notes from the road

(Post from April 28, 2017)

I woke up to frost on my windshield. On the inside of my windshield, that is. Outside, a short cargo train scraped slowly along a set of tracks I failed to notice when I parked on an empty dirt road last night, the passing locomotive’s chattering wheels pulling me out of sleep every forty-five minutes.

I sat up, wrenched my arms quickly through the sleeves of my puffy coat and fished around my sleeping bag for the beanie I’d worn to bed. Though I’ve been living out of Luna for a while now, I still don’t quite have my system dialed in. I can never find my pocket knife, phone charger, or toothbrush, and I somehow lost the first aid kit I meticulously assembled after my WFR course in January.

It’s cold, but there’s coffee to be made and elk wandering the field across the road.

I didn’t intend to get as far south as Flagstaff, but after a few long days hiking at the Grand Canyon, I needed a shower and a meal with vegetables in it.

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The Colorado River–the great sculptor of this incredible canyon

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Descending 4000′ to the canyon floor

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I pulled up to the Backcountry Office at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon fifteen minutes before they closed, and despite the acute dissuasion from the ranger on duty, snagged an elusive overnight permit for the North Rim the next night. I planned to hike the Rim to Rim (to Rim) trail–24 miles and about 5,000′ of elevation change each way.

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AMS, dehydration, and hyponatremia warning signs all over the Grand Canyon

As one of the busier parks in the nation, I’m sure its well intended, but there’s a fair amount of fear-mongering perpetuated by the Park Service. I had to sign a waiver acknowledging that I was completing this hike against expert advice, and that I understood what I was getting into.

I knew it was gonna kick my ass, but I also knew that I could do it.

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Life on the road can be mercurial, and I often wonder what it is, exactly, that I’m doing. Sometimes I have to spell it out for myself: seeing friends, hiking new trails, skidding down rocky forest service roads, meeting new people, experiencing new things. That adventure lifestyle, or so it’s billed.

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Hiking near Lee’s Ferry

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Here there be dragons

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Bugs need homes, too. Red Rocks, NV

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I met a group of backcountry skiers outside of Independence, CA on an 8-day trek into the Sierra

Sometimes I pull off down an unkempt BLM roads and follow it, sometimes dozens of miles, till it stops. I pull out the broken lawn chair I found in Tahoe and set it in the dirt and open a novel or my sketchbook or just watch the breeze tickling the long dry grass.

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Putting the Sierra in my rearview… for a couple weeks

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A hike up the White Mountains offered this view of the Sierra across Owen’s Valley

I think about that grass in the breeze, or where all the bighorn sheep are and why I haven’t seen one yet, or whether I brought enough water, or where the hell I put my pocketknife this time, and I try to be present. I try, sometimes, not to think of other things. But they tug, as they always do, in my weakest moments, and I wonder why I’m really here. In this hundreds-of-thousands of acres of open land, sitting alone in a rusty broken lawn chair with a stuffy nose and sunburnt shoulders and a hiking shirt crinkly with salt.

And I’m not sure. The beauty of these spaces, the simplicity of this lifestyle, the intrigue of novelty, the people surrounding me–all these things, certainly.

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Morning coffee

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Bristlecone pines–here lie not only the oldest trees, but the oldest organisms on Earth. The old tree, the Mesthuselah, is nearly 5,000 years old.

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And I wonder how much is motivated by a desire for atonement. A way to make amends for decisions I’ve made and roads I’ve turned away from in the name of “doing my own thing”; a way to try to escape my own shame for the things I’ve said or done–or didn’t say, or didn’t do; to make peace with the things I’ve messed up out of naïveté or anger or selfishness.

As eminent travel scholar Kerouac writes, “I have nothing to offer anybody but my own confusion.”

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Ironic litter in Death Valley

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Sunrise in the Great Basin

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Unfinished Business

 

“Yo, Suds,” Double Dip unceremoniously threw her gear into the trunk of my car and clambered into the passenger seat, “how’ve you been?”

It was 6:20 on a Saturday morning, the cloudless sky bright to my sleep-filled eyes. I rubbed them. Yawned. Started the car.

“Hanging in there,” I said, unsure how to encapsulate the last ten months into a palatable synopsis.

Ten months give or take a few days, since we’d reached the northern terminus of the PCT. It felt at once impossibly long ago, and yet as if we’d only just made a resupply stop in town.

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The July sun rose above the trees as we drove, leaving Seattle’s city limits, the roads empty and quiet. We curved off the expressway into a suburb north of the city to meet up with a four other thru-hikers from our year. We were headed out to hike a 109-mile stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail from Steven’s Pass to Stehekin, through the Glacier Peak Wilderness. Last summer’s Wolverine Fire, encompassing over 62,000 acres at it’s height, closed off this section of the trail for several weeks, forcing hikers to wait it out or, as we did, take the ferry from Chelan to Stehekin and continue our hike from there.

