hell. Here are a few of the gems that came out of their mouths on the way to Chester.
In response to the fact that we had hiked 1200 miles to that point - "Musta had some good shit to make it this far."..."Did you at least go to Winnemucca? That's where all the whorehouses are."..."So you guys walk most of the shit? You walk everything?"
After telling them we've seen a bunch of mule riders along the way - "Riding mules is kind of like jacking off. It's good to do, but you don't want to get caught doing it."
Inquiring about our motivation - "What brought this on? Get a wild hare up your ass?"
After Slider asks if Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson are singing on the radio - "That's the best song that ever fuckin' gurgle mumble brrrrr."
The one guy tells us that Chuck Norris has a house in a town nearby (possibly Susanville). The other guy responds - "He's a fuckin' hero! American Ninja!"
Jar o Weed
(Tuesday July 15, 2008)
Jar o Weed
Is Mt. Shasta City just free of consequences or does this guy want to get arrested?
A hippie rastafarian at the bus stop this morning nonchalantly pulls a large jar of Tostitos salsa out of a tiny hemp back pack filled with weed in plain view of everone, no attempt to hide it.
Then he started calling me Brother and telling me how beautiful the trail is.
Drunk and Hot
(Thursday July 10, 2008)
I don't know if it's actually possible to be this hot at 10:22pm, but my watch is reading 85 degrees. It certainly feels that way. For the first time on the trail I am pulling the shorts only, no sleeping bag. The Northern California summer has officially arrived.
Drinking at Burney Falls State Park
(Thursday July 10, 2008)
Drinking at Burney Falls State Park
Now I'm Drunk
(Thursday July 10, 2008)
I know I'm drunk because I saw a bike (a child's bike) and thought about stealing it. More so, I hoped that the kid would catch me and I could ride in circles around him so that he couldn't catch me, but I could keep circling him and laugh like a maniac.
I know I'm drunk because I saw a bike (a child's bike) and thought about stealing it. More so, I hoped that the kid would catch me and I could ride in circles around him so that he couldn't catch me, but I could keep circling him and laugh like a maniac.
Cranky Day
(Wednesday July 9, 2008)
Today is a cranky ass day. 30 mile waterless stretch along the Hat Creek Rim through dusty, rocky, shadeless terrain.
The temperature is currently 95 degrees and luckily there is a breeze or we might just kill ourselves. For about five minutes straight we were cursing as loud as possible, yelling our heads off.
The best summation of our current feelings by a fellow thru hiker: "Should be called the fuckin' Pole Smoker Rim."
Chest Plant
A group of us were hiking to a stop at Blue Lakes Road outside of Echo Lake and we were somewhat split up. Minutes, not miles apart, but it still felt like you were alone.
I was with Slider when we came to a creek. I had plenty of water, but mine had gotten warm so I dumped it and went to get something fresh and cold.
I look down to my left and see a log across and it brings you to a spot where the water is rushing, the best spot to grab water if you're not filtering.
Slider says something that I don't understand and I mumble an unintelligible response and start to cross. The log is wet on the far side, but I see a dry spot big enough for a foothold and use that to spring to the other side.
What Slider had said was "I'm gonna go up here where it's drier."
My foot hits the spot and slips off into the water up to my shin. The other foot follows suit and down I go like Poland in September 1939, quickly, easily and cursing in Polish.
I threw my hands out but there was absolutely nothing to grab on to and I did a straight chest plant onto the log. My chin also bangs into the log and is cut open.
For half a second I'm about to get mad, but then I think, "Yeah, that's gonna help" and just laugh to myself. Thankfully we were spread out so no one saw, but I took some pictures of the log print on my shirt so the public could enjoy later on.
That was my third slip into water of the trip. Way back when I was walking into Agua Dulce I got to a step-across creek, but instead of stepping across, I decided to walk on this super unstable pseudo log. It immediately shifted and in my feet went to this warm, swampy smelling water. Delicious!
Hiking out of Tuolumne Meadows, we got to a pretty big creek that I should have just forded, but not wanting to get my feet wet, I hiked upstream until I got to some rocks that looked hoppable. And they were, until I got to one in the middle that was wet and didn't have much sticking above the water line.
I landed a little too far from the top, my foot slips and in I go up to my knees. My feet, however aren't touching the bottom and I try gripping the rock to climb up, but in this too I failed. Down I go up to my waist, both my phone and camera in my pockets.
Luckily Motorola and Canon make quality products because the camera never stopped working and as soon as the phone dried out, the backlight kicked back in and it works like it never stopped.
The river incidents have died down since we left the Sierras and the water has become less abundant, but Washington is still snow covered right now, so there's a good chance the rivers will be raging and I could get swept away when I get there. If I do, I'll take a picture since I know my camera will still be working.
I was with Slider when we came to a creek. I had plenty of water, but mine had gotten warm so I dumped it and went to get something fresh and cold.
I look down to my left and see a log across and it brings you to a spot where the water is rushing, the best spot to grab water if you're not filtering.
Slider says something that I don't understand and I mumble an unintelligible response and start to cross. The log is wet on the far side, but I see a dry spot big enough for a foothold and use that to spring to the other side.
What Slider had said was "I'm gonna go up here where it's drier."
My foot hits the spot and slips off into the water up to my shin. The other foot follows suit and down I go like Poland in September 1939, quickly, easily and cursing in Polish.
I threw my hands out but there was absolutely nothing to grab on to and I did a straight chest plant onto the log. My chin also bangs into the log and is cut open.
For half a second I'm about to get mad, but then I think, "Yeah, that's gonna help" and just laugh to myself. Thankfully we were spread out so no one saw, but I took some pictures of the log print on my shirt so the public could enjoy later on.
That was my third slip into water of the trip. Way back when I was walking into Agua Dulce I got to a step-across creek, but instead of stepping across, I decided to walk on this super unstable pseudo log. It immediately shifted and in my feet went to this warm, swampy smelling water. Delicious!
Hiking out of Tuolumne Meadows, we got to a pretty big creek that I should have just forded, but not wanting to get my feet wet, I hiked upstream until I got to some rocks that looked hoppable. And they were, until I got to one in the middle that was wet and didn't have much sticking above the water line.
I landed a little too far from the top, my foot slips and in I go up to my knees. My feet, however aren't touching the bottom and I try gripping the rock to climb up, but in this too I failed. Down I go up to my waist, both my phone and camera in my pockets.
Luckily Motorola and Canon make quality products because the camera never stopped working and as soon as the phone dried out, the backlight kicked back in and it works like it never stopped.
The river incidents have died down since we left the Sierras and the water has become less abundant, but Washington is still snow covered right now, so there's a good chance the rivers will be raging and I could get swept away when I get there. If I do, I'll take a picture since I know my camera will still be working.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
What Up Hoes?
(Monday August 25, 2008)
It's been a while, I know. I've been writing, just haven't been sending the messages along.
Nothing much to report. Took a zero today. Hung out in a hotel all day. Drank a milkshake, ate some french toast, ate all the cookies out of my resupply box as I always tend to do (sweet stuff hardly ever makes it out of town), drank some beer, went in the hot tub.
I was pretty bored today actually. I finished my book (The Children of Men) and I and zilch to read. Snoqualmie Pass is a newspaperless society apparently because I couldn't find a one anywhere. Maybe they had one down at the rest stop building at the end of the parking lot along the highway, but I wasn't thinking newspaper until later in the day and there wasn't a chance I was making that 100 yard walk once full-on laziness had set in.
I'm just rambling right now. Bored. Tired. Watching Jon and Kate Plus 8. Just listening to one kid crying is enough to drive me off the edge of a cliff, let alone eight grubby hethens. But then again they're not my kids, so it's easy enough to say "Alright, I'm tired of you bastards. Go away."
I had a dream once that I had a daughter and I remember feeling during that dream and still after I woke up that I wouldn't hesitate for a second to die for her. I wonder if that's what it's like when your kids are born, just feeling that you would do anything for them without question.
I keep wanting a dog. That can be my kid for the time being. I'd probably get super attached to a dog too. Not die-for-it attached, but when it died I'd cry my brains out. I've only ever been attached to one dog before and it's not even mine. I liked to pretend he was though. My little buddy, my puppykins.
You know who I'm not attached to? Fucking Brett Favre. He's only a half step above Roger Clemens in the retirement watch category and that's because Clemens is a lying, drug using bastard. Enough you pile of Mississippi alligator crap. I'm tired of the media fawning over this fool because he has "boyish enthusiasm" and "loves to play the game." Kiss my ass. He's a pill popping interception machine who just up until this past season was playing like Steve DeBerg. I'm tired of this garbage. Brett, I hope your move to the AFC brings you a career-ending lower extremity injury. My uncle has Jets season tickets so maybe I can watch that one in person.
One negative I will say about the trip, I missed the entire Olympics. Didn't see a single thing live and only one track race. Trash.
The one I did see was the women's 4x400m. Comeback victory for the US. Score son. Reminds me of the time when I was at the Penn Relays my sophomore year of high school and watched one of the most exciting races ever.
High school girls 4x400m Championship of America. Montclair, NJ featuring future Olympians the Barber sisters taking on some Jamaican school. We are dominating, the outcome is certainly not in doubt, but the incredibly packed crowd is raucous, everybody on their feet, whole stadium going crazy and then the Montclair third leg shits the bed. Totally blows it, gives up a 5-10 meter lead and the anchors take the batons even.
The Jamaicans are now going nuts, it's a goddamn war on the track, slugging it out stride for stride, everyone around me is yelling at the top of their lungs, I'm cursing at the top of my lungs - "FUCK YOU JAMAICA!!!" And we lost. The next year my friend Juan told our Jamaican friend Craig that story and he punched me in the balls.
Just saw that some sik bastard kidnapped four dogs from a shelter in Washington or Oregon and beat them to death. This is a sick world we're living in with sick people. On a happier note, a mother and baby elephant were reunited at some zoo in Washington. Happy times!
Alright, I've babbled enough. Time for bed. Sharing a room with three other guys. Sharing a bed with a guy from New York who has a rip in the back of his shorts from the top of his ass crack to the bottom. We've told him about the rip, but he doesn't care and continues to think nothing of bending over in them. An awful sight.
It's been a while, I know. I've been writing, just haven't been sending the messages along.
Nothing much to report. Took a zero today. Hung out in a hotel all day. Drank a milkshake, ate some french toast, ate all the cookies out of my resupply box as I always tend to do (sweet stuff hardly ever makes it out of town), drank some beer, went in the hot tub.
I was pretty bored today actually. I finished my book (The Children of Men) and I and zilch to read. Snoqualmie Pass is a newspaperless society apparently because I couldn't find a one anywhere. Maybe they had one down at the rest stop building at the end of the parking lot along the highway, but I wasn't thinking newspaper until later in the day and there wasn't a chance I was making that 100 yard walk once full-on laziness had set in.
I'm just rambling right now. Bored. Tired. Watching Jon and Kate Plus 8. Just listening to one kid crying is enough to drive me off the edge of a cliff, let alone eight grubby hethens. But then again they're not my kids, so it's easy enough to say "Alright, I'm tired of you bastards. Go away."
I had a dream once that I had a daughter and I remember feeling during that dream and still after I woke up that I wouldn't hesitate for a second to die for her. I wonder if that's what it's like when your kids are born, just feeling that you would do anything for them without question.
I keep wanting a dog. That can be my kid for the time being. I'd probably get super attached to a dog too. Not die-for-it attached, but when it died I'd cry my brains out. I've only ever been attached to one dog before and it's not even mine. I liked to pretend he was though. My little buddy, my puppykins.
You know who I'm not attached to? Fucking Brett Favre. He's only a half step above Roger Clemens in the retirement watch category and that's because Clemens is a lying, drug using bastard. Enough you pile of Mississippi alligator crap. I'm tired of the media fawning over this fool because he has "boyish enthusiasm" and "loves to play the game." Kiss my ass. He's a pill popping interception machine who just up until this past season was playing like Steve DeBerg. I'm tired of this garbage. Brett, I hope your move to the AFC brings you a career-ending lower extremity injury. My uncle has Jets season tickets so maybe I can watch that one in person.
One negative I will say about the trip, I missed the entire Olympics. Didn't see a single thing live and only one track race. Trash.
The one I did see was the women's 4x400m. Comeback victory for the US. Score son. Reminds me of the time when I was at the Penn Relays my sophomore year of high school and watched one of the most exciting races ever.
High school girls 4x400m Championship of America. Montclair, NJ featuring future Olympians the Barber sisters taking on some Jamaican school. We are dominating, the outcome is certainly not in doubt, but the incredibly packed crowd is raucous, everybody on their feet, whole stadium going crazy and then the Montclair third leg shits the bed. Totally blows it, gives up a 5-10 meter lead and the anchors take the batons even.
The Jamaicans are now going nuts, it's a goddamn war on the track, slugging it out stride for stride, everyone around me is yelling at the top of their lungs, I'm cursing at the top of my lungs - "FUCK YOU JAMAICA!!!" And we lost. The next year my friend Juan told our Jamaican friend Craig that story and he punched me in the balls.
Just saw that some sik bastard kidnapped four dogs from a shelter in Washington or Oregon and beat them to death. This is a sick world we're living in with sick people. On a happier note, a mother and baby elephant were reunited at some zoo in Washington. Happy times!
Alright, I've babbled enough. Time for bed. Sharing a room with three other guys. Sharing a bed with a guy from New York who has a rip in the back of his shorts from the top of his ass crack to the bottom. We've told him about the rip, but he doesn't care and continues to think nothing of bending over in them. An awful sight.
Dear Oreginians
(Monday August 25, 2008)
You dwell in a land that might just as easily be known as Loserdom for the fools that dwell there. Your obsession over the correct pronuncation of your states name makes you look like a five-year-old on a temper tantrum because he got a red bike for his birthday instead of an orange one.
Take for example the conversation I had with a quite attractive older woman from Portland when I was in Trout Lake. I was in the middle of telling her that Oregon was my favorite part of the trip thus far, that Crater Lake was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in my life, that Ashland and Bend were awesome towns, etc., etc. I'm sitting there telling her how great her state is and how much I would enjoy going back and she's completely deaf to it because I say Ore-gone.
You see dear Oreginians, not everyone pronounces your state name Ore-gin and like myself they say Ore-gone. Now, even though I believe this is a myth and that not a single person from New Jersey has ever pronounced our state name New Joisey, I don't treat people who make that awful joke like infants by giving them an impromptu speech therapy lesson while they're trying to speak.
My Oreginians, you may not realize it, but talking over someone by continually repeating "Ore-gin" like drunken parrots when they say Ore-gone is fucking rude. As most people learn back when they're two, it's not nice to interrupt others when they're talking. You know, that whole common decency thing.
Just as it annoys you to hear Ore-gone, gentle Oreginians, it annoys the absolute crap out of me to know that someone has ceased listening to you and will chant "Ore-gin...Ore-gin...Ore-gin...Ore-gin" until you acknowledge that you aren't using the preferred pronunciation and then make a faux apology or some terrible joke about being from the east coast. So I've come to just ignore your brainwashing actions and continue on with my line of speech as if you guys weren't making fools out of yourselves.
But I don't like this Oreginians. You are enjoyable people except for your one shitty habit and I like meeting and talking with you guys as well as travelling in your beautiful state. Not to mention all of the days during my youth spent caulking and floating my wagon across rivers, hunting the wilderness to extinction and having my family die of typhoid on the Oregon Trail. You've just got to give it a rest.
Nobody wants to hear your bullshit. It's a case of tomato and tomahto. Even though no one says tomahto, who gives a shit if they do? One of your fool citizens tried to get back at me by saying New Hersey when asking where I was from. Aside from revealing that he lacked a sense of humor, he also insulted my character by thinking that I would care about something so insignificant (if he really wanted to get me going, he could try convincing me that the Green Mile was a good movie). During this whole process, he made me start to think that Oreginians are the poor man's missionaries of the world, out to convince a people that don't want to be convinced about something that they can live just fine without.
