#or section e

“Tacocat” is charging ahead and, as July comes to a close, is headed into Washington state.  But he has left us with stunning images of the PCT’s three northern-most volcanoes in Oregon - Three-Fingered Jack (top left), Mt. Hood (top right), and Mt. Jefferson (bottom).  [Of course, hikers will not encounter these peaks in this order.]

Several years ago, Russell “Morrissey” Mease posted an account of his climb to the top of Three-Fingered Jack along with some stomach-churning photos. You can read his full story at:  http://pcttrailsidereader.com/post/38962848135/facing-my-fears-on-three-fingered-jack

Traveling Matt, 42, has taken time off from work and is spending a few months doing something “I’ve wanted to do since childhood.” He grew up in Truckee with the PCT nearby and has memories of early adventures along the trail. “In fact,” he says, “my earliest hiking memory is of a day-hike with my family along the PCT north from Donner Pass.”

The Wickiup Plain (top photo) and the South Sister (bottom photo)

What is ‘wickiup’? The terms wickiup and wigwam both mean “dwelling” and derive, respectively, from the Fox and Abenaki languages. By the early 21st century, wickiup had become the preferred term among many Native Americans because wigwam was believed to play into a stereotype.The wickiup has a dome-shaped framework covered with large overlapping mats of woven rushes or of bark that were tied to the saplings. Relatively easy to construct and maintain, a typical wickiup was some 15–20 feet in diameter.

I have this and several more posts of photographs from "Cheeseburger's" 2014 thru-hike.  You can connect with his blog at www.cheeseburgerhikes.blogspot.com

When I was reviewing countless accounts of PCT thru hikes to find material for The Pacific Crest Trailside Readers, a pattern emerged.  Since most accounts begin in the south and finish in the north, topics predictably unfolded like this:

Preparation for the trail

Arrival at Campo and the starting the trail

Adjustment to the rigors of the trail (feet, dirt, heat, lack of water)

Trail culture (trail names, trail magic, trail angels, trail towns, etc.)

Getting through the desert

Entering the High Sierra (the account is three quarters done and yet the trail has yet to reach the half way mark)

Between I - 80 (Donner Pass) to crossing the Columbia River on the Bridge of the Gods. . . a distance of 1000 miles . . . gets reduced to a story or two mostly about making big miles through endless forests; perhaps a tale about a fire re-route

Once Washington is reached, there tend to be stories of rain or snow

Anticipation of the end of the trail

Reaching Manning Park

Northern California and Oregon often receive a disproportionate lack of attention despite being stunningly beautiful.  Cheeseburger's photos of some of the Oregon volcanoes help to remind us of what a glorious string of pearls those peaks are.

After spending the last year of college living in Brazil, Tyler Fox found that "coming back to work an office job in California was a less than thrilling prospect (but hey, that’s what you’re “supposed” to do, right?). Well after six months of living the good life, earning someone else’s living 9-5 everyday, and finally realizing that what you grow up thinking you are supposed to do and what you can actually do are two entirely different things, I decided to abandon the textbook graduate path and embark on a journey of my own." Tyler's blog, www.halfwayanywhere.com, documents his life and adventures including his PCT thru-hike. I was attracted to this entry because we often tend to gloss over the downside of life on the trail.  It generally doesn't take too long for the difficult times to recede in our memory and the good times to dominate. But, any of us who have spent much time on the PCT can identify with the experiences Tyler recounts.

Because of the length of this post, I have divided Tyler's "11 Worst Moments" into two with the final six worst moments posting on October 26.

By Tyler Fox

As much as I love remembering the awesomeness that was my Pacific Crest Trail hike, during moments of aggressive trail jonesing, I also try to remind myself of the horrible times out on the trail. The horrible times? Yes, the horrible times. These times include, but are not limited to: the times I wanted to get off trail for good (all of Oregon), the times I wanted to just lay down and die (Fuller Ridge), or the times I had to squat over a hole and poop whilst being attacked by flying insects or dumped on by rain (double dump). Below is a brief account of eleven such times on trail. I hope this helps remind you all that the PCT is not all smiles and miles – it’s a merciless, ass-kicking, monster that you are incapable of waging battle with; you just have to take whatever the trail gives you.

