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.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
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.
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