Just stop. No one cares but you and the fact that you try and try and try just makes you look like buffoons.
Here's a scenario I can picture coming true: It's the year 2091. The world is suffering from the ravages of a terrible epidemic that threatens to end human existence on Earth. A scientist researching natural medicines of the Ore-gone wilderness discovers a cure for the evil disease, the ground roots of a native plant. He proceeds to administer the medicine to a few test subjects who are miraculously cured. He immediately goes to the closest town, a tiny hamlet in central Ore-gone where he gathers a crowd around and begins telling them of his discovery. He asks for their assistance in gathering more of the root. But he begins with the fateful words..."People of Ore-gone!" Then the chant begins.
You dwell in a land that might just as easily be known as Loserdom for the fools that dwell there. Your obsession over the correct pronuncation of your states name makes you look like a five-year-old on a temper tantrum because he got a red bike for his birthday instead of an orange one.
Take for example the conversation I had with a quite attractive older woman from Portland when I was in Trout Lake. I was in the middle of telling her that Oregon was my favorite part of the trip thus far, that Crater Lake was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in my life, that Ashland and Bend were awesome towns, etc., etc. I'm sitting there telling her how great her state is and how much I would enjoy going back and she's completely deaf to it because I say Ore-gone.
You see dear Oreginians, not everyone pronounces your state name Ore-gin and like myself they say Ore-gone. Now, even though I believe this is a myth and that not a single person from New Jersey has ever pronounced our state name New Joisey, I don't treat people who make that awful joke like infants by giving them an impromptu speech therapy lesson while they're trying to speak.
My Oreginians, you may not realize it, but talking over someone by continually repeating "Ore-gin" like drunken parrots when they say Ore-gone is fucking rude. As most people learn back when they're two, it's not nice to interrupt others when they're talking. You know, that whole common decency thing.
Just as it annoys you to hear Ore-gone, gentle Oreginians, it annoys the absolute crap out of me to know that someone has ceased listening to you and will chant "Ore-gin...Ore-gin...Ore-gin...Ore-gin" until you acknowledge that you aren't using the preferred pronunciation and then make a faux apology or some terrible joke about being from the east coast. So I've come to just ignore your brainwashing actions and continue on with my line of speech as if you guys weren't making fools out of yourselves.
But I don't like this Oreginians. You are enjoyable people except for your one shitty habit and I like meeting and talking with you guys as well as travelling in your beautiful state. Not to mention all of the days during my youth spent caulking and floating my wagon across rivers, hunting the wilderness to extinction and having my family die of typhoid on the Oregon Trail. You've just got to give it a rest.
Nobody wants to hear your bullshit. It's a case of tomato and tomahto. Even though no one says tomahto, who gives a shit if they do? One of your fool citizens tried to get back at me by saying New Hersey when asking where I was from. Aside from revealing that he lacked a sense of humor, he also insulted my character by thinking that I would care about something so insignificant (if he really wanted to get me going, he could try convincing me that the Green Mile was a good movie). During this whole process, he made me start to think that Oreginians are the poor man's missionaries of the world, out to convince a people that don't want to be convinced about something that they can live just fine without.
Just stop. No one cares but you and the fact that you try and try and try just makes you look like buffoons.
Here's a scenario I can picture coming true: It's the year 2091. The world is suffering from the ravages of a terrible epidemic that threatens to end human existence on Earth. A scientist researching natural medicines of the Ore-gone wilderness discovers a cure for the evil disease, the ground roots of a native plant. He proceeds to administer the medicine to a few test subjects who are miraculously cured. He immediately goes to the closest town, a tiny hamlet in central Ore-gone where he gathers a crowd around and begins telling them of his discovery. He asks for their assistance in gathering more of the root. But he begins with the fateful words..."People of Ore-gone!" Then the chant begins.
She Knit on Me
(Thursday August 21, 2008)
Back when we were at Elk Lake in Oregon, I met a waitress. Real cute, plain, nice butt, long legs - had to go for it.
It wasn't just the looks that did it though. A long time even before that at the Drakesbad Ranch outside of Chester, CA dwelled a Slovenian named Spela. Just being from Slovenia was enough for me with the hot Eastern European accent, but she had the long dark hair, legs that could have wrapped around my head three and a half times and a stomach that resembles the Mojave desert in two distinct ways - hot and flat.
I tell Neighbor that I'm in love with this girl and in good old Neighbor fashion he immediately tells her what I said. On top of that he suggests that I become her husband and get her a green card.
Totally embarassed I pull into my shell like a scared turtle and act like a timid fool. Meanwhile she's serving me food and beer while calling me "my future husband." Flirting or joking? Who knows. The only certifiable fact is that I blew the situation entirely, failing to ask her to have a drink with me at the hot tub later that night.
I can certify that blown chance because Boomer, a guy I've been hiking with for a bit, did just that. Got her going talking about volleyball (guess she was big into that back in the USSR) and now she emails him about once a week and has included bikini pics...
Motherfreaker!
Also she's meeting him in San Diego before she heads back to Europe. Yet another stab in the heart, sledgehammer to the toe, gunshot to the knee.
So I blew it and for the next 600 miles was self flagellating and wearing a hair shirt. So I had to go for it. Couldn't dig myself another hole and wallow in it until Canada.
Made small talk, flirting as she made me a milkshake.
Unfortunately she was really busy so it was hard to get much in edgewise after that. But I got to her at the bar later on.
"Excuse me ma'am, I'd like to get some service."
She comes over. "Yes?"
"Well I came in here to talk to you, but you've been running around ever since."
She had a slightly embarassed look on her face, but we got to chatting for a couple minutes and she said I should come up to the employees cabin when she gets off of work, to meet her at the restaurant at 9:00pm.
It rained the night before we got to Elk Lake so we had our stuff out drying on the deck and a band was coming to set up. I went to leave and go move it, but she caught me at the door.
"Are you leaving?"
"No, I'm just going to move my stuff off the deck. I'll be back."
"Good."
At that moment I thought I was in. I was the intriguing hiker blowing through town and she was the innocent summer help caught off guard by some sweet talking.
Then closing time came.
I get there and try to go in...the door is locked. I knock, someone answers the door and I ask for her. The door answerer smiles, revealing that I had been mentioned a time or two, but when she came to the door I could tell the gossip was not "I hope my prince will come!" More like "What if he shows up?"
"Hey..."
"Hi..."
"So..."
"You could come in here until we're finished cleaning up. Or you could wait outside if you want."
After that promising start and some awkward small talk with her coworkers (a.k.a. I didn't give a shit what they were saying), we left and went up to the cabin.
Two couches in the living room, two guys on one, we plop down on the other and start watching...ugh...Revenge of the Nerds III (known by other titles including: Just Hurry Up and Give Me the Goddamn Paycheck, My Acting Career Wasn't Supposed to Take This Shitty Turn, and Please Bore This Girl to Death So She'll Suggest We Go Upstairs and Disrobe). That Oscar winner was followed up by another trashbag, this time a low budget mafia flick called Mobsters about Lucky Luciano (played by Christian Slater, a logical choice).
Two movies you ask? Well, I decided to stick around, torturing myself through a double cinematic bull whipping, because after she started knitting, I didn't want to leave immediately and look like a total dirtbag.
Knitting. She was knitting a goddamn scarf. A fucking scarf! Knitting a fucking scarf on the couch while Revenge of the Nerds III is on.
Even worse is that because I pretended that I was okay with the situation, I tried making conversation to ease some of the awkwardness, but was completely dumbfounded and could think of nothing. Well, I could think of nothing that wouldn't have belittled and shamed her, so instead I sat in silence watching the movie.
The situation was further compounded by the fact that the way the TV and our couch were oriented, her body blocked most of the screen, so I had to sit sideways and stick my head out just to get a clear view. This also made it look like I was staring her in the face.
A special thanks goes out to the two guys on the other couch. A drowning man off the port bow of your schooner calls for a lifeline and you sit sipping beer and staring like zombies into the distance. Your assistance was much appreciated.
Finally she said she was tired and going up to bed. There are many things I could have said or done here, but continuing the theme of the evening, none were said or done.
I took my leave and walked in the dark up to our cabin, thinking of the wonderful assortment of dirty deeds we could have done together, and trying to figure out where on the surreal scale that situation ranked.
The next morning when I recountred the tale for the rest of the crew, I was given a sage piece of advice: "You should have stuck around, man. That thing was probably a cock sock."
Back when we were at Elk Lake in Oregon, I met a waitress. Real cute, plain, nice butt, long legs - had to go for it.
It wasn't just the looks that did it though. A long time even before that at the Drakesbad Ranch outside of Chester, CA dwelled a Slovenian named Spela. Just being from Slovenia was enough for me with the hot Eastern European accent, but she had the long dark hair, legs that could have wrapped around my head three and a half times and a stomach that resembles the Mojave desert in two distinct ways - hot and flat.
I tell Neighbor that I'm in love with this girl and in good old Neighbor fashion he immediately tells her what I said. On top of that he suggests that I become her husband and get her a green card.
Totally embarassed I pull into my shell like a scared turtle and act like a timid fool. Meanwhile she's serving me food and beer while calling me "my future husband." Flirting or joking? Who knows. The only certifiable fact is that I blew the situation entirely, failing to ask her to have a drink with me at the hot tub later that night.
I can certify that blown chance because Boomer, a guy I've been hiking with for a bit, did just that. Got her going talking about volleyball (guess she was big into that back in the USSR) and now she emails him about once a week and has included bikini pics...
Motherfreaker!
Also she's meeting him in San Diego before she heads back to Europe. Yet another stab in the heart, sledgehammer to the toe, gunshot to the knee.
So I blew it and for the next 600 miles was self flagellating and wearing a hair shirt. So I had to go for it. Couldn't dig myself another hole and wallow in it until Canada.
Made small talk, flirting as she made me a milkshake.
Unfortunately she was really busy so it was hard to get much in edgewise after that. But I got to her at the bar later on.
"Excuse me ma'am, I'd like to get some service."
She comes over. "Yes?"
"Well I came in here to talk to you, but you've been running around ever since."
She had a slightly embarassed look on her face, but we got to chatting for a couple minutes and she said I should come up to the employees cabin when she gets off of work, to meet her at the restaurant at 9:00pm.
It rained the night before we got to Elk Lake so we had our stuff out drying on the deck and a band was coming to set up. I went to leave and go move it, but she caught me at the door.
"Are you leaving?"
"No, I'm just going to move my stuff off the deck. I'll be back."
"Good."
At that moment I thought I was in. I was the intriguing hiker blowing through town and she was the innocent summer help caught off guard by some sweet talking.
Then closing time came.
I get there and try to go in...the door is locked. I knock, someone answers the door and I ask for her. The door answerer smiles, revealing that I had been mentioned a time or two, but when she came to the door I could tell the gossip was not "I hope my prince will come!" More like "What if he shows up?"
"Hey..."
"Hi..."
"So..."
"You could come in here until we're finished cleaning up. Or you could wait outside if you want."
After that promising start and some awkward small talk with her coworkers (a.k.a. I didn't give a shit what they were saying), we left and went up to the cabin.
Two couches in the living room, two guys on one, we plop down on the other and start watching...ugh...Revenge of the Nerds III (known by other titles including: Just Hurry Up and Give Me the Goddamn Paycheck, My Acting Career Wasn't Supposed to Take This Shitty Turn, and Please Bore This Girl to Death So She'll Suggest We Go Upstairs and Disrobe). That Oscar winner was followed up by another trashbag, this time a low budget mafia flick called Mobsters about Lucky Luciano (played by Christian Slater, a logical choice).
Two movies you ask? Well, I decided to stick around, torturing myself through a double cinematic bull whipping, because after she started knitting, I didn't want to leave immediately and look like a total dirtbag.
Knitting. She was knitting a goddamn scarf. A fucking scarf! Knitting a fucking scarf on the couch while Revenge of the Nerds III is on.
Even worse is that because I pretended that I was okay with the situation, I tried making conversation to ease some of the awkwardness, but was completely dumbfounded and could think of nothing. Well, I could think of nothing that wouldn't have belittled and shamed her, so instead I sat in silence watching the movie.
The situation was further compounded by the fact that the way the TV and our couch were oriented, her body blocked most of the screen, so I had to sit sideways and stick my head out just to get a clear view. This also made it look like I was staring her in the face.
A special thanks goes out to the two guys on the other couch. A drowning man off the port bow of your schooner calls for a lifeline and you sit sipping beer and staring like zombies into the distance. Your assistance was much appreciated.
Finally she said she was tired and going up to bed. There are many things I could have said or done here, but continuing the theme of the evening, none were said or done.
I took my leave and walked in the dark up to our cabin, thinking of the wonderful assortment of dirty deeds we could have done together, and trying to figure out where on the surreal scale that situation ranked.
The next morning when I recountred the tale for the rest of the crew, I was given a sage piece of advice: "You should have stuck around, man. That thing was probably a cock sock."
She Devil
(Wednesday August 20, 2008)
Women are conniving and evil. I was just at the one-level-above-a-convenience-store-market at White Pass and I overheard two women talking, one of whom had a recent break up.
"He heard me talking on the phone saying that you had a date the other night and he was so mad."
"I don't know why. He's the one that broke up with me."
"Well he was really mad."
"So then it worked?"
Then she cackled witch-like and walked into a back room.
Pure evil.
Women are conniving and evil. I was just at the one-level-above-a-convenience-
"He heard me talking on the phone saying that you had a date the other night and he was so mad."
"I don't know why. He's the one that broke up with me."
"Well he was really mad."
"So then it worked?"
Then she cackled witch-like and walked into a back room.
Pure evil.
Moeskitoes
(Saturday August 4, 2008)
Normally the mosquito population of Oregon is dead around August 1. This year they had a late winter and a wet spring so the hellspawn are just getting started.
We camped at Summit Lake near Shelter Cove Resort (absolutely gorgeous, blue as can be, great for swimming even though we saw a couple dead fish but whatever) and we quickly discovered that The Hatch has begun.
Basically that means if you're anywhere near water when that happens, you're hanging out in rain gear and a headnet, in your tent, or fucked. These bastards (we call them every name under the sun - bastards, little bastards, stupid motherfuckers, pieces of shit, grandmotherless dregs of a bankrupt society - basically combine cursewords and it's an acceptable expletive) swarmed, and by swarmed I mean like a cartoon swarm of bugs chasing Goofy or Donald. Just on me there were 30 or more and buzzing overhead were hundreds more. Killing them does nothing. Like zombies and guidos, there are always more waiting in line.
The only relief comes from your tent, the wind or a resort area of National Forest where the Forest Service sprays chemicals to kill them and keep tourist dollars coming in.
It's not so bad when you're walking. You get the occasional ones that land on your shoulders, hands and face, but you swat and life goes on. Stopping...forget it. Seemingly out of nowhere these soulless creatures appear to probe you without consent. And they never ever stop. They'd suck the oceans dry if they were made of blood.
The worst is they make the trail not enjoyable. They ruined a great campsite yesterday, and then to avoid them today we got up at 4:00am, started hiking by 5:00am and blasted 15+ in five and a half hours with one break to take off jackets because we were getting hot. Makes you forget to look around and enjoy the fact that you're out hiking in the wilderness instead of sitting in a cubicle
Normally the mosquito population of Oregon is dead around August 1. This year they had a late winter and a wet spring so the hellspawn are just getting started.
We camped at Summit Lake near Shelter Cove Resort (absolutely gorgeous, blue as can be, great for swimming even though we saw a couple dead fish but whatever) and we quickly discovered that The Hatch has begun.
Basically that means if you're anywhere near water when that happens, you're hanging out in rain gear and a headnet, in your tent, or fucked. These bastards (we call them every name under the sun - bastards, little bastards, stupid motherfuckers, pieces of shit, grandmotherless dregs of a bankrupt society - basically combine cursewords and it's an acceptable expletive) swarmed, and by swarmed I mean like a cartoon swarm of bugs chasing Goofy or Donald. Just on me there were 30 or more and buzzing overhead were hundreds more. Killing them does nothing. Like zombies and guidos, there are always more waiting in line.