CAUGHT IN A LIGHTNING STORM

Perhaps more frightening than low, but definitely a point where I thought a lot about what the hell I was doing out on the PCT, was the day I found myself in a raging lightning storm whilst passing through Oregon’s Three Sisters Wilderness. It was this day that I was forever convinced that lightning should be feared far more than the bloodthirsty bears (or any other imagined threat). That and it reminded me that I am unimaginably insignificant next to nature’s fury.

TOE INFECTION

What’s better than taking off your footwear at the end of the day and finding a mess of blood and puss? Taking off your footwear at the end of the day and finding a mess of blood and puss for four straight days as you attempt to make it out of the wilderness and to a medical facility. I got a nasty ingrown toenail after leaving VVR [Vermillion Valley Resort] and had to make an unplanned stop in Mammoth to pay a visit to the hospital (since my usual plan of “ignore it and it will go away” was failing me). Another two zeros and ten days worth of antibiotics later (antibiotics that needed to be taken every six hours – very inconvenient for sleeping through the night), and I was back on my feet and out on the trail. Hooray?

TWENTY MILES NORTH OF STEVENS PASS

This morning was debatably my lowest on trail (figuratively; literally I was somewhere above 5,000′). Waking up with my tent nearly submerged in a muddy pool of freezing water, surrounded by snow and knowing that the impending storm was only just beginning was a massive kick in the balls. This is the life! I shiver in my sleeping bag, wearing every piece of clothing I have, for at least an hour while I discuss with Mr. Indie which direction to hike. We decide south (the wrong direction) and hike over 20 miles (in the rain) back to Stevens Pass. It was just one of the times the PCT showed me who was boss.

DAY ONE

Hey, let’s hike from Mexico to Canada, that sounds fun, right? No. What kind of delusional fantasy world are you living in? My spirits on day one quickly faded as I realized just what the hell I was getting myself into. My goal of hitting twenty miles (something I had never done before and did not accomplish again until day five) was a bit ambitious (dumb), and it wasn’t until after fourteen hours of hiking that I finally pitched my tent at my day’s destination. I thought that I would wake up literally not being able to move the next morning – everything hurt (yes, everything).

FULLER RIDGE

Having taken my first zero day, and feeling a bit guilty about it (a rookie thru-hiker mistake), I decided to put in big miles hiking out of Idyllwild and make it all the way to my next resupply at Ziggy and The Bear’s in Cabazon – only thirty miles away (five miles longer than my previous day). The last ten miles were all downhill or flat according to the elevation profile, so how bad could it be? Answer: really bad. At 20:00 I hit the 200 mile marker as the sun set behind the mountains and I resolved to finish hiking the remaining ten miles before stopping for the night. Long story short, it was a terrible decision and this quickly became my least favorite day on trail (replacing Day One).

Although many memories of Waldo Lake may be dominated by mosquitos, there is a rich history in this region of Central Oregon. See Robert Cox's "Blazes on the Skyline" in the Oregon/Washington volume of The Readers to read about Cyrus Bingham and his arborgylphs and connection with the PCT. The history of the name of Waldo Lake derives from a very significant figure in Oregon history and in the protection of the wild lands of the Oregon Cascades.

In this post, Foscue relies heavily on Waldo's own words to demonstrate his commitment to conservation and his identity as an early environmentalist.

By David Foscue

Just north of O’Dell Lake in central Oregon and a short walk west of the PCT is pristine Waldo Lake.  At an elevation of 5414 feet, this ten square mile lake is the purest lake of its size in the world.  A few days hike north, above the 7000 foot level on the south east shoulder of Mt. Jefferson, the hiker can reach Waldo Glacier.   