Nomad and Rattles greeted us in the parking lot of their apartment building, followed by Ricky Bobby, recently flown in from Michigan to complete the section, and Radish who’d driven up from Bend to join the adventure. After working out a few travel logistics, we piled into a couple of cars and headed out, our voices betraying giddy excitement.

The year seemed to melt away as we fell back into the routine of the trail. It was awkward at first. Our packs were weighty, our ankles contorted, unaccustomed feet stumbling over stone and soil. But after an hour it felt like we’d never left. We moved quickly, stopping to bandage up hotspots and threatening blisters, tending to some pains and ignoring others. Complaining equally about the long climbs and the steep descents; the thickets of vines and thorny shrubs overgrowing the trail; the blow downs and loose rock; the mosquitos and bees and gnats and the thousands of insects for which we didn’t have names.

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It was the happiest I’d been all summer. Even in those arduous afternoons when I had to remind myself that I signed up for this, I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. Reintegrating into the “normal” world after my thru-hike proved difficult, and being back on the trail among friends to whom I didn’t have to explain myself was invigorating.

We rehashed our favorite trail memories as we rounded the majestic Glacier Peak, coveted one another’s snacks, and slowed down in the late afternoons to forage the almost-ripe huckleberries and salmonberries and wild blueberries. Our conversation quickly fell into the trail routine: how many miles are we going to hike today? Is everyone staying regular? How many pastries are you going to get at the bakery in Stehekin? How many feet of elevation?! I was thinking Ramen with peanut butter—what are you having for dinner?

We spoke about our more recent adventures, but how nothing quite added up to thru-hiking. About how we’d come to relish the nomadic lifestyle, even in its loneliness. Pushing our limits, physical and mental every day. Waking up on the shores of reflective alpine lakes and hitching into remote towns for pancakes and beer and cresting difficult passes only to be rewarded with another incredible vista. How special the ordinary things became—a clean load of laundry, a shower, a cold soda, an apple—we learned to savor the small pleasures.

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People choose to thru-hike for myriad reasons—the physical challenge, the beauty of nature, the accomplishment in itself, mental and emotional healing from military deployment or addiction or a broken heart. “I’ve never finished anything I’ve started,” another hiker confided as we neared the monument at the Canadian border last fall. “Not school, not work projects, not a relationship. This will be the first real thing I feel proud of. The first real thing I’ve finished.”

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When I left the southern terminus last spring, I didn’t know why I was hiking. Not at first. With only two short backpacking trips and a handful of hikes under my belt, I was walking into the unknown. But I knew I had to do something. I didn’t like myself and I didn’t know what to do about it.

The PCT seemed just crazy enough, just vast enough, just difficult enough to challenge the way I was thinking about myself and other people and to help my question the fundamental ways I was operating in the world.

And it was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

After a month or so, the physical difficulties fall to the wayside. You know you can make that fifteen-mile climb. You know your legs and shoulders and hips and feet can put up with a beating, and even as you test your limits, nothing seems completely out of reach. But the mental and emotional fortitude vital in reaching the northern terminus nearly broke me, and there were weeks wherein I wanted to quit every day. The effort of fashioning a person and a soul I wanted to live in entwined itself with the twelve-inch swath of dirt beneath my shoes, and the trail became a part of my story. A foundation on which to build a new self.

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“Lets just keep going,” Radish called out our final morning, hiking in the last four miles as a group. “Rainy Pass is only another eighteen miles!” We laughed, seriously considered it for half a moment before realizing we didn’t have enough food, work and family routines to return to, and flights to catch.

We clambered onto the bus to Stehekin and then the long ferry down Lake Chelan, our shorts sweat-stained and rank, legs scraped and bruised and sore, tired but happy smiles catching our chapped lips. We parted ways, slinging our packs one more time over weary shoulders. “See y’all up the trail,” I said.

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Originally written for and published by ALDHA-West, Fall Gazette

http://www.aldhawest.org/resources/Documents/Gazette/2016/Fall%202016%20Gazette.pdf

Of Trail Names & Detours

Day 9 and I’m laying on my stomach on a bed in a cozy motel hut in Idyllwild, CA. It’s my first zero day, and I had every intention of relaxing, but have instead found myself bustling around town, finding gear, food, coffee, and catching up with other hikers I haven’t seen for a few days.

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Trail Angel Mike Herrara’s at mile 139

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Cooking dinner above Tunnel Spring

Picture credit: Jesse Wiegel

Picture credit: Jesse Wiegel

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The morning hours are the most productive and the most beautiful.

The morning hours are the most productive and the most beautiful.

Two days ago I reached mile 152 at highway 74, and walked down the road to Paradise Valley Cafe–easily the best known eatery on trail. After stuffing myself with burgers and milkshakes, I pulled out my maps with Jesse, Dana, and Evan, and we planned our next move–hiking through the Mountain Fire Detour. Several years ago, there was a massive forest fire near Idyllwild which destroyed part of the PCT. Most hikers either hitchhike into town or roadwork the 17 miles. The detour itself adds an extra five and winds through neighborhoods and biking trails after completing the rest of the open trail. We wanted to walk the entire distance, and walking the road can be quite dangerous as there are many twists and turns and a narrow shoulder.