The only relief comes from your tent, the wind or a resort area of National Forest where the Forest Service sprays chemicals to kill them and keep tourist dollars coming in.
It's not so bad when you're walking. You get the occasional ones that land on your shoulders, hands and face, but you swat and life goes on. Stopping...forget it. Seemingly out of nowhere these soulless creatures appear to probe you without consent. And they never ever stop. They'd suck the oceans dry if they were made of blood.
The worst is they make the trail not enjoyable. They ruined a great campsite yesterday, and then to avoid them today we got up at 4:00am, started hiking by 5:00am and blasted 15+ in five and a half hours with one break to take off jackets because we were getting hot. Makes you forget to look around and enjoy the fact that you're out hiking in the wilderness instead of sitting in a cubicle
Getting Kicked Out of Disney Land
(Tuesday July 29, 2008)
Today I found out that two people on the trail were once banned from setting foot on Disney Land property, one for three and a half years.
The story came up when we were breaking at Highway 138 just outside the Crater Lake National Park boundary. Boomer asked if anyone would dare him to play dead on the side of the road. I immediately suggest that he do just that, but Flippy talked him out of it. I was thinking of taking up the dare myself when Boomer starts in on the story of the time he was thought dead on Thunder Mountain.
I don't think it does this at Disney World, but apparently for about 45 seconds in Disney Land, the Thunder Mountain ride stops and sits at one part. Boomer decides this is an excellent time for a Çhinese fire drill.
He wriggles out from under the bar, starts running and halfway through he ride takes off. So he's left standing there in the middle of the ride near a service door not knowing what to do. He didn't have to wait long to find out though.
Allegedly a few people have been killed in the past on that ride so when the cart came back minus one, Walt Disney flipped shit. Flood lights came on and a bunch of Disney staff come running back looking for what they're assuming is an injured or possibly dead rider.
"Sir! Sir! Where are you!? Are you okay!? Are you hurt!?"
Upon finding a healthy young man joking around about the situation, Walt Disney again flips shit, and really I guess you can't blame them since they evacuated a quarter of the park and called in the fire department. Just a mite pissed.
Boomer: "They took me away in handcuffs. Disney Land has a jail and it's behind Toon Town."
Again Boomer tries to make light of the situation, but there is a major shortage in the sense of humor department over in Anaheim.
Disney PD: "We're going to call your parents right now. What do you think of that?"
Boomer: "I'm 23. Go ahead. My dad will get a kick out of it."
And out he went, banned for over three years, with the threat of real, not Toon Town jail time if he came back.
I don't know the other guy's name, but whoever he is, he bought a Tigger costume and went around telling kids not to drink or smoke weed.
Walt Disney seems to feel that kids should indulge in such extracurricular activities if they feel the need as they attempted to arrest D.A.R.E. Officer Tigger and stop him from preaching his corrupting gospel.
Tigger uses the kids he's trying to help as decoys, asking the security team if they really want to arrest Tigger in front of all of them.
Knowing they had a conundrum on their hands - putting rent-a-cops in a pickle is what Tiggers do best! - security sort of surrounded him and backed him out of the park without ever laying a hand on him.
And if you think that's wild, check this out. I went to Disney World in middle school and the new Pumas my parents bought for me for the trip got rained on and stained my feet blue.
Today I found out that two people on the trail were once banned from setting foot on Disney Land property, one for three and a half years.
The story came up when we were breaking at Highway 138 just outside the Crater Lake National Park boundary. Boomer asked if anyone would dare him to play dead on the side of the road. I immediately suggest that he do just that, but Flippy talked him out of it. I was thinking of taking up the dare myself when Boomer starts in on the story of the time he was thought dead on Thunder Mountain.
I don't think it does this at Disney World, but apparently for about 45 seconds in Disney Land, the Thunder Mountain ride stops and sits at one part. Boomer decides this is an excellent time for a Çhinese fire drill.
He wriggles out from under the bar, starts running and halfway through he ride takes off. So he's left standing there in the middle of the ride near a service door not knowing what to do. He didn't have to wait long to find out though.
Allegedly a few people have been killed in the past on that ride so when the cart came back minus one, Walt Disney flipped shit. Flood lights came on and a bunch of Disney staff come running back looking for what they're assuming is an injured or possibly dead rider.
"Sir! Sir! Where are you!? Are you okay!? Are you hurt!?"
Upon finding a healthy young man joking around about the situation, Walt Disney again flips shit, and really I guess you can't blame them since they evacuated a quarter of the park and called in the fire department. Just a mite pissed.
Boomer: "They took me away in handcuffs. Disney Land has a jail and it's behind Toon Town."
Again Boomer tries to make light of the situation, but there is a major shortage in the sense of humor department over in Anaheim.
Disney PD: "We're going to call your parents right now. What do you think of that?"
Boomer: "I'm 23. Go ahead. My dad will get a kick out of it."
And out he went, banned for over three years, with the threat of real, not Toon Town jail time if he came back.
I don't know the other guy's name, but whoever he is, he bought a Tigger costume and went around telling kids not to drink or smoke weed.
Walt Disney seems to feel that kids should indulge in such extracurricular activities if they feel the need as they attempted to arrest D.A.R.E. Officer Tigger and stop him from preaching his corrupting gospel.
Tigger uses the kids he's trying to help as decoys, asking the security team if they really want to arrest Tigger in front of all of them.
Knowing they had a conundrum on their hands - putting rent-a-cops in a pickle is what Tiggers do best! - security sort of surrounded him and backed him out of the park without ever laying a hand on him.
And if you think that's wild, check this out. I went to Disney World in middle school and the new Pumas my parents bought for me for the trip got rained on and stained my feet blue.
Getting Kicked Out of the San Diego Zoo
(Saturday August 2, 2008)
Boomer, the guy who was banned from Disney Land for three years has a knack for this sort of thing. The San Diego Zoo has him filed in a computer somewhere under Banned for Life. But that's what happens when you fight ostriches.
Boomer was part of a behind the scenes tour and decided after a while it was not exciting enough, so he goes wandering.
He makes his way to a loading dock where lo and behold there's an ostrich. Just hanging out, no supervision, standing around looking like an ostrich.
Upon seeing the ostrich, Boomer's first instinct, like all humans upon encountering large, loading-dock-loitering birds, is to give it a hug. Thanks to Boomer, I now know that Ostriches do not like to be hugged. Hugging an ostriche apparently results in a hard peck to the chest.
I also know that when animals bother Boomer, he responds in kind. A bear stole Boomer's food bag in Yosemite so he chased after it and hit it in the face with a trekking pole. Mr. Bear did not like that and bit the pole in half. Luckily it was the pole that broke and not Boomer who lived to tell me some hilarious tales.
Ostrich pecks, Boomer punches. Ostrich bites and draws blood, Boomer punches really hard and knocks ostrich off loading dock at which point he is tackled by zoo security who were following the title fight on camera.
The zoo tried to take him to court, but the judge threw out the case, something about the zoo being negligent.
Boomer also has many overdue library books and the library is threatening to get a collection agency after him, but I figured this story was a bit more interesting.
Boomer, the guy who was banned from Disney Land for three years has a knack for this sort of thing. The San Diego Zoo has him filed in a computer somewhere under Banned for Life. But that's what happens when you fight ostriches.
Boomer was part of a behind the scenes tour and decided after a while it was not exciting enough, so he goes wandering.
He makes his way to a loading dock where lo and behold there's an ostrich. Just hanging out, no supervision, standing around looking like an ostrich.
Upon seeing the ostrich, Boomer's first instinct, like all humans upon encountering large, loading-dock-loitering birds, is to give it a hug. Thanks to Boomer, I now know that Ostriches do not like to be hugged. Hugging an ostriche apparently results in a hard peck to the chest.
I also know that when animals bother Boomer, he responds in kind. A bear stole Boomer's food bag in Yosemite so he chased after it and hit it in the face with a trekking pole. Mr. Bear did not like that and bit the pole in half. Luckily it was the pole that broke and not Boomer who lived to tell me some hilarious tales.
Ostrich pecks, Boomer punches. Ostrich bites and draws blood, Boomer punches really hard and knocks ostrich off loading dock at which point he is tackled by zoo security who were following the title fight on camera.
The zoo tried to take him to court, but the judge threw out the case, something about the zoo being negligent.
Boomer also has many overdue library books and the library is threatening to get a collection agency after him, but I figured this story was a bit more interesting.
So Where Are You Sleeping Tonight?
(Monday July 28, 2008)
So Where Are You Sleeping Tonight?
I am camped illegaly on the Rim of Crater Lake with nine other hikers and I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world right now. The cliffs on the lake were a beautiful shade of purple a little bit ago; the water looks so calm and flat and huge and deep blue; the sunset went through so many gorgeous phases, highlighting the smoke in the air, then shining right through it making the sky look like a big bruise, then a tropical drink and now just a smudge of pink highlighter. The temperature is nice and chilly, a good breeze is keeping the mosquitos away and keeping my tent nice and fresh. I got a good pitch on my tent so it feels super spacious, like the cage my parents used to lock me in when I was bad.
Actually, I would trade this for one thing, trading up I guess you would call it - Yulia, the eastern European cashier working here at the park climbs in here with me and says simple phrases in her hot accent:
"You like more bread, yes?"
"Exit is on the right."
"Green mean go. Red mean stop. Take me now."
"My horse, his name is Clyde."
"You hike all the way from Mexico?"
"Dirty American hiker."
"Sexy American hiker."
So Where Are You Sleeping Tonight?
I am camped illegaly on the Rim of Crater Lake with nine other hikers and I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world right now. The cliffs on the lake were a beautiful shade of purple a little bit ago; the water looks so calm and flat and huge and deep blue; the sunset went through so many gorgeous phases, highlighting the smoke in the air, then shining right through it making the sky look like a big bruise, then a tropical drink and now just a smudge of pink highlighter. The temperature is nice and chilly, a good breeze is keeping the mosquitos away and keeping my tent nice and fresh. I got a good pitch on my tent so it feels super spacious, like the cage my parents used to lock me in when I was bad.
Actually, I would trade this for one thing, trading up I guess you would call it - Yulia, the eastern European cashier working here at the park climbs in here with me and says simple phrases in her hot accent:
"You like more bread, yes?"
"Exit is on the right."
"Green mean go. Red mean stop. Take me now."
"My horse, his name is Clyde."
"You hike all the way from Mexico?"
"Dirty American hiker."
"Sexy American hiker."
How Does This Happen?
Yesterday we stopped in at Hyatt Lake Resort for breakfast, and as soon as we finished that, walked to the other side of the resort to a different restaurant and had lunch (we have raging appetites).
At breakfast two older couples sat at the table next to us and we got to talking about this and that and later part ways.
The next day we stop at Fish Lake Resort, again for breakfast, but this time no lunch (I know we're really roughing it out here). Four of us hiked in, three hiked out. The one guy Flippy ended up taking a shower and doing laundry so we just took off.
He's a fast hiker so we expected he'd catch us in a few hours, but it wasn't until after 8:00pm that he rolls into camp, and as always, Flippy has a story.
The two couples from Hyatt Lake spotted Flippy on the road, picked him up and drove him back to the trail, talked with him for a long damn time and then gave him the access code to their gated community so that we can go to their condo and have cocktails with them.
"Access code to their gated comunity?"
"Yes, access code to their gated comunity."
I mean honestly, who's ever heard of anyting like that? Needless to say we'll be stopping in for a few harvey wallbangers.
At breakfast two older couples sat at the table next to us and we got to talking about this and that and later part ways.
The next day we stop at Fish Lake Resort, again for breakfast, but this time no lunch (I know we're really roughing it out here). Four of us hiked in, three hiked out. The one guy Flippy ended up taking a shower and doing laundry so we just took off.
He's a fast hiker so we expected he'd catch us in a few hours, but it wasn't until after 8:00pm that he rolls into camp, and as always, Flippy has a story.
The two couples from Hyatt Lake spotted Flippy on the road, picked him up and drove him back to the trail, talked with him for a long damn time and then gave him the access code to their gated community so that we can go to their condo and have cocktails with them.
"Access code to their gated comunity?"
"Yes, access code to their gated comunity."
I mean honestly, who's ever heard of anyting like that? Needless to say we'll be stopping in for a few harvey wallbangers.
Do Me a Solid
Loose stool no more! The old bowels are coming back online after their battle with the forces of Admiral Fish Taco. I didn't think I was even going to make it to a good spot, figured I might just end up having to bury some Joe Boxers in the woods somewhere.
Piles=Energyless hiking.
Logs=Climbing mountains like a lemur.
Today, I climbed with the strength of ten lemurs plus two.
Piles=Energyless hiking.
Logs=Climbing mountains like a lemur.
Today, I climbed with the strength of ten lemurs plus two.
Welcome to Orefreakingon!
Welcome to Orefreakingon!
Goodbye California, hello Oregon. Thank god that we are out of that damn state. I loved California, was one of the best places I've ever been in my life and if it weren't for the fact that I hold New Jersey in the highest regard above any other place on earth, I'd probably say that California's the best state in the country.
But hiking 1700 miles of a 2650 mile trail and spending over three months in the same state can get more than a little tiresome and make you feel like you're not getting anywhere.
But now we've got Oregon, home of the big trees and Steve Prefonaine. Day 1 in the new state was great. We seem to be getting past the forest fire smoke and had our first real views in three weeks. Just yesterday there were times when we had less than a mile visibility so to be able to see almost to the horizon and walk in clear air is a sweet deal.
Weather was cool, sun was beaming but not overwhelming and a mile before camp somebody left two coolers for PCT hikers filled with soda and beer. Cherry Pepsi and a Budweiser, please!
Today was a good day.
California, kiss these cheeks.
Goodbye California, hello Oregon. Thank god that we are out of that damn state. I loved California, was one of the best places I've ever been in my life and if it weren't for the fact that I hold New Jersey in the highest regard above any other place on earth, I'd probably say that California's the best state in the country.
But hiking 1700 miles of a 2650 mile trail and spending over three months in the same state can get more than a little tiresome and make you feel like you're not getting anywhere.
But now we've got Oregon, home of the big trees and Steve Prefonaine. Day 1 in the new state was great. We seem to be getting past the forest fire smoke and had our first real views in three weeks. Just yesterday there were times when we had less than a mile visibility so to be able to see almost to the horizon and walk in clear air is a sweet deal.
Weather was cool, sun was beaming but not overwhelming and a mile before camp somebody left two coolers for PCT hikers filled with soda and beer. Cherry Pepsi and a Budweiser, please!
Today was a good day.
California, kiss these cheeks.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Apologies
Sorry for the long delay between posts. It's not that I haven't had anything to write. Just the opposite. I fell behind sometime around when we left Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite and have been struggling to catch up ever since.
Some of the longer pieces I've been writing in my journal and will type them up later, but for now I put down a bunch of the ones that I could do pretty quickly.
Tomorrow I should be able to get down a couple more and then hopefully the longer ones will be finished by the time I get to the town stop at mile 1506 (I'm at 1377 right now). After that I should be back to regular updates and whatnot.
As for being so far ahead, the crazy California wildfire season forced us to skip a 138 mile section of the trail, from Sierra City up to Chester. We could have hike a decent portion of that 138 miles, but it would have involved a lot of road walking that nobody wanted to do.
So our plans are for right now to keep on keeping on to Canada and then if the currently closed section is open when we finish, to head back down and complete the unfinished section in September.
That's about it trail-wise. Like I said, I've got a bunch of stories to write up, so keep looking for updates as they'll start picking up again at each town stop.
Goodnight minions.
Some of the longer pieces I've been writing in my journal and will type them up later, but for now I put down a bunch of the ones that I could do pretty quickly.