These features are named for a man worth remembering, John Breckinridge Waldo.  Waldo made his name in the halls of state government in Salem.  He served on the Oregon Supreme Court from 1880 to 1886, the last two years as Chief Justice.   In 1889 he was elected to the Oregon State Legislature.  We remember John Breckinridge Waldo as a man who loved, explored, and helped to preserve the Oregon Cascades. 

In 1889 Waldo introduced a bill petitioning Congress to “set aside and forever reserve” a strip of land twelve miles wide on each side of the crest of the Oregon Cascades. The bill died in committee, largely due to pressure from the sheep industry.  However, Waldo persisted.   In 1893  President Cleveland acted on a petition of prominent Oregonians gathered and submitted by Waldo by placing much of the Oregon Cascades under the protection of the Forest Reserve Act of 1893.  Over time the Forest Reserves became the National Forests.  Perhaps Waldo’s dream for suitable wilderness preserve legislation was realized a half century after his death with the enactment of the Wilderness Act of 1964.

Judge Waldo spent much of his summers exploring the Cascades.  Waldo and a few friends explored the Cascades on horseback and foot from Eagle Creek to Crater Lake and beyond toward Ashland.  Fortunately 484 pages of the letters and diaries of his travels from 1880 to 1907 were published by the Forest Service in 1986.  Waldo’s writings are rich in observations and lessons.  At one time he wrote that he was writing with boiled huckleberry juice and a grouse quill. We learn from his writings of Waldo’s deep concern for the future of the Cascade wilderness he loved — of an idyllic camp near South Sister, Waldo wrote: It is a picture of the yet free and untrodden wilderness whose only shadow is that which is cast over that future when such things are not to be.  Waldo’s activism helped to avert the future he most feared.

He chronicles the wilderness and the loss of wilderness.  At Waldo Lake he writes: No one, White or Indian, had been at the lake so far as we could see, for the last two years.  In 1891 at O’Dell Lake he noted:  When at the lower end of the lake we saw no sign of anyone having been there this season.    However by 1896: O’Dell Lake is becoming quite a Resort.  There were thirty three  people camped at one time at the lower end of the Lake.  In 1906 Waldo entered the mountains along the Santiam River a year before his death:

The years roll away and here I am again on my way to the mountains.  The almost unbroken wilderness is no longer here.  The changes made only by time are probably not very great.  The river still flows as of old, and the noise of its rushing waters must be the same, but the waters do not issue out of the old unbroken solitudes and hence there is something missing. 

Waldo encountered wildlife rarely or never seen today: a grizzly bear, wolves, antelope, mink, “a formidable looking cougar,” as well as the all too familiar —  such as “troublesome” mosquitos. Game provided sustenance for Waldo and his companions but his own attitude toward hunting changed over time.  In the beginning he was not a discriminating hunter.  By the middle years he was urging his companions to hunt only buck, not doe and fawn.  By the end he seems to have switched sides altogether: “I saw a bear . . . near the spring. . . .  Mr. McMahon has gone out to kill him, but I believe I would rather have the bear escape.”

Waldo traveled wagon roads, Indian trails, cross country, and he blazed and constructed many miles of trail.  I complete the path which I began three years ago, along the western shore, which I donate to the use and convenience of the deer and bear.  It is no surprise that many of his routes and camps are familiar to the PCT hiker, according to U. S. Forest Service archaeologist Jeff LaLande: “The Oregon portion of the Pacific Crest Trail was essentially blazed by Waldo and his companions during the 1880's.”  