Tomorrow I should be able to get down a couple more and then hopefully the longer ones will be finished by the time I get to the town stop at mile 1506 (I'm at 1377 right now). After that I should be back to regular updates and whatnot.
As for being so far ahead, the crazy California wildfire season forced us to skip a 138 mile section of the trail, from Sierra City up to Chester. We could have hike a decent portion of that 138 miles, but it would have involved a lot of road walking that nobody wanted to do.
So our plans are for right now to keep on keeping on to Canada and then if the currently closed section is open when we finish, to head back down and complete the unfinished section in September.
That's about it trail-wise. Like I said, I've got a bunch of stories to write up, so keep looking for updates as they'll start picking up again at each town stop.
Goodnight minions.
An Interesting Bowel Movement #3
Have you ever battled a swarm of mosquitos with an orange bandana while taking a dump in a hole and then one particularly angry swing causes the weight on the hand that's propping you up to shift, causing your left cheek to dip into the mound of filth below? Neither have I. Until June 24, 2008.
Let me just say that this was a top 10 most enjoyable moment of my life. My colon was a rumblin' and the skeeters must have heard it because as soon as my pants came down, it was like handing out free tickets to an all you can eat buffet.
Let me just say that this was a top 10 most enjoyable moment of my life. My colon was a rumblin' and the skeeters must have heard it because as soon as my pants came down, it was like handing out free tickets to an all you can eat buffet.
An Interesting Bowel Movement #2
Have you ever had a deer run by you and then disappear into the woods, making you think that the rock slide tumbling into the canyon ahead of you was just the deer crashing through the brush while taking a dump in a hole below Half Dome in Yosemite National Park? Neither have I. Until June 23rd, 2008.
The $60 Bolivian Hand
This one was told to me by a guy named (Super or Visor) when we were camping at Joshua Tree Spring North of Walker Pass:
Super went down to Bolivia on a teaching mission to a school for kids living in a poor, remote area of the country. Basically what happens in the rural areas is farmers grow acres and acres of wheat and corn, eat enough to keep them alive and sell the rest for nothing close enough to a living wage. The educational system there is non-existent, so the kids learn nothing and end up stuck in a horrible cycle. The school's curriculum is designed to teach them other types of life skills that will help them earn a living in the cities (where the money is) and hopefully allow them to return to their rural villages, ply their trade there and improve the quality of life for the people living there. About as noble of a goal as you can have I think.
Unfortunately things didn't always work out like that and when Super's girlfriend and now wife came down to visit him, the two of them, along with all of the children, ended up doing road construction the entire time.
Despite being one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world, Bolivia is prevented from exploiting that wealth because it is landlocked. No way to ship the stuff out other than driving it to ports in other countries. Other countries of course take advantage of this situation with things like taxes and tariffs thus preventing Bolivia from expoliting their natural resources. Also don't forget that Bolivia is a South American country, meaning that it is required by law to have a corrupt government. So in other words, all future generations of Bolivians are doomed to lives of squalor. In still other words, they're fucked.
This is why an American teacher, along with his future wife and class of students wasted days of time filling giant pot holes with dirt that upon the first drops of rain were immediately washed out and thus the road returned to its perpetually shitty state. A good use of everyone's time.
After hearing of Bolivian road construction and repair policies, it's no surprise then to hear that the Bolivian justice system varies pretty significantly from town to town. Super was warned about this almost as soon as he got down there. The people running the school told him that if there were any incidents involving someone from one of the nearby towns, to get the hell out of there because the locals just might kill you. Like beat and stomp you until your skull cracks open. Have teams of Bolivian horses trample you until you're ear turns into your asshole. Pelt you with rocks until your bones are shattered into thoudsands of pieces. Tickle your feet until the sound of your laughter reaches the ears of angels in heaven and they flyy down to escort you to the golden gates in a chariot made of clouds and silver. You get the picture.
Naturally, Super gets into a motorcycle accident in town with a guy and nearly cuts his hand off. "Hanging by some skin" was how he described it. Super follows orders and takes off, heads back to the school and lets his bosses know the situation. They all decide to go down together and talk with the man and his family, see how they can rectify the situation.
They walk into the house and the guy is laying on the couch, his hand in a beehive of gauze, basically like putting a band aid on a severed artery.
They ask him if he went to the hospital to get the hand looked at, but unbelievably (actually quite believably when you remember that they're in Bolivia) that was what the doctor ordered. Basically, his hand was lost. The only unresolved matter was compensation. What else can you do at that point but throw some money at the problem?
The family demanded 500 bolivianos (Bolician dollars).
"Excuse me?"
"500 bolivianos."
The grand total of 500 bolivianos converts to...50 American dollars. Well then. Super ponied up 60 bucks and they called it a day.
The whole deal was agreeable to both parties. Super got off paying pocket change and El CÃ pitan Hook was in the black in more ways than one.
He rented out his taxi to someone in town and was making a profit while sitting at home watching telanovelas.
Any naysayers about the success of the school only have to read this story to see how just how profoundly the teachers are affecting the lives of the Bolivian people.
The only person complaining was the guy's wife. He just doesn't lend a...hand...around the house like he used to.
Super went down to Bolivia on a teaching mission to a school for kids living in a poor, remote area of the country. Basically what happens in the rural areas is farmers grow acres and acres of wheat and corn, eat enough to keep them alive and sell the rest for nothing close enough to a living wage. The educational system there is non-existent, so the kids learn nothing and end up stuck in a horrible cycle. The school's curriculum is designed to teach them other types of life skills that will help them earn a living in the cities (where the money is) and hopefully allow them to return to their rural villages, ply their trade there and improve the quality of life for the people living there. About as noble of a goal as you can have I think.
Unfortunately things didn't always work out like that and when Super's girlfriend and now wife came down to visit him, the two of them, along with all of the children, ended up doing road construction the entire time.
Despite being one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world, Bolivia is prevented from exploiting that wealth because it is landlocked. No way to ship the stuff out other than driving it to ports in other countries. Other countries of course take advantage of this situation with things like taxes and tariffs thus preventing Bolivia from expoliting their natural resources. Also don't forget that Bolivia is a South American country, meaning that it is required by law to have a corrupt government. So in other words, all future generations of Bolivians are doomed to lives of squalor. In still other words, they're fucked.
This is why an American teacher, along with his future wife and class of students wasted days of time filling giant pot holes with dirt that upon the first drops of rain were immediately washed out and thus the road returned to its perpetually shitty state. A good use of everyone's time.
After hearing of Bolivian road construction and repair policies, it's no surprise then to hear that the Bolivian justice system varies pretty significantly from town to town. Super was warned about this almost as soon as he got down there. The people running the school told him that if there were any incidents involving someone from one of the nearby towns, to get the hell out of there because the locals just might kill you. Like beat and stomp you until your skull cracks open. Have teams of Bolivian horses trample you until you're ear turns into your asshole. Pelt you with rocks until your bones are shattered into thoudsands of pieces. Tickle your feet until the sound of your laughter reaches the ears of angels in heaven and they flyy down to escort you to the golden gates in a chariot made of clouds and silver. You get the picture.
Naturally, Super gets into a motorcycle accident in town with a guy and nearly cuts his hand off. "Hanging by some skin" was how he described it. Super follows orders and takes off, heads back to the school and lets his bosses know the situation. They all decide to go down together and talk with the man and his family, see how they can rectify the situation.
They walk into the house and the guy is laying on the couch, his hand in a beehive of gauze, basically like putting a band aid on a severed artery.
They ask him if he went to the hospital to get the hand looked at, but unbelievably (actually quite believably when you remember that they're in Bolivia) that was what the doctor ordered. Basically, his hand was lost. The only unresolved matter was compensation. What else can you do at that point but throw some money at the problem?
The family demanded 500 bolivianos (Bolician dollars).
"Excuse me?"
"500 bolivianos."
The grand total of 500 bolivianos converts to...50 American dollars. Well then. Super ponied up 60 bucks and they called it a day.
The whole deal was agreeable to both parties. Super got off paying pocket change and El CÃ pitan Hook was in the black in more ways than one.
He rented out his taxi to someone in town and was making a profit while sitting at home watching telanovelas.
Any naysayers about the success of the school only have to read this story to see how just how profoundly the teachers are affecting the lives of the Bolivian people.
The only person complaining was the guy's wife. He just doesn't lend a...hand...around the house like he used to.
Happy 4th of July Errybody!
Funny that if you went back and asked anyone living in 1776 what the significance of the 4th is, they'd probably call you a slag and/or a rake before gathering an angry mob to tar and feather you.
The real holiday should be on either July 2nd, the day that the colonies ratified the document; July 6, the day the Delcaration was officially made public in the Pennsylvania Evening Post; July 8, the first big day of celebration when the Declaration was read aloud before a crowd at the State House in Philadelphia; or August 2nd, the day the majority of delegates signed the Declaration. Nothing apparently happened on the 4th.
So said John Adams: The second of July 1776 will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of the continent to the other from this time forward forever more.
I don't know about you, but I always celebrate the 4th with bells. I clang from dusk til dawn. I give Salvation Army Santas a run for their money.
Anyway, John didn't get his way and it's a damn shame. I'll bet it was those meddling Scotsmen James Wilson and John Witherspoon. Probably Caesar Rodney had something to do with it too. Those Delawarians are rascally.
In the end, I say we all blame Ben Franklin. He was fat, he had gout and he slept all the time while all the heavy shit was going down. Damn you Poor Richard to Hades!
The real holiday should be on either July 2nd, the day that the colonies ratified the document; July 6, the day the Delcaration was officially made public in the Pennsylvania Evening Post; July 8, the first big day of celebration when the Declaration was read aloud before a crowd at the State House in Philadelphia; or August 2nd, the day the majority of delegates signed the Declaration. Nothing apparently happened on the 4th.
So said John Adams: The second of July 1776 will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of the continent to the other from this time forward forever more.
I don't know about you, but I always celebrate the 4th with bells. I clang from dusk til dawn. I give Salvation Army Santas a run for their money.
Anyway, John didn't get his way and it's a damn shame. I'll bet it was those meddling Scotsmen James Wilson and John Witherspoon. Probably Caesar Rodney had something to do with it too. Those Delawarians are rascally.
In the end, I say we all blame Ben Franklin. He was fat, he had gout and he slept all the time while all the heavy shit was going down. Damn you Poor Richard to Hades!
A Note on Trail Names
You probably have noticed that nobody mentioned in my blog has a real name. It's always Oliver Gash, Cash Taint, Lord Sexington, John E. Depth or something else that makes you wonder what the hell was wrong with these hikers' parents.
Well, as some of you know, when you get on the trail, it's almost inevitable that you'll end up with a trail name. I don't know why or how the tradition started, but it's a religion with the thru hiker community. Sometimes it's too much like a religion with the trail name fanatics trying to dub you something ridiculous and contrived within the first week.
Someone once told me that there was a guy hiking this year that practically wouldn't recognize her until she got a trail name. That guy probably also speaks Klingon and finds Madeline Albright attractive.
I actually ended up getting my trail name from a trail name obsessor, but not before turning down a couple of crap ass ones.
The day I got to Scissors Crossing (way back around mile 77), a group of us were sitting under a highway overpass waiting out the high 90's heat. I pulled out my cell phone, made a few calls and then headed out to get in a few extra miles because there was a big waterless stretch in the morning.
Two days later when I'm in Warner Springs, someone tells me that they heard I had a trail name. It was the first I had heard anything of it, so I asked him what it was, all excited that I did something in the first few days that warranted the bestowing of a trail name.
Verizon.
Someone who had their sense of humor singed off playing with lighter fluid as a child didn't like that I was talking on the phone either too loudly, too close to them or maybe even at all. That one didn't stand a chance. I refused to acknowledge it other than to hold it up as an object of ridicule.
A few days later in Idyllwild, a group of us are standing around a campfire BS-ing (the line "She has just enough of an eating disorder to be sexy" was uttered, at which point we decided that we're the reason women have eating disorders in the first place) when the topic of trail names comes up again.
Someone had suggested Spot because I have a GPS tracker called SPOT that alows my family to see where I am, but 1) a lot of people on the trail have them and 2) it's a shitty name.
Many names are thrown out, all forgetable and contrived. Finally I get half annoyed (though when I say the fateful line, it's not in a mean way), wanting to just end the conversation and let the process happen naturally.
"I'm not going to have a trail name thrust upon me without meaning."
And so Thrust was born.
It took me a long time to get used to the idea of introducing myself as Thrust. It just felt weird and I didn't think I'd ever really take to it, like when I tried to call myself B.J. the Speedboat in third grade.
At first I only halfheartedly told people my trail name, prefacing it with "My real name's Brad." Saying it that way made me realize that some people don't like giving their real name on the trail. It also made me realize that those people have no lives.
But eventually, and to my surprise, I just dumped the preamble and I started calling myself Thrust. I answer to it and that's how everyone out here knows me. It's kind of weird if you think about it and it's got to sound especially weird to non-hikers to hear a group of people calling each other Thrust and Bonesaw and Dildo Saggins.
I'm obviously going to get made fun of by both friends and family about this, which is part of the reason why I haven't really mentioned it. But now that I've passed the halfway point, I figure it's time.
I don't get the question so much anymore, but at first it seemed like everyone wanted to know where the name came from.
One guy tells me, "Oh, Thrust. That must be because you hike so fast."
Another - "Are you a geologist?"
Coming out of Big Bear, I met two women going in and I introduce myself. The one woman hears Trust (the most common mispronunciation) and says it in a real satisfied way, like "Trust...this guy must be called that because he's a nice, wholesome, trustworthy guy." Then I correct her and she lets out an embarrased "OH!" and almost can't bring herself to talk to me anymore, her mind having wandered in a dirty direction.
Before we night hiked out of Agua Dulce, a group of us went and got pizza at a place near the grocery store. I was chatting up one of the female hikers in the group (turns out she's married to the guy sitting next to her) and when she hears my trail name, she tells me, "You don't look like a Thrust."
Now, I'm willing to bet that she didn't mean that I didn't look like a geologist, and she'd never seen me hike before, so she couldn't be saying that I looked like a slow poke. So that only leaves one other option. Once I worked my way through the thought process, I was pretty insulted. It's one thing to be told you're bad in bed after the experience itself, but to be told that you just don't look like you'd be any good...low blow.
Well, as some of you know, when you get on the trail, it's almost inevitable that you'll end up with a trail name. I don't know why or how the tradition started, but it's a religion with the thru hiker community. Sometimes it's too much like a religion with the trail name fanatics trying to dub you something ridiculous and contrived within the first week.
Someone once told me that there was a guy hiking this year that practically wouldn't recognize her until she got a trail name. That guy probably also speaks Klingon and finds Madeline Albright attractive.
I actually ended up getting my trail name from a trail name obsessor, but not before turning down a couple of crap ass ones.
The day I got to Scissors Crossing (way back around mile 77), a group of us were sitting under a highway overpass waiting out the high 90's heat. I pulled out my cell phone, made a few calls and then headed out to get in a few extra miles because there was a big waterless stretch in the morning.
Two days later when I'm in Warner Springs, someone tells me that they heard I had a trail name. It was the first I had heard anything of it, so I asked him what it was, all excited that I did something in the first few days that warranted the bestowing of a trail name.
Verizon.
Someone who had their sense of humor singed off playing with lighter fluid as a child didn't like that I was talking on the phone either too loudly, too close to them or maybe even at all. That one didn't stand a chance. I refused to acknowledge it other than to hold it up as an object of ridicule.
A few days later in Idyllwild, a group of us are standing around a campfire BS-ing (the line "She has just enough of an eating disorder to be sexy" was uttered, at which point we decided that we're the reason women have eating disorders in the first place) when the topic of trail names comes up again.
Someone had suggested Spot because I have a GPS tracker called SPOT that alows my family to see where I am, but 1) a lot of people on the trail have them and 2) it's a shitty name.