Little gems are nestled throughout Waldo’s pages like the campfire comment of his friend Frank: He said he thought he was a better man than his brother; that his brother was a Doctor and killed people, while he was a lawyer and only robbed them.  When a companion went to town to seek dental treatment, Waldo wrote: The Dentist said Clifford’s tooth could not be filled without taking several days to treat it.  He, therefore, pulled it — charge 50¢.   One day Waldo expounded on the proper treatment of a horse: Avoid any exhibition of ill temper toward a horse.  Never strike or beat them unless for some faults such as kicking, and even then here it may be of doubtful propriety.  His next diary entry includes: Kept my temper in regard to the horses well to-day — with one exception.

Nothing rankled Waldo more than the damage done by sheep grazing in the Cascades.  The sheep are everywhere and spoil the mountains for campers.  Many thousand are in the mountains this year . . .  These mountains belong to all the people and are being monopolized for business purposes by a few.  It is in line, indeed, with the times.  But wisdom only lingers, I trust.  He rues the fires set by cattle and sheep men to make range: A fine return these gentlemen make for the use of Government Land, free. 

In the next post (December 1) we will accompany Waldo on his 1888 ride from Waldo Lake to Mt. Shasta, largely following the future path of the PCT.  For this edition, however, allow Judge Waldo to close with a few more observations:

The high and wild hills about here, totally unfenced and uncultivated are good for eyes that would not have the world altogether cut up into cabbage patches.

This place is but little visited — a lonely place in the mountains undisturbed by human depredations, hence interesting and instructive — that is the reason the wilderness has its uses and should not all be destroyed.

Coming nearer to the original conditions will show what are the necessities and what the superfluities of life.  We learn what the good actually is, and what the evil is which civilization gives us; for that civilization has its attendant evils cannot be denied.

The mountains are great restorers.

The still woods; surely they are not all made merely to be cut down.  Let wide stretches still grow for the spiritual welfare of men.

On this journal entry, Carrot Quinn captures several aspects of trail life and culture.  First is the often evolving nature of trail names. Over the years, my own trail moniker began as 'Boris' and morphed to 'Uncle Rico' and 'Mr. Question', and periodically I am part of 'Team Geezer'. The second, is the wonderful, wide-ranging conversations that often occur on the trail.  Without the distractions of the internet, phones, television, and, most importantly, daily planners, there is no rush to finish conversations. No urgency to rush through a story.  No deadlines. On the trail, I have had some of my best conversations. It is all part of the joy and magic of the trail.

Again, kudos to Carrot Quinn for her outstanding writing.

August 18 (31 miles)

By Carrot Quinn

I sleep and wake, sleep and wake to the streetlamp moon. Instigate is tossing and turning saying Brrrrr, cold, brrrrr, cold in her sleep like she likes to do. It’s how she got her trail surname- Brrrrrcold. Instigate also has a middle name, Sleeping Beauty, and in Washington she’ll acquire another middle name, Baywatch, on account of a bright red sports bra. Instigate Sleeping Beauty Baywatch Brrrrrcold.

Spark got his name on his thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. He started the trail with a flint sparker that he’d use to make fires. Spark doesn’t have a last name but we call him SparkleMotion, Sparkletoes, SparkleMagic and, recently, lil’ Sparkums.

Carrot isn’t actually a trail name- it’s the name I’ve used for the last twelve years. The only place people call me by my boring legal name is at the bank.

In the morning my tent is beaded all over with condensation and my sleeping bag is damp. It’s fall in the mountains, and the nights are getting cooler. I eat some almonds and raisins and drag myself out into the big world- the air is fresh and still and all I have ahead of me is the trail, stretching on into forever. Dang, I think. I love Oregon.

I hike fast, leapfrogging with the others, talking now with Instigate and now with Egg and then I happen upon Raho, sitting on a log next to the trail spooning nutella into his mouth. I sit down next to him and unwrap a probar. I bought a bunch for cheap at the shop n’ kart in Ashland, and the chocolate ones taste like cake.

“You want to walk together?” I say.

“Ok,” says Raho. He’s got nutella in his beard, and his hat is on askew.

As we walk we talk about our lives, and Raho outs himself as catholic.