Many names are thrown out, all forgetable and contrived. Finally I get half annoyed (though when I say the fateful line, it's not in a mean way), wanting to just end the conversation and let the process happen naturally.
"I'm not going to have a trail name thrust upon me without meaning."
And so Thrust was born.
It took me a long time to get used to the idea of introducing myself as Thrust. It just felt weird and I didn't think I'd ever really take to it, like when I tried to call myself B.J. the Speedboat in third grade.
At first I only halfheartedly told people my trail name, prefacing it with "My real name's Brad." Saying it that way made me realize that some people don't like giving their real name on the trail. It also made me realize that those people have no lives.
But eventually, and to my surprise, I just dumped the preamble and I started calling myself Thrust. I answer to it and that's how everyone out here knows me. It's kind of weird if you think about it and it's got to sound especially weird to non-hikers to hear a group of people calling each other Thrust and Bonesaw and Dildo Saggins.
I'm obviously going to get made fun of by both friends and family about this, which is part of the reason why I haven't really mentioned it. But now that I've passed the halfway point, I figure it's time.
I don't get the question so much anymore, but at first it seemed like everyone wanted to know where the name came from.
One guy tells me, "Oh, Thrust. That must be because you hike so fast."
Another - "Are you a geologist?"
Coming out of Big Bear, I met two women going in and I introduce myself. The one woman hears Trust (the most common mispronunciation) and says it in a real satisfied way, like "Trust...this guy must be called that because he's a nice, wholesome, trustworthy guy." Then I correct her and she lets out an embarrased "OH!" and almost can't bring herself to talk to me anymore, her mind having wandered in a dirty direction.
Before we night hiked out of Agua Dulce, a group of us went and got pizza at a place near the grocery store. I was chatting up one of the female hikers in the group (turns out she's married to the guy sitting next to her) and when she hears my trail name, she tells me, "You don't look like a Thrust."
Now, I'm willing to bet that she didn't mean that I didn't look like a geologist, and she'd never seen me hike before, so she couldn't be saying that I looked like a slow poke. So that only leaves one other option. Once I worked my way through the thought process, I was pretty insulted. It's one thing to be told you're bad in bed after the experience itself, but to be told that you just don't look like you'd be any good...low blow.
A Case of the Giggles
The day we hiked over Carson Pass and then into Echo Lake, I had the giggles. This happened once before when I kept reciting the whale's vagina scene from Anchorman to myself and couldn't stop laughing for about 20 minutes.
That day it all started when Slider and I came up behind another hiker who very well might have been using the bottom of a dumpster as his tent. You could catch his horrible scent from 25 yards away.
Slider and I try to stop at a lake for lunch everyday to go swimming, so when I brought up our prospects for lunch that day he says, "We should bring that guy with us and throw him in, and his clothes too." And from that moment, everything seemed to bring a burst of laughter out of me. Especially so when I thought about the guy's elbows which were so ashy it looked like he had been erasering chalkboards with them.
It wasn't long before things started getting ridiculous. The height of lunacy for the day - I thought it would be really funny if you worked in a restaurant and when someone ordered a meatball sandwich you give them a horse poop sandwich instead.
I must have laughed on and off for a few hours about that (by the way I was just laughing really hard about that again...still going).
I remember once during my sophomore year of college laughing about an unfunny joke I made up for about 20-30 minutes straight, to the point that I couldn't even tell it to my old roommate Matt Lewis. Everytime I got to the punch line I'd start giggling and chuckling uncontrollably, getting myself under control, letting out a "Whew!" and then get all the way back to the punchline before repeating the cycle.
A small amount of background: I ran with a guy named Dave Masse (rhymes with Lassie) in college and for the most part we called him Masse.
The joke: What do you call Masse after he's had a lot of beans?
Sorry, I'm laughing too hard to write the punchline.
That day it all started when Slider and I came up behind another hiker who very well might have been using the bottom of a dumpster as his tent. You could catch his horrible scent from 25 yards away.
Slider and I try to stop at a lake for lunch everyday to go swimming, so when I brought up our prospects for lunch that day he says, "We should bring that guy with us and throw him in, and his clothes too." And from that moment, everything seemed to bring a burst of laughter out of me. Especially so when I thought about the guy's elbows which were so ashy it looked like he had been erasering chalkboards with them.
It wasn't long before things started getting ridiculous. The height of lunacy for the day - I thought it would be really funny if you worked in a restaurant and when someone ordered a meatball sandwich you give them a horse poop sandwich instead.
I must have laughed on and off for a few hours about that (by the way I was just laughing really hard about that again...still going).
I remember once during my sophomore year of college laughing about an unfunny joke I made up for about 20-30 minutes straight, to the point that I couldn't even tell it to my old roommate Matt Lewis. Everytime I got to the punch line I'd start giggling and chuckling uncontrollably, getting myself under control, letting out a "Whew!" and then get all the way back to the punchline before repeating the cycle.
A small amount of background: I ran with a guy named Dave Masse (rhymes with Lassie) in college and for the most part we called him Masse.
The joke: What do you call Masse after he's had a lot of beans?
Sorry, I'm laughing too hard to write the punchline.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Sunset Before Sleep
(Sunday June 8, 2008)
Right now I'm laying in my sleeping bag near Bullfrog Lake watching these thin wispy clouds float over the ridgeline and turn from light yellow to an orange-gold.
Eat It Pocahontas
(Tuesday June 3, 2008)
Nobody else on the porch really understood the horrendousness of it, but this morning I had to witness the most awful track practice in recent memory. Actually, I never got to witness the St. Joe's women's team playing soccer so this would be the worst practice I've ever seen.
There were two guys and one girl actually giving an effort and running. The rest (who would be barred from even signing up for my team if I were the coach and who would all have been summarily beheaded if I witnessed what I'm about to describe) were walking downhill and frying the brain cells of all in earshot with a rousing rendition of the theme song from Pocahontas.
And of course when I hiked out the next day, you can imagine what song was stuck in my head. I tried asking the grinning bobcat why he grinned, but he just hissed at me. And I think we're a bit too early on the trail to hear wolves crying. But I'm fucked if I need to know what a blue corn moon is or when and where it rises. The wind has no colors to paint witth that I'm aware of, but I will say that I have heard the voices of the mountain.
I told you about that time I thought I heard two people having a conversation above me but I climbed up and it was just a windy ridge. Well just today I swear I heard two female voices behind me, so I stop, look around and I'm standing in the middle of an absolutely silent forest. Weird how that works.
I also heard a noise that sounded like someone blowing into an empty bottle, but if the bottle were the size of a barrel. Then I heard an old rotary phone ringing, but that turned out just to be a woodpecker. So at least I'm not fully crazy.
As for the track team, I never saw them again, but hearing the Pocahontas song not only had it repeating in my head but causing me to remember all of the history lessons about Pocahontas' tribe and their relationship with the English settlers which then (ridiculously) caused me to go on a mental tirade about how the Disney movie just perpetuates the myth that Pocahontas was able to save John Smith with some last second heroics.
Ok, beheading is harsh. Maybe 20 lashes each.
Starry Sky
(Tuesday June 3, 2008)
I got up at 2:53 in the morning to pee and I just ended up staring at the sky for about five minutes (I peed of course).I pop a boner about everything out here, and I say I've never seen anything like this and that, so I can understand if it starts to sound tired after a while, but I swear this trail just ceases to amaze me.
The desert sky at night was an amazingly beautiful thing, stars as far as the eye can see, full constellations like you can't make out back east.
But this sky was something else. It was like a jeweler meticulously arranged a truck load of diamonds onto the deepest navy blue cloth in creation.
There weren't as many stars visible as in the desert, but they were twinkling so bright and I stared for so long that I started to lose my depth perception and it felt like I was hallucinating.
Crazy thing is Kennedy Meadows is at 6000 feet. In 40 miles I'll be up over 10,000. Can't wait to see what the sky looks like then.
An Interesting Bowel Movement
Have you ever watched the sun rise from a ridgetop at 6600 feet while taking a dump in a hole? Neither have I. Until today.
Tehachapi Blues
Friday May 30, 2008)
Tehachapi Blues
"Well, I think I've got my first bout with the trail blahs. I'm attributing it to the weather. Overcast, damp...and it's giving me an overwhelming sense of 'Eh.'
I'm in Tehachapi and I just can't figure out what to do with myself. I'm just wandering around town, nothing's really open yet because it's Sunday morning, so I'm trying to figure out what to do and can't.
It would be a bit easier if the sun was out because I sould hang out in a park near the middle of town, but like I said it's damp and overcast.
Part of the reason for my semi-blues is I can't even really go back to my room. I can, but I don't really even want to. This might be the dumpiest motel I've ever paid to stay in, but when you're looking for cheap and you pay for cheap, you get cheap. I felt skeevy even laying in the bed, so I kind of want to get out of there soon as I can."
So that's how I started a semi-depresed post when I got into Tehachapi (pronouned T'hatch-a-pee) last Saturday. And that was the last pocketmail I wrote until today.
Let me tell you, I was suffering some serious blahs. Couldn't figure out what to do with myself, wandering listlessly around town, being completely indecisive.
I really do attribute it to the weather which messed with my plans to leave town Sunday afternoon. It was unusual weather for the town, and despite being able to infer that just from witnessing rain, hail and snow in the desert, I must have heard that from about half the residents in town and even read about how the "Weird Weather Continues" on the front page of the local paper.
I wouldn't exactly call all that weird, but when you get 350 days of sunshine per year, a weather front like that out of nowhere is something to talk about.
And you're probably wondering (and if you're not, I'm using the about-to-be-posed question as a way to move this piece forward anyway) "Why didn't you just leave anyway if those were your plans?"
Well, if I were on the Appalachian Trail, a situation like that would be the rule rather than the exception, but when I say the town gets 350 days of sunshine a year, that's no lie. The whole damn area I've been hiking through for the last month is a desert and it has been nothing but sunshine the entire time. I have never seen such beautiful weather before in my life, and this is a cool year too so other than that one day, I haven't been oven roasted as is the typical experience. Really, I could see why so many people end up moving out here.
So as you can see, I've gotten a little spoiled. Wait a minute, you're telling me that I woke up this morning and the sky is not completely clear and blue and I have to wear a snow hat for the first hour of hiking? This is appalling, disgusting, preposterous.
But it wasn't just cloudy and cool. The trail around those parts was up between 5000-7000 feet, prime cloud territory, so it was also damp walking through all that. So pardone moi if I didn't want to be wet for the next three days in addition to cold.
It really wasn't supposed to be that way though.
The day I hiked to that RV park in 103 degree heat was actually the day before a cool front rolled into the area. The next day when I got to Agua Dulce, it was hot, but definitely cooler in the low to mid-90's.
Typically people night hike out of Agua Dulce to keep out of the daytime heat and put themselves halfway to Casa de Luna, the next trail angel's house. So I did my first (and probably going to be only) night hike for ten miles or so out of Agua Dulce, but it ended up being needless. It just never got that hot. And that was the start of the "weird" weather.
I get to Casa de Luna and the wind is gusting ridiculously. I know I've said the wind has been bad a few times before, but the news confirmed that gusts in the area were as high as 65 mph. That's what fueled the fire that started on a mountain 10 minutes from the house.
The house has an awesome manzanita (look it up) forest in the backyard where a lot of people camp and at night it seems enchanted (or haunted if you're walking back there alone). In the middle of setting up my tent I hear a siren go off that sounds suspiciously like the firehouse siren back home. But since that thing seems to go off for no reason, I figured they served the same useless purpose on the other side of the country. I get my tent fully set up, hands on hips and a manly nod at a job well done, when someone comes back to tell me to pack it up, that there's a chance we might have to evacuate.
"Evacuate?"
"Yeah, evacuate."
Sigh.
Bag repacked, I head inside to watch the news and check on fire updates. Nothing new at the top of the hour which then transitions to talking about record oil prices and American Airlines charging $15 for a passenger's first checked bag.
The combination of these two bits of terrible news lead one hiker to wax philosophical: "This country sucks. It's going down the tubes."
I know the high price of oil and airline baggage fees can pound the old wallet while hiking for 5 months, but something tells me that people had it a bit worse during the Great Depression.
Right about then I start thinking that evacuation sounds kind of cool, that it might make for a good story, that short of death and bear attack, it could turn out to be one of the most badass hikes of all time.
Fire! Destruction! Getting places without having to walk!
Just then Casa de Luna matriarch Mrs. Anderson dials one of her neighbors warning them about the fire and the possibility of evacuation, telling her to take care and be safe.
Real nice, Brad. "Hey everybody, I got evacuated out of this town because of a fire and all the people there lost their homes and worldly possesions but I didn't have to hike a few miles and I got to tell you all about it. Isn't that great?"
Later during the news, and after a commercial for some new show about the search for America's best dog (maybe this country is going down the tubes) some pretty cool footage comes on showing bulldozers plowing firebreaks around the fire and helicopters dousing the flames. The fire is officially a non-threat.
Casa de Luna is a little...less kept up than Hiker Heaven in Agua Dulce, so not wanting to have to deal with a tent in case of a flare up, I plopped down on one of the two couches in the backyard. Best sleep I've had on the trail bar none, even with the leaves and dirt in the cracks and cushions.
I "slept in" until 6:30am, only woke up because I heard someone walking by, but I actually felt refreshed for once. Very nice.
I planned to just do what I had been doing (25-28 miles per day) to get to Tehachapi in three days, camp Saturday night, hitch in Sunday, hit the post office Monday morning and get my ass out of there Monday afternoon.
(And here comes the big) But I got to talking with Samurai and she reminded me that the post office would be closed Monday for Memorial Day...shit. Now the government was f-ing with my timetable.
So immediately I decide that Saturday morning is the goal. If I do 30+ two days in a row, that leaves around 15 to do Saturday morning which I figure I can knock out in just over three hours. Done.
It was good for me because I like to have a goal. Gives me something to drive for and keeps my mind off of the fact that even though I'd been on the trail for almost a month at that point, I still had over 2000 miles and four months to go.
It also served the dual purpose of getting me away from the herd that was building behind me. There were about 20-25 people at Casa de Luna the night I was there and the late Agua Dulce arrivals said there were 60 people at Hiker Heaven when they left. I was not interested in that at all. Even the crowd 1/3 that size at Casa de Luna was a bit too much for me, so I became even more committed to the 2 1/2 day plan.
A group of early-to-rise hikers had assembled in the driveway waiting for someone to wake up and give us a ride to the trailhead, but after a bit it was pretty clear that only hikers' sleep rhythms got us up at that hour and so we started looking for the car keys.
Not that we were going to steal the car or anything. They let you borrow their car for trail-related stuff. I swear some of this stuff is unimaginable coming from the east coast. You should have seen the amount of beer and food that they brought in for us to eat free-of-charge (of course you make a donation). And they do this day in and day out for the two month window that thru-hikers come through their town. Unreal.
Eventually after finding two sets of keys, neither of which were for the minivan, we just hiked to the main road and hitched up to the trail head.
After a couple of quick pictures with Samurai and Sundown it was off to the races, barely stopping until a long annoying climb to the Bear something campground where I planned on eatig dinner. Of course I missed the trail to the campground, so I ended up eating in the middle of a jeep road.
After dinner hiking was surprisingly relaxed, mostly due to the fact that the trail was very flat and wandered through oak groves with pink and yellow flowers everywhere. The most beautiful and enjoyable scenery that I had seen in quite some time, and as such, I just walked casually until I found a nice flat spot sometime around 7:00pm and plopped down for the night.
In the morning I would find myself adrift in a sea of clouds.
I went to sleep windless, woke up to a pretty strong breeze blowing to the North and on that breeze was carried an endless amount of cloud cover which was getting everything I owned nice and damp.
It wouldn't have been much of an issue but since the weather was so nice the night before I hung everything out to dry in a tree. Retrospectively, I hung out everything to get damp. Damp is much better than wet because it's easy to get used to and eventually your body heat dries the stuff out. But it's still gross to put on a damp shirt and pants in the morning.
I didn't even eat breakfast, just threw everything in my bag and started hiking as the path lost a few thousand feet of elevation in the first couple of miles that day, so I'd be out of the clouds soon enough.
And soon enough it started raining. You've seen the picture of the lovely rainbow that resulted from said rain, but to give that picture to you, I had to suffer through an awful sun shower in mid-70 degree weather. It actually wasn't that bad at all. The rain stopped after a little bit and I was dry minutes later. No biggie.
There's a pit stop called Hiker Town about 40 miles past the Andersons and I reached it about 10:30am or so. A PCT hiker used to own it and from what I can gather the guy committed suicide. Now a guy named Richard Scaggs lives there. He did something in Hollywood (I've heard stunts) and sure enough he was wearing an Oscars sweatshirt when got there. Half the property is old movie sets, like old western store fronts, but weirdly enough Mr. Scaggs wasn't the one that set it up that way. I guess the old owner was a movie fan or thought he could attract film crews there. Who knows.
Either way it's an interesting sight. Dogs and chickens running around, old movie sets and a trailer in the back for hikers to use. Normally people will hang there to wait out the heat and night hike to the mountains, but as you know, the cold front and blah blah blah.
So I stopped in, used the facilities (aka took a dump), refilled on water, watched some Price is Right (Drew Carey stinks) and headed out.
A paper at Hiker Town listed the weather forecast for the week and it said there was a 20% chance of rain that day. That prediction had already been bumped to 100% earlier that morning, but from the looks of things, the sky looked like it was ready for another go.
Next year the trail is being diverted directly to Tehachapi, adding on about 50 miles extra in total, but because this isn't 2009, the current route heads out over a wide open plain following the path of the Los Angeles aqueduct (yes the dried up one you see in movies, but out here it's actually filled with water from the Sierras). This means that you come out of the mountains, walk through a field, down a street passed what looks like an abandoned school and east for a few miles along the water. Then you turn and head directly North for five miles, walking down a dirt road next to a giant pipe holding water for Angelenos. For being such an important resource, the thing is ridiculously unprotected. You can walk right on it and if you sat there banging away all day with a sledgehammer, nobody'd be the wiser.
The funny thing is these dirt roads are part of some town, Antelope Valley I think is the name. Other than a highway, there isn't a single paved road there. It's kind of a weird sight seeing old Civics and Jettas barreling down dusty roads with pickups, but I guess that's just how they roll in the California desert.
I shouldn't say that there is only one dirt road actually. The pipe is buried underground for a long stretch, about nine miles, and it's covered over by concrete so cars just drive right on top of it. So I digress.
Either way, thank God for the trail following the aqueduct because the weather decided to take a turn for the worse.
The sky was menacing enough that I could tell it was probably going to rain when I was at Hiker Town. So imagine my anxiety as I'm walking right into what is going to be a real shit storm.
I'm walking under mostly sunny skies and 100 yards ahead of me are dark dark gray storm clouds, and I keep walking and the clouds stay ahead, keep walking and the storm moves right along in front of me. So I brighten up a bit, imagining myself walking 100 yards behind a pouring desert thundersorm in the sun.
The feeling doesn't last long because off in the distance you can see the clouds being held up by the mountain range, bunching up into something unfriendly. That made me none too happy as the mountan range was exactly where I was headed that night.
And then a loud crack of thunder echoed across the valley.
Second only to being lost in a snow storm in the high Sierras on my list of PCT fears is getting caught in the open desert in a thunderstorm. Washed away in a flash flood or struck by lightning is not my idea of fun.
Like the first time a rattlesnake buzzed at me from under a bush, my heart lept out of my chest and I froze dead in my tracks. I assessed my options, none of which were particularly good:
1) Set up my tent and wait it out.
2) Walk down one of the mile long driveways to one of the ranch houses and see if they'd allow me to hole up in a shed or back room.
3) Make the random abandoned outhouse 25 yards up and to my left my permanent residence.
4) Take my chances and keep going.
Option number 4 it is.
As much as I would have loved being sheltered in an old cramped toilet, continuing on wasn't as dumb as it sounds. As I said earlier, the aqueduct cuts East and is buried underground, giving cars a paved path to drive on. So as the storm headed North into the mountains, I was on some roundabout ass way East, then back West, then finally back North, hopefully to arrive after the storm finished its business.
Normally I hate how the PCT has to negotiate a path around private lands (hence the roundabout ass way), but now that it was saving me from death and/or being soaked, I was thanking the ranchers for refusing us an easement.
The funny thing about ranchers is that they have a bad reputation, that they'll run you off their property at gun point, that they're super hostile to trespassers, and so being out in the middle of ranch country, I wasn't too happy about my prospects if I was to get in some kind of trouble. Miles later, I think I'm nowhere near civilization and getting that periodic feeling of trail vertigo (I just kept walking) when I see a huge truck coming down the road followed by a small truck. There's no room for me to walk and them to drive so I get to the side and let them pass.
The big truck stops, tinted window rolls down and behind it is a guy with big sunglasses and a bigger cowboy hat.
"You a PCT hiker?"
"Yeah, and I was actually wondering if I'm going the right way. You go so long without seeing anyone and you start to doubt yourself."
He grabs the CB radio and presses the button, mumbling something indistinct. He puts the mouthpiece down.
"Yep. You're on the right path. Can we refresh you with some water?"
"No thanks. I've got plenty."
"Well, if you need anything, this is our ranch right here."
The random sign I had been wondering about now made sense.
"Thanks. I really appreciate it."
And with that, I don't think ranchers are as bad as trail talk might have you think.
It actually recharged me a bit to have a conversation and know that you're going the right way, even if you already knew you were. So I took off, not bat-out-of-hell-like, but quick enough.
After crossing near what someone told me is some secret government base (apparently it's blacked out on Google Earth if you want to check), off ahead is my first worst fear. Snow covered mountains. Ugh.
And I know (I fucking know it!) that the path is headed up there. I have to climb up over 6000 feet and the only mountains are the bastards in front of me. Of course the trail looks like it's going up the mountains, then cuts across the plain so it looks like you're not, then it trends towards two ridges, one with snow one without and you can't tell which one it's going for, but you know (you fucking know it!) that it's going to veer right and head towards the snow.
And of course it does.
I met a guy named Argentina and we hiked together to Tylerhorse Canyon where a guy named Crosscut had been hunkered down in the storm that I was able to walk around. Rain and hail, he says.
Before we set up our tents, Crosscut warned us about rocks that had been falling down the mountain all day. He points to an area covered in decent sized rocks where my pack is waiting to be emptied. I decide to move a bit farther away.
The temperature was already dropping when I got to Tylerhorse Canyon which is why I didn't continue on another three miles to Gambler Spring Canyon (that and I was tired as hell) but it just plummeted within a half hour of getting there.
I pulled everything inside my tent, cleaned up as best I could and made myself a sweet ass package of dehydrated hamburgers and mashed potatoes. I didn't even bother cleaning up. Just left the dirty stuff next to me, zipped up my sleeping bag and slept a cold ass sleep.
Originally my plan was to get up at 4:30 to ensure that I would get to the post office in Tehachapi before it closed for the holiday weekend, but as soon as I lay down, I knew that wasn't happening. And when I woke up at 4:30am to go to the bathroom and it was in the 30's and the moon was high in the sky, I definitely knew that wasn't happening.
Still I didn't sleep in that much. I got up around 6:00am, ate a fast breakfast and shoved everything in my bag as quick as I could, including my soaking wet tent. I don't know how it got wet, but it was like I dunked it in the stream right near camp. But I couldn't worry about that. I had a post office to get to.
I had actually noticed that my ankle was bothering me in the middle of the night, sleeping with my foot bent at some strange angle, but man when I started going did I notice it then. Uphills are fine but pounding down any decline made me cringe.
But what could I do? I had a schedule to keep dammit and it was Tehachapi come hell or high water. (I think I've said this before, but they told us at the Kickoff that making hell or high water trail decisions is a bad idea. And you know what I have to say to that? I'll make hell or high water trail decisions whenever I goddamn well please and thank you ma'am).
Of course my first worst fear came true. Snow on the mountain and me hiking alone. I was hoping and praying that we would somehow avoid it, but as soon as I got up around 6000 feet, there it was. My hopes and prayers were sort of answered because the snow was pretty light and even though they're prohibited from doing so, some off road vehicles had driven on the PCT not long before and cut a nice path for me.
The trail was also surprisingly well marked so even without the illegal tire track guide, I think I would have done fine.
In the end I'd rather have had no off road vehicles on the trail because after sloshing through a few miles of wet snow (did you know snow makes your feet cold?) the trail dropped in elevation enough that the snow disappeared and then all there was was destroyed trail and misleading paths that could get somebody lost.
A guy named Crosscut who left the trail in Tehachapi to take a job as a California park ranger actually saw some of the guys and stopped them, berated and lectured them and then let them go. Funny enough Crosscut was not at the time a park ranger even though he said he was and used the somewhat flimsy excuse that he forgot his ticket book or he would have written them up right then and there. Quick thinking hiker with a little gusto and balls - 1; Trail-ruining dirt bikers - 0.
Once I got to the second and final wind farm of my tenure on the PCT (which made for much better pictures this time around and was thankfully much less windy) my ankle started hurting even more which made avoiding the mounds upon piles upon loads of cow and horse shit that all of a sudden decided to appear on the trail slightly more difficult. You wouldn't believe the size of these piles - it was like someone threw a quarter in a cows mouth, pulled its tail and hit the jackpot.
When I reached the trail bottom there was a sign that said trail maintenance for that section was sponsored by a horse riding club. Go figure. Maybe they ride cows too.
I had hitch hiked two times before on the trail, once with a woman named Janice, another with a guy named Dave, but they were either in or very close to towns which were hiker friendly. Getting to Tehachapi is a nine mile hike from a California back road which I've come to realize are basically like highways because the roads are so long and open, and Tehachapi, while familiar with PCT hikers, is not a trail town in the same sense that Idyllwild or Agua Dulce are, so there aren't people jumpng at the chance to hook you up with a ride.
I hit the road just after 12:00pm (which meant I knocked out 17 miles in six and a half hours...score!) which left me two hours to make it to the post office before it closed for two days. So I set my pack up so I would look conspicuously like a hiker in need and stuck out my thumb. An hour later my thumb was still hanging in the breeze.
Three frustrating things from my longish hitch attempt:
1) People who drive by with an empty car, look at you and shrug as if to say, "Wish I could help." At least you know where you stand with people who hit the gas when they see you. The shruggers are just trying to absolve themselves over the guilt of not offering you help even though they could have.
2) The assholes that wave but keep driving. I'm not sitting here waving and sticking my thumb out as part of a side of the highway happiness boosting project. I need a damn ride so stop waving and pull over!
3) This one was more of a unique occurence, but no less frustrating. A cop, who was doing his best to protect and serve the public by using the area in which I was hitching as a place to meet his ticket quota, was causing every car heading in the direction of Tehachapi to slow down, making me think I finally had a ride, only to have them speed back up one they passed him, thus dashing my hopes and dreams on the rocky shores of despair.
A woman in one of the cars that the cop pulled over gave me the shrug, but it was an acceptable one because she saw me trying to hitch for ten minutes or so and I think would have given me a ride, but she was going the other way.
After a phantom pull over (it was somebody who either lived or knew the people at the ranch across the street, but of course I put on my pack, ran over to the driveway and the guy was gone), finally a guy named Jim in a red Jeep stopped and picked me up. The guy went way out of his way to take me to the post office (which for some reason is located about a mile and a half to two miles from the center of Tehachapi. I offered him my measly remaining $3 but he told me to keep it and buy some food. A good guy all around.
Just a quick word of caution. Not all fields are fun to walk through even though they look pretty. I thought I'd cut across this field of shin-high wavy grass and of course its seeds stick to your clothes and give you painful needle pokes.
After a quick lunch at the Apple Shed (ok food, absolutely amazing homemade fudge), I decided to check into a cheap motel to save some money. $45 later and I have the keys to my very own rat hole.
What a dump. The pictures are online, but I'm not sure they do it justice. The place looked like it hadn't been kept up since they first opened it. Rusty window frames, cigarette burns in the comforter, crusty shower head. I wouldn't even walk around in my bare feet and honestly didn't really even want to sleep in the bed, but the sheets looked nice and clean (guarantee they would have miserably failed one of those evening news special reports where the guy goes around scanning hotel rooms with a UV light).
And that (after six prior entries) is where my Tehachapi Blues began. One of the nicest things about going into a town is getting a room where you can get a shower and relax, neither of which I really felt like doing in the Crackhouse Hotel.
The other nice thing (and my absolute favorite) is town food. Trail food is not bad and at the end of a long day can be absolutely delicious, but it's nothing like a restaurant menu with its tons of options and the mouth watering wait until the waitress comes to take your order. Tehachapi unfortunately doesn't have the best food. At best I tasted a B- and at worst a D. I sorely underestimated how disappointed I would be at not being able to get a really good meal.
Another benefit of going to Tehachapi (and one of the reasons I chose to go into the town) was that they had a movie theater. So of all things, I had been waiting to go see the new Indiana Jones and in the trail register before I got off the trail, I wrote that I couldn't wait to see it.
I bought my favorite movie snacks (Cherry Coke and a bag of Reeses Pieces...ok so I was able to get something good), sat down, had a little chat with a woman who was upset that we were part of the overflow who was put in the smaller theater, and then, the lights dimmed.
Two hours later I walked back to my room...you guessed it...disappointed. I mean come on. An alien skull that has the power to give the possesor all of the knowledge in the world? That's the best they could come up with? At least they could have gone with a less ridiculous mythical object like Excalibur or a crystal ball that predicts the future. Aliens? Please.
It was not the ideal tone to set in order to get me excited to be back on the trail. And the next day, when it was cold and raining, my mood sank even further.
I check out of my room, but I don't want to leave town. Even the Buttcheek Villa was better than wet camping. So I wandered. Went to different stores, got blah food even though I wasn't hungry and then when the weather still hadn't cleared up, decided to go to the movies to see the new Chronicles of Narnia and leave afterwards.
I snuck a milkshake in from a restaurant in town that was supposed to have some of the best on the trail. Not surprisingly it was just okay. But I should have known that from the night before when I got a burger with a slice of pineapple and teriyaki sauce on top. That part of the burger was actually tasty. What wasn't, and what the girl at the counter failed to tell me was that they also put mayo and tomato on the burger as well, which pretty much defeated the purpose of the teriyaki and pineapple slice.
But while waiting in line for my burger, two things happened:
1) They had Charlie Chaplin films playing on a flat screen TV on the wall and they were surprisingly funny. I thought they'd be horrendously unfunny like the Three Stooges, but I chuckled numerous times.
2) I started chatting with a guy who lives in the area and we got to talking about the PCT. Turns out he works for NASA and offered to give me a ride to the trail if I needed one.
So who sits down two seats over from me in Chronicles of Narnia, but the NASA guy. Kind of strange a 24 year old and a guy in his mid-30's seeing a movie, each alone, in a theater filled to the brim with children and their parents.
I ended up falling asleep part way through, just out of tiredness, not because I was bored with the movie. But even still, it wasn't as good as I thought and when I left for my supposed departure for the trail, it was raining and even colder.
NASA guy saw the look on my face and asked if I was going to head out to which I told him no way. Thankfully he drove me to the Best Western down the road where I knew some hikers were holed up, and the front desk lady let me hang around in the lobby until I was able to spot someone.
Argentina (who I camped with at Tylerhorse Canyon) and two Canadians, Angela and Colin, were sharing a room and were gracious enough to let me crash on the floor for $20.
This boosted my spirits immensely as I now had a clean room and bathroom to use and didn't have to sleep in the cold and wet. But for some reason I still couldn't shake my feelings of sadness.