“You’re, like, a practicing catholic?” The concept is absurd to me, like people who believe the earth is flat.

“Yeah.”

I tell him that I was raised catholic; first the hallucinatory catholicism of my schizophrenic mother and then the strict, conservative catholicism of my grandparents, who adopted me when I was fourteen. The poverty and despair of my youth; God, the devil, the Virgin Mary; the warmth of empty cathedrals when we were homeless, sunbeams coming in the stained glass catching dust motes. Little rooms full of votives and my thin, acrid-smelling mother, working a wooden rosary through her yellow-stained fingertips. Speaking in tongues. You’ve got the devil inside of you, she says to me. I should’ve let you die when you were a baby. And then later my cold grandmother, bringing home the communion wafer wrapped in a paper napkin and forcing me to eat it when I have the flu. Lying on those faded sheets with the tiny flowers, bright desert sunshine making the curtains move. So sick I can barely swallow. Body of Christ, she says.

Raho’s parents are both liberal Archaeologists.

“I think my experience of Catholicism is probably a little different from yours,” I say.

The lake where we stop to fill our water is full of copepods, the little propeller-shaped crustaceans that make their homes in the shallows. I hold my Gatorade bottle up to the light and look at them, swimming around. They’re bright red.

“I’m sorry you have to die,” I say as I stick my steripen into the bottle.

“They don’t die,” says Raho. “It just scrambles their DNA.”

“Well,” I say, watching the way the steripen makes the water glow with eerie ultraviolet light. “Well.”

Soon we’re at the trail junction to Elk Lake, a resort of sorts on the flank of Mount Bachelor. Raho has a box at Elk Lake and so I hike the mile and a half there with him. Two summers ago I biked from Bend to Elk Lake with my friend Seamus. It was June, and they’d just plowed the road. There were six-foot snowbanks on either side of us and the forty-mile ride was all uphill. At Elk Lake we’d rented a dark little cabin and turned the propane heater up as high as it would go. We were the only guests.

Now it’s August and the road to the lake is hot and sunny and crowded with cars. At the resort there are people everywhere- barbequing, drinking beer on blankets, sunbathing. The lake is stuffed with boats and ripples with the wake of jetskis. The lodge itself is unremarkable- sided in dark wood, tilting into the ground. On the porch of the lodge is a stack of clear plastic tubs- the hiker box. Shoes, discarded hiking clothing, toiletries, and tons of food. I find a bag of doritos and a cold bottle of pepsi. Raho and I split the pepsi, sitting at a picnic table wiping the sweat from our faces. I set up my solar charger in the sun.

“This is nice,” I say.

“Yeah.”

The pepsi restores my flagging hiking boner and soon we’re back on the trail, cruising 3 mph. I know that for many hikers 3 mph is like no big deal, but it’s a new thing for me, something that I’ve been working towards but haven’t mastered until now, in Oregon. I love hiking this fast- the time it saves allows me to take real breaks and still get to camp before dark. And it makes me feel like I can do anything.

We pass a string of twinkling green lakes, Oregon style, and then we’re crossing a sort of enchanted meadow with South Sister in the distance, dramatic and beautiful. We see a little white tent and then Egg, standing on a patch of bare ground eating pomegranate gummi bears.

“You want these?” she says, handing us the bag. “I don’t really like them.”

We eat the bears as we cross the meadow, the shadows lengthening on the mountain. There’s a campsite in three miles and we reach it right at dusk- soft ground, clusters of trees and a stream that burbles down the mountain. We pitch our tents and then sit on the ground, eating dinner and watching the moon rise. The others are ahead of us, somewhere in this magical wilderness. Tomorrow we’ll cross a bunch of lava and then reach the highway, where we’ll hitch to Sisters a second time- although this time we’ll be much closer.

“I feel so lucky to be here,” I say to Raho, as I scrape the last of my beans from the jar.