I think it still had everything to do with not having a set plan, because the next day the weather was still shitty and I went through another couple of hours of back and forth about staying until Colin and Angela decided that they wanted to stay another night, which made my decision for me. I was even somewhat productive that day, going to K-Mart for new socks and finally making the decision to start wearing underwear (extreme chafing will do that). We watched Return of the Jedi and Ace Ventura (which I hadn't seen in forever) and I was giggling like a schoolgirl the entire time. I made my third trip to the movies and saw Iron Man (loved it - finally saw a good one). The Best Western even had a continental breakfast which was my first opportunity to have cereal on the entire trail, one of which I took full advantage and had like six bowls, selfishly using up all the milk and causing Angela to pour herself a cup of coffee then dump it out because she had no milk to put in it!
And yet I still, after all that, was in a fog of blah.
Getting back on the trail didn't really help either, which I thought it would. My pack felt extra heavy after two and a half days off and I kept slipping on these non-existent descents, falling outright once and cutting my knee. It was just completely frustrating.
I had also decided to bypass my next town stop (Lake Isabella) because I had been in Tehachapi for much longer than expected, and that was making me upset because I didn't want to go the six or seven days to Kennedy Meadows without a town stop, and by skipping Lake Isabella, I'd be missing out on Nelda's Diner which supposedly had (hadn't I heard something like this before?) a killer selection of milkshakes.
So I'm just out there hiking alternately sad and angry and Lake Isabella is getting closer and closer. I don't know what I want to do, but I just want to not feel this way on what is supposed to be one of the best times of my life. I really even felt guilty just for feeling sad. "You're out on this trail doing something that few people get the chance to. You're not allowed to feel sad."
And then my ankle flares up again. Of course while in Tehachapi I did zero rehab on my ankle, so surprise surprise two days later I'm limping along. This was probably the low point of the trail thus far. I didn't know how far I was going to be able to hike each day because my ankle would start killing me at the 20 mile mark, and then it would throb at night. Miserable.
So I'm hiking up to a peak near 7000 feet and I meet a guy who asks me if I'm going to Lake Isabella. I tell him that I'm not and he says that he is. Internally I get pissed because I'm jealous and I hike away in a huff. But the conversation was the spark I needed to get out of my trail funk.
Now I'm openly debating whether to go in or not. I just stayed in Tehachapi for two and a half days, but I really want to go to Lake Isabella. Kennedy Meadows is just a couple of days from Lake Isabella so why stop? But I really want that damn milkshake.
So I keep climbing and I meet up with two people and we stop together to take a breather. I tell them I'm debating whether or not to go into town and they tell me that they're going in because even though they just took five days off to rest the woman's foot, it was acting up and they wanted to give it another break.
"Five days!?" I thought to myself. And here I was worrying over two and a half.
And just then I remembered the moment during one of my training hikes when I didn't want to stop to get out my water bottle but finally had to because I just couldn't grab it, and how absolutely angering it was. But also realizing that if I needed to stop to get the water bottle, why not? What was stopping me? If I wanted the water, why not just stop and grab it?
If my ankle hurt and I wanted to go into town and take a day, even though I just had two and a half off, why not? What was stopping me?
And that was it. Almost instantaneously my mood lifted and I felt happy again. I had the prospect of a room, a shower and a delicious milkshake in front of me again, and it was only a day away.
And like that, all was right in the world once more. The next morning a trail angel was parked at the campground near the road into Lake Isabella so I got to have cinnamon buns, cookies, fruit and soda at 9:00am. I also met two of the nicest and funniest people on the trail so far who were also going into Lake Isabella, so we caught a hitch in together with a Canadian who was on a post-grad school road trip through the U.S. and Canada. He talked our ear off for the entire ride and seemed to know more about American politics than we did. He also told us about some controversy over Canada's sovereignty over the Northwest Passage and how they were ptting battleships up there to assert control. Meanwhile I'm sitting there thinking, "Canada has a navy?"
I smiled to myself and stared out the window, listening to the guy go on about how much he loves Obama, throwing in my two cents about life here and there, and watching the cows graze in the deep green grasses at the foot of the desert mountains.
It was good to be back.
Oh, and the milkshake was the shit.
Tehachapi Blues
"Well, I think I've got my first bout with the trail blahs. I'm attributing it to the weather. Overcast, damp...and it's giving me an overwhelming sense of 'Eh.'
I'm in Tehachapi and I just can't figure out what to do with myself. I'm just wandering around town, nothing's really open yet because it's Sunday morning, so I'm trying to figure out what to do and can't.
It would be a bit easier if the sun was out because I sould hang out in a park near the middle of town, but like I said it's damp and overcast.
Part of the reason for my semi-blues is I can't even really go back to my room. I can, but I don't really even want to. This might be the dumpiest motel I've ever paid to stay in, but when you're looking for cheap and you pay for cheap, you get cheap. I felt skeevy even laying in the bed, so I kind of want to get out of there soon as I can."
So that's how I started a semi-depresed post when I got into Tehachapi (pronouned T'hatch-a-pee) last Saturday. And that was the last pocketmail I wrote until today.
Let me tell you, I was suffering some serious blahs. Couldn't figure out what to do with myself, wandering listlessly around town, being completely indecisive.
I really do attribute it to the weather which messed with my plans to leave town Sunday afternoon. It was unusual weather for the town, and despite being able to infer that just from witnessing rain, hail and snow in the desert, I must have heard that from about half the residents in town and even read about how the "Weird Weather Continues" on the front page of the local paper.
I wouldn't exactly call all that weird, but when you get 350 days of sunshine per year, a weather front like that out of nowhere is something to talk about.
And you're probably wondering (and if you're not, I'm using the about-to-be-posed question as a way to move this piece forward anyway) "Why didn't you just leave anyway if those were your plans?"
Well, if I were on the Appalachian Trail, a situation like that would be the rule rather than the exception, but when I say the town gets 350 days of sunshine a year, that's no lie. The whole damn area I've been hiking through for the last month is a desert and it has been nothing but sunshine the entire time. I have never seen such beautiful weather before in my life, and this is a cool year too so other than that one day, I haven't been oven roasted as is the typical experience. Really, I could see why so many people end up moving out here.
So as you can see, I've gotten a little spoiled. Wait a minute, you're telling me that I woke up this morning and the sky is not completely clear and blue and I have to wear a snow hat for the first hour of hiking? This is appalling, disgusting, preposterous.
But it wasn't just cloudy and cool. The trail around those parts was up between 5000-7000 feet, prime cloud territory, so it was also damp walking through all that. So pardone moi if I didn't want to be wet for the next three days in addition to cold.
It really wasn't supposed to be that way though.
The day I hiked to that RV park in 103 degree heat was actually the day before a cool front rolled into the area. The next day when I got to Agua Dulce, it was hot, but definitely cooler in the low to mid-90's.
Typically people night hike out of Agua Dulce to keep out of the daytime heat and put themselves halfway to Casa de Luna, the next trail angel's house. So I did my first (and probably going to be only) night hike for ten miles or so out of Agua Dulce, but it ended up being needless. It just never got that hot. And that was the start of the "weird" weather.
I get to Casa de Luna and the wind is gusting ridiculously. I know I've said the wind has been bad a few times before, but the news confirmed that gusts in the area were as high as 65 mph. That's what fueled the fire that started on a mountain 10 minutes from the house.
The house has an awesome manzanita (look it up) forest in the backyard where a lot of people camp and at night it seems enchanted (or haunted if you're walking back there alone). In the middle of setting up my tent I hear a siren go off that sounds suspiciously like the firehouse siren back home. But since that thing seems to go off for no reason, I figured they served the same useless purpose on the other side of the country. I get my tent fully set up, hands on hips and a manly nod at a job well done, when someone comes back to tell me to pack it up, that there's a chance we might have to evacuate.
"Evacuate?"
"Yeah, evacuate."
Sigh.
Bag repacked, I head inside to watch the news and check on fire updates. Nothing new at the top of the hour which then transitions to talking about record oil prices and American Airlines charging $15 for a passenger's first checked bag.
The combination of these two bits of terrible news lead one hiker to wax philosophical: "This country sucks. It's going down the tubes."
I know the high price of oil and airline baggage fees can pound the old wallet while hiking for 5 months, but something tells me that people had it a bit worse during the Great Depression.
Right about then I start thinking that evacuation sounds kind of cool, that it might make for a good story, that short of death and bear attack, it could turn out to be one of the most badass hikes of all time.
Fire! Destruction! Getting places without having to walk!
Just then Casa de Luna matriarch Mrs. Anderson dials one of her neighbors warning them about the fire and the possibility of evacuation, telling her to take care and be safe.
Real nice, Brad. "Hey everybody, I got evacuated out of this town because of a fire and all the people there lost their homes and worldly possesions but I didn't have to hike a few miles and I got to tell you all about it. Isn't that great?"
Later during the news, and after a commercial for some new show about the search for America's best dog (maybe this country is going down the tubes) some pretty cool footage comes on showing bulldozers plowing firebreaks around the fire and helicopters dousing the flames. The fire is officially a non-threat.
Casa de Luna is a little...less kept up than Hiker Heaven in Agua Dulce, so not wanting to have to deal with a tent in case of a flare up, I plopped down on one of the two couches in the backyard. Best sleep I've had on the trail bar none, even with the leaves and dirt in the cracks and cushions.
I "slept in" until 6:30am, only woke up because I heard someone walking by, but I actually felt refreshed for once. Very nice.
I planned to just do what I had been doing (25-28 miles per day) to get to Tehachapi in three days, camp Saturday night, hitch in Sunday, hit the post office Monday morning and get my ass out of there Monday afternoon.
(And here comes the big) But I got to talking with Samurai and she reminded me that the post office would be closed Monday for Memorial Day...shit. Now the government was f-ing with my timetable.
So immediately I decide that Saturday morning is the goal. If I do 30+ two days in a row, that leaves around 15 to do Saturday morning which I figure I can knock out in just over three hours. Done.
It was good for me because I like to have a goal. Gives me something to drive for and keeps my mind off of the fact that even though I'd been on the trail for almost a month at that point, I still had over 2000 miles and four months to go.
It also served the dual purpose of getting me away from the herd that was building behind me. There were about 20-25 people at Casa de Luna the night I was there and the late Agua Dulce arrivals said there were 60 people at Hiker Heaven when they left. I was not interested in that at all. Even the crowd 1/3 that size at Casa de Luna was a bit too much for me, so I became even more committed to the 2 1/2 day plan.
A group of early-to-rise hikers had assembled in the driveway waiting for someone to wake up and give us a ride to the trailhead, but after a bit it was pretty clear that only hikers' sleep rhythms got us up at that hour and so we started looking for the car keys.
Not that we were going to steal the car or anything. They let you borrow their car for trail-related stuff. I swear some of this stuff is unimaginable coming from the east coast. You should have seen the amount of beer and food that they brought in for us to eat free-of-charge (of course you make a donation). And they do this day in and day out for the two month window that thru-hikers come through their town. Unreal.
Eventually after finding two sets of keys, neither of which were for the minivan, we just hiked to the main road and hitched up to the trail head.
After a couple of quick pictures with Samurai and Sundown it was off to the races, barely stopping until a long annoying climb to the Bear something campground where I planned on eatig dinner. Of course I missed the trail to the campground, so I ended up eating in the middle of a jeep road.
After dinner hiking was surprisingly relaxed, mostly due to the fact that the trail was very flat and wandered through oak groves with pink and yellow flowers everywhere. The most beautiful and enjoyable scenery that I had seen in quite some time, and as such, I just walked casually until I found a nice flat spot sometime around 7:00pm and plopped down for the night.
In the morning I would find myself adrift in a sea of clouds.
I went to sleep windless, woke up to a pretty strong breeze blowing to the North and on that breeze was carried an endless amount of cloud cover which was getting everything I owned nice and damp.
It wouldn't have been much of an issue but since the weather was so nice the night before I hung everything out to dry in a tree. Retrospectively, I hung out everything to get damp. Damp is much better than wet because it's easy to get used to and eventually your body heat dries the stuff out. But it's still gross to put on a damp shirt and pants in the morning.
I didn't even eat breakfast, just threw everything in my bag and started hiking as the path lost a few thousand feet of elevation in the first couple of miles that day, so I'd be out of the clouds soon enough.
And soon enough it started raining. You've seen the picture of the lovely rainbow that resulted from said rain, but to give that picture to you, I had to suffer through an awful sun shower in mid-70 degree weather. It actually wasn't that bad at all. The rain stopped after a little bit and I was dry minutes later. No biggie.
There's a pit stop called Hiker Town about 40 miles past the Andersons and I reached it about 10:30am or so. A PCT hiker used to own it and from what I can gather the guy committed suicide. Now a guy named Richard Scaggs lives there. He did something in Hollywood (I've heard stunts) and sure enough he was wearing an Oscars sweatshirt when got there. Half the property is old movie sets, like old western store fronts, but weirdly enough Mr. Scaggs wasn't the one that set it up that way. I guess the old owner was a movie fan or thought he could attract film crews there. Who knows.
Either way it's an interesting sight. Dogs and chickens running around, old movie sets and a trailer in the back for hikers to use. Normally people will hang there to wait out the heat and night hike to the mountains, but as you know, the cold front and blah blah blah.
So I stopped in, used the facilities (aka took a dump), refilled on water, watched some Price is Right (Drew Carey stinks) and headed out.
A paper at Hiker Town listed the weather forecast for the week and it said there was a 20% chance of rain that day. That prediction had already been bumped to 100% earlier that morning, but from the looks of things, the sky looked like it was ready for another go.
Next year the trail is being diverted directly to Tehachapi, adding on about 50 miles extra in total, but because this isn't 2009, the current route heads out over a wide open plain following the path of the Los Angeles aqueduct (yes the dried up one you see in movies, but out here it's actually filled with water from the Sierras). This means that you come out of the mountains, walk through a field, down a street passed what looks like an abandoned school and east for a few miles along the water. Then you turn and head directly North for five miles, walking down a dirt road next to a giant pipe holding water for Angelenos. For being such an important resource, the thing is ridiculously unprotected. You can walk right on it and if you sat there banging away all day with a sledgehammer, nobody'd be the wiser.
The funny thing is these dirt roads are part of some town, Antelope Valley I think is the name. Other than a highway, there isn't a single paved road there. It's kind of a weird sight seeing old Civics and Jettas barreling down dusty roads with pickups, but I guess that's just how they roll in the California desert.
I shouldn't say that there is only one dirt road actually. The pipe is buried underground for a long stretch, about nine miles, and it's covered over by concrete so cars just drive right on top of it. So I digress.
Either way, thank God for the trail following the aqueduct because the weather decided to take a turn for the worse.
The sky was menacing enough that I could tell it was probably going to rain when I was at Hiker Town. So imagine my anxiety as I'm walking right into what is going to be a real shit storm.
I'm walking under mostly sunny skies and 100 yards ahead of me are dark dark gray storm clouds, and I keep walking and the clouds stay ahead, keep walking and the storm moves right along in front of me. So I brighten up a bit, imagining myself walking 100 yards behind a pouring desert thundersorm in the sun.
The feeling doesn't last long because off in the distance you can see the clouds being held up by the mountain range, bunching up into something unfriendly. That made me none too happy as the mountan range was exactly where I was headed that night.
And then a loud crack of thunder echoed across the valley.
Second only to being lost in a snow storm in the high Sierras on my list of PCT fears is getting caught in the open desert in a thunderstorm. Washed away in a flash flood or struck by lightning is not my idea of fun.
Like the first time a rattlesnake buzzed at me from under a bush, my heart lept out of my chest and I froze dead in my tracks. I assessed my options, none of which were particularly good:
1) Set up my tent and wait it out.
2) Walk down one of the mile long driveways to one of the ranch houses and see if they'd allow me to hole up in a shed or back room.
3) Make the random abandoned outhouse 25 yards up and to my left my permanent residence.
4) Take my chances and keep going.
Option number 4 it is.
As much as I would have loved being sheltered in an old cramped toilet, continuing on wasn't as dumb as it sounds. As I said earlier, the aqueduct cuts East and is buried underground, giving cars a paved path to drive on. So as the storm headed North into the mountains, I was on some roundabout ass way East, then back West, then finally back North, hopefully to arrive after the storm finished its business.
Normally I hate how the PCT has to negotiate a path around private lands (hence the roundabout ass way), but now that it was saving me from death and/or being soaked, I was thanking the ranchers for refusing us an easement.
The funny thing about ranchers is that they have a bad reputation, that they'll run you off their property at gun point, that they're super hostile to trespassers, and so being out in the middle of ranch country, I wasn't too happy about my prospects if I was to get in some kind of trouble. Miles later, I think I'm nowhere near civilization and getting that periodic feeling of trail vertigo (I just kept walking) when I see a huge truck coming down the road followed by a small truck. There's no room for me to walk and them to drive so I get to the side and let them pass.
The big truck stops, tinted window rolls down and behind it is a guy with big sunglasses and a bigger cowboy hat.
"You a PCT hiker?"
"Yeah, and I was actually wondering if I'm going the right way. You go so long without seeing anyone and you start to doubt yourself."
He grabs the CB radio and presses the button, mumbling something indistinct. He puts the mouthpiece down.
"Yep. You're on the right path. Can we refresh you with some water?"
"No thanks. I've got plenty."
"Well, if you need anything, this is our ranch right here."
The random sign I had been wondering about now made sense.
"Thanks. I really appreciate it."
And with that, I don't think ranchers are as bad as trail talk might have you think.
It actually recharged me a bit to have a conversation and know that you're going the right way, even if you already knew you were. So I took off, not bat-out-of-hell-like, but quick enough.
After crossing near what someone told me is some secret government base (apparently it's blacked out on Google Earth if you want to check), off ahead is my first worst fear. Snow covered mountains. Ugh.
And I know (I fucking know it!) that the path is headed up there. I have to climb up over 6000 feet and the only mountains are the bastards in front of me. Of course the trail looks like it's going up the mountains, then cuts across the plain so it looks like you're not, then it trends towards two ridges, one with snow one without and you can't tell which one it's going for, but you know (you fucking know it!) that it's going to veer right and head towards the snow.
And of course it does.
I met a guy named Argentina and we hiked together to Tylerhorse Canyon where a guy named Crosscut had been hunkered down in the storm that I was able to walk around. Rain and hail, he says.
Before we set up our tents, Crosscut warned us about rocks that had been falling down the mountain all day. He points to an area covered in decent sized rocks where my pack is waiting to be emptied. I decide to move a bit farther away.
The temperature was already dropping when I got to Tylerhorse Canyon which is why I didn't continue on another three miles to Gambler Spring Canyon (that and I was tired as hell) but it just plummeted within a half hour of getting there.
I pulled everything inside my tent, cleaned up as best I could and made myself a sweet ass package of dehydrated hamburgers and mashed potatoes. I didn't even bother cleaning up. Just left the dirty stuff next to me, zipped up my sleeping bag and slept a cold ass sleep.
Originally my plan was to get up at 4:30 to ensure that I would get to the post office in Tehachapi before it closed for the holiday weekend, but as soon as I lay down, I knew that wasn't happening. And when I woke up at 4:30am to go to the bathroom and it was in the 30's and the moon was high in the sky, I definitely knew that wasn't happening.
Still I didn't sleep in that much. I got up around 6:00am, ate a fast breakfast and shoved everything in my bag as quick as I could, including my soaking wet tent. I don't know how it got wet, but it was like I dunked it in the stream right near camp. But I couldn't worry about that. I had a post office to get to.
I had actually noticed that my ankle was bothering me in the middle of the night, sleeping with my foot bent at some strange angle, but man when I started going did I notice it then. Uphills are fine but pounding down any decline made me cringe.
But what could I do? I had a schedule to keep dammit and it was Tehachapi come hell or high water. (I think I've said this before, but they told us at the Kickoff that making hell or high water trail decisions is a bad idea. And you know what I have to say to that? I'll make hell or high water trail decisions whenever I goddamn well please and thank you ma'am).
Of course my first worst fear came true. Snow on the mountain and me hiking alone. I was hoping and praying that we would somehow avoid it, but as soon as I got up around 6000 feet, there it was. My hopes and prayers were sort of answered because the snow was pretty light and even though they're prohibited from doing so, some off road vehicles had driven on the PCT not long before and cut a nice path for me.
The trail was also surprisingly well marked so even without the illegal tire track guide, I think I would have done fine.
In the end I'd rather have had no off road vehicles on the trail because after sloshing through a few miles of wet snow (did you know snow makes your feet cold?) the trail dropped in elevation enough that the snow disappeared and then all there was was destroyed trail and misleading paths that could get somebody lost.
A guy named Crosscut who left the trail in Tehachapi to take a job as a California park ranger actually saw some of the guys and stopped them, berated and lectured them and then let them go. Funny enough Crosscut was not at the time a park ranger even though he said he was and used the somewhat flimsy excuse that he forgot his ticket book or he would have written them up right then and there. Quick thinking hiker with a little gusto and balls - 1; Trail-ruining dirt bikers - 0.
Once I got to the second and final wind farm of my tenure on the PCT (which made for much better pictures this time around and was thankfully much less windy) my ankle started hurting even more which made avoiding the mounds upon piles upon loads of cow and horse shit that all of a sudden decided to appear on the trail slightly more difficult. You wouldn't believe the size of these piles - it was like someone threw a quarter in a cows mouth, pulled its tail and hit the jackpot.
When I reached the trail bottom there was a sign that said trail maintenance for that section was sponsored by a horse riding club. Go figure. Maybe they ride cows too.
I had hitch hiked two times before on the trail, once with a woman named Janice, another with a guy named Dave, but they were either in or very close to towns which were hiker friendly. Getting to Tehachapi is a nine mile hike from a California back road which I've come to realize are basically like highways because the roads are so long and open, and Tehachapi, while familiar with PCT hikers, is not a trail town in the same sense that Idyllwild or Agua Dulce are, so there aren't people jumpng at the chance to hook you up with a ride.
I hit the road just after 12:00pm (which meant I knocked out 17 miles in six and a half hours...score!) which left me two hours to make it to the post office before it closed for two days. So I set my pack up so I would look conspicuously like a hiker in need and stuck out my thumb. An hour later my thumb was still hanging in the breeze.
Three frustrating things from my longish hitch attempt:
1) People who drive by with an empty car, look at you and shrug as if to say, "Wish I could help." At least you know where you stand with people who hit the gas when they see you. The shruggers are just trying to absolve themselves over the guilt of not offering you help even though they could have.
2) The assholes that wave but keep driving. I'm not sitting here waving and sticking my thumb out as part of a side of the highway happiness boosting project. I need a damn ride so stop waving and pull over!
3) This one was more of a unique occurence, but no less frustrating. A cop, who was doing his best to protect and serve the public by using the area in which I was hitching as a place to meet his ticket quota, was causing every car heading in the direction of Tehachapi to slow down, making me think I finally had a ride, only to have them speed back up one they passed him, thus dashing my hopes and dreams on the rocky shores of despair.
A woman in one of the cars that the cop pulled over gave me the shrug, but it was an acceptable one because she saw me trying to hitch for ten minutes or so and I think would have given me a ride, but she was going the other way.
After a phantom pull over (it was somebody who either lived or knew the people at the ranch across the street, but of course I put on my pack, ran over to the driveway and the guy was gone), finally a guy named Jim in a red Jeep stopped and picked me up. The guy went way out of his way to take me to the post office (which for some reason is located about a mile and a half to two miles from the center of Tehachapi. I offered him my measly remaining $3 but he told me to keep it and buy some food. A good guy all around.
Just a quick word of caution. Not all fields are fun to walk through even though they look pretty. I thought I'd cut across this field of shin-high wavy grass and of course its seeds stick to your clothes and give you painful needle pokes.
After a quick lunch at the Apple Shed (ok food, absolutely amazing homemade fudge), I decided to check into a cheap motel to save some money. $45 later and I have the keys to my very own rat hole.
What a dump. The pictures are online, but I'm not sure they do it justice. The place looked like it hadn't been kept up since they first opened it. Rusty window frames, cigarette burns in the comforter, crusty shower head. I wouldn't even walk around in my bare feet and honestly didn't really even want to sleep in the bed, but the sheets looked nice and clean (guarantee they would have miserably failed one of those evening news special reports where the guy goes around scanning hotel rooms with a UV light).
And that (after six prior entries) is where my Tehachapi Blues began. One of the nicest things about going into a town is getting a room where you can get a shower and relax, neither of which I really felt like doing in the Crackhouse Hotel.
The other nice thing (and my absolute favorite) is town food. Trail food is not bad and at the end of a long day can be absolutely delicious, but it's nothing like a restaurant menu with its tons of options and the mouth watering wait until the waitress comes to take your order. Tehachapi unfortunately doesn't have the best food. At best I tasted a B- and at worst a D. I sorely underestimated how disappointed I would be at not being able to get a really good meal.
Another benefit of going to Tehachapi (and one of the reasons I chose to go into the town) was that they had a movie theater. So of all things, I had been waiting to go see the new Indiana Jones and in the trail register before I got off the trail, I wrote that I couldn't wait to see it.
I bought my favorite movie snacks (Cherry Coke and a bag of Reeses Pieces...ok so I was able to get something good), sat down, had a little chat with a woman who was upset that we were part of the overflow who was put in the smaller theater, and then, the lights dimmed.
Two hours later I walked back to my room...you guessed it...disappointed. I mean come on. An alien skull that has the power to give the possesor all of the knowledge in the world? That's the best they could come up with? At least they could have gone with a less ridiculous mythical object like Excalibur or a crystal ball that predicts the future. Aliens? Please.
It was not the ideal tone to set in order to get me excited to be back on the trail. And the next day, when it was cold and raining, my mood sank even further.
I check out of my room, but I don't want to leave town. Even the Buttcheek Villa was better than wet camping. So I wandered. Went to different stores, got blah food even though I wasn't hungry and then when the weather still hadn't cleared up, decided to go to the movies to see the new Chronicles of Narnia and leave afterwards.
I snuck a milkshake in from a restaurant in town that was supposed to have some of the best on the trail. Not surprisingly it was just okay. But I should have known that from the night before when I got a burger with a slice of pineapple and teriyaki sauce on top. That part of the burger was actually tasty. What wasn't, and what the girl at the counter failed to tell me was that they also put mayo and tomato on the burger as well, which pretty much defeated the purpose of the teriyaki and pineapple slice.
But while waiting in line for my burger, two things happened:
1) They had Charlie Chaplin films playing on a flat screen TV on the wall and they were surprisingly funny. I thought they'd be horrendously unfunny like the Three Stooges, but I chuckled numerous times.
2) I started chatting with a guy who lives in the area and we got to talking about the PCT. Turns out he works for NASA and offered to give me a ride to the trail if I needed one.
So who sits down two seats over from me in Chronicles of Narnia, but the NASA guy. Kind of strange a 24 year old and a guy in his mid-30's seeing a movie, each alone, in a theater filled to the brim with children and their parents.
I ended up falling asleep part way through, just out of tiredness, not because I was bored with the movie. But even still, it wasn't as good as I thought and when I left for my supposed departure for the trail, it was raining and even colder.
NASA guy saw the look on my face and asked if I was going to head out to which I told him no way. Thankfully he drove me to the Best Western down the road where I knew some hikers were holed up, and the front desk lady let me hang around in the lobby until I was able to spot someone.
Argentina (who I camped with at Tylerhorse Canyon) and two Canadians, Angela and Colin, were sharing a room and were gracious enough to let me crash on the floor for $20.
This boosted my spirits immensely as I now had a clean room and bathroom to use and didn't have to sleep in the cold and wet. But for some reason I still couldn't shake my feelings of sadness.
I think it still had everything to do with not having a set plan, because the next day the weather was still shitty and I went through another couple of hours of back and forth about staying until Colin and Angela decided that they wanted to stay another night, which made my decision for me. I was even somewhat productive that day, going to K-Mart for new socks and finally making the decision to start wearing underwear (extreme chafing will do that). We watched Return of the Jedi and Ace Ventura (which I hadn't seen in forever) and I was giggling like a schoolgirl the entire time. I made my third trip to the movies and saw Iron Man (loved it - finally saw a good one). The Best Western even had a continental breakfast which was my first opportunity to have cereal on the entire trail, one of which I took full advantage and had like six bowls, selfishly using up all the milk and causing Angela to pour herself a cup of coffee then dump it out because she had no milk to put in it!
And yet I still, after all that, was in a fog of blah.
Getting back on the trail didn't really help either, which I thought it would. My pack felt extra heavy after two and a half days off and I kept slipping on these non-existent descents, falling outright once and cutting my knee. It was just completely frustrating.
I had also decided to bypass my next town stop (Lake Isabella) because I had been in Tehachapi for much longer than expected, and that was making me upset because I didn't want to go the six or seven days to Kennedy Meadows without a town stop, and by skipping Lake Isabella, I'd be missing out on Nelda's Diner which supposedly had (hadn't I heard something like this before?) a killer selection of milkshakes.
So I'm just out there hiking alternately sad and angry and Lake Isabella is getting closer and closer. I don't know what I want to do, but I just want to not feel this way on what is supposed to be one of the best times of my life. I really even felt guilty just for feeling sad. "You're out on this trail doing something that few people get the chance to. You're not allowed to feel sad."
And then my ankle flares up again. Of course while in Tehachapi I did zero rehab on my ankle, so surprise surprise two days later I'm limping along. This was probably the low point of the trail thus far. I didn't know how far I was going to be able to hike each day because my ankle would start killing me at the 20 mile mark, and then it would throb at night. Miserable.
So I'm hiking up to a peak near 7000 feet and I meet a guy who asks me if I'm going to Lake Isabella. I tell him that I'm not and he says that he is. Internally I get pissed because I'm jealous and I hike away in a huff. But the conversation was the spark I needed to get out of my trail funk.
Now I'm openly debating whether to go in or not. I just stayed in Tehachapi for two and a half days, but I really want to go to Lake Isabella. Kennedy Meadows is just a couple of days from Lake Isabella so why stop? But I really want that damn milkshake.
So I keep climbing and I meet up with two people and we stop together to take a breather. I tell them I'm debating whether or not to go into town and they tell me that they're going in because even though they just took five days off to rest the woman's foot, it was acting up and they wanted to give it another break.
"Five days!?" I thought to myself. And here I was worrying over two and a half.
And just then I remembered the moment during one of my training hikes when I didn't want to stop to get out my water bottle but finally had to because I just couldn't grab it, and how absolutely angering it was. But also realizing that if I needed to stop to get the water bottle, why not? What was stopping me? If I wanted the water, why not just stop and grab it?
If my ankle hurt and I wanted to go into town and take a day, even though I just had two and a half off, why not? What was stopping me?
And that was it. Almost instantaneously my mood lifted and I felt happy again. I had the prospect of a room, a shower and a delicious milkshake in front of me again, and it was only a day away.
And like that, all was right in the world once more. The next morning a trail angel was parked at the campground near the road into Lake Isabella so I got to have cinnamon buns, cookies, fruit and soda at 9:00am. I also met two of the nicest and funniest people on the trail so far who were also going into Lake Isabella, so we caught a hitch in together with a Canadian who was on a post-grad school road trip through the U.S. and Canada. He talked our ear off for the entire ride and seemed to know more about American politics than we did. He also told us about some controversy over Canada's sovereignty over the Northwest Passage and how they were ptting battleships up there to assert control. Meanwhile I'm sitting there thinking, "Canada has a navy?"
I smiled to myself and stared out the window, listening to the guy go on about how much he loves Obama, throwing in my two cents about life here and there, and watching the cows graze in the deep green grasses at the foot of the desert mountains.
It was good to be back.
Oh, and the milkshake was the shit.
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