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Adventures in night hiking

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Jesse assuming the fetal position at our cabin in Idyllwild

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Jesse, Dana, and me entertaining ourselves on the detour

Taking a break amongst the boulders

Taking a break amongst the boulders

Despite the extra miles and a walk on Forest Roads, we didn’t regret our decision to hike the detour. We push through massive boulder fields and across high ridges, we saw a massive rattlesnake which wriggled slowly across the trail, and switched on our headlamps as we climbed over the saddle into the dusk.

I went and got myself a trail name this week: Suds. This is on account of my putting laundry detergent in all of my resupply boxes–making all of my food taste like soap. And as my fathers daughter, of course I ate it all. Mouth froth and all.

Some other trail names I’ve run across so far are Daytripper, Mouse, Stinger, Motown, Snack Master, Coppertone, Justa, Rally, Squatchy, Bush-tit and Tom-tit (The Tits), Witch Doctor, and Growler. Trail names are actually much easier to remember–and I often don’t even learn hiker’s real names.

 

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Pizza, beer, and sandwiches at Idyllwild Pizza  

IMG_5435 There’s something about the PCT, about hiking it, that is intensely personal. Like a good book with whose characters you feel intimate – as though no one could possibly experience the same feelings from the same literature. I want to share it with my family, friends, with the world, but I’m simultaneously jealous of its tread.

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Me and Stella at the Red Kettle

 

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Hiked with Joel and Mark for a couple days–two lovely sections hikers from Southern California (and I’m not just saying that because they might be reading this)

At the same time, it’s interesting to think about those who have come before me – those I know and those I have met or read about, hiking in the same place – struggling over the same rocks and seeing the same views… It makes me feel connected to those people and a community.

Conversations with strangers fall quickly into a relaxed speech and those you’ve only known a day or two become fast friends.

I’m headed down to the PCT kickoff this week–basically a big trail party back down at Lake Morena around mile 20–and it’s strange–I’ve only known these people for several days and yet it makes me incredibly sad to think I likely won’t see many of them again, or at least not for a long while. Taking four days off will put me in an entirely different group of people. The transient nature of this hike is one of its draws, but also one of the more difficult aspects.

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Overindulging at Paradise Valley Cafe

 

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Dana was the only successful hitch-hiker this day

    

Friends & Mountaintops

Over the last several days I’ve been moving through innumerable and often contrasting thoughts and sentiments. A lot of doubt, and then erratically leaping to enthusiasm. Apprehension. Love. Strength. Fear. Weakness. Excitement. Joy.

On Friday, I borrowed my roommate’s 1982 Subaru and drove north. I don’t drive that often, and my hands were glued to the wheel and gear shift, the engine roaring beneath the worn muffler. The morning was warm and mild, clouds hung high over the Cascade peaks as I turned east. Driving on Highway 2 always makes me think of Michigan. The road’s eastern terminus is St. Ignace, MI and it winds gracefully along the northern shores of Lake Michigan–a route I took many times between my hometown and college.

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The lovely northern shores of Lake Michigan

My destination on Friday, however, was just beyond Skykomish to a recently rehabilitated trail to Beckler Peak. The forest road was long and full of potholes… it took me nearly a half hour to drive the 6.5 miles to the trailhead from the highway. There were only a couple cars in the gravel parking lot when I arrived, and after donning my mostly-full pack (about 20lb), I started up the trail. It was boring at first. An old logging two-track, the trail is wide and grassy with hyperbolic switchbacks past tree stumps and eroding ridges. I started to get hot. My long sleeves and pants stuck to my limbs, and my ears were fiery beneath my headband. Shit, I thought. It’s only 60 degrees. What am I going to do in the desert for two months? My legs began aching, my heart rate jacked. I paused in the middle of the trail. Caught my breath. Waited for my legs to regain their normal composure. Pressed on. Stopped again a minute later. Just twenty or thirty seconds. Continued up. How am I ever going to make it 2,660 miles? I found myself contemplating. I’ve only gone two so far today. The road turned into a trail as it entered third growth forest as giant western cedars towered over my head. I stopped to listen to the creak of the branches. To hear the sounds drowned out by my daily city life.

I heard voices above me, distant at first, and then closer as I rounded a few switchbacks. I traversed a small snow field and met up with four women chatting on the trail–one headed down, three on their way up, all in their 50s or 60s. One, Diana I later learned, noticed my pack. “Is that a ULA? I’ve got the Circuit & the CDT. Great packs.” And off we flew into gearhead mode and trail talk. They were all familiar with the PCT–Diana lives very near The Dinsmores at Hiker Haven in Baring, WA, and works at the Skykomish Deli–both necessary stops for any thru-hiker. Another works at the visitor’s center at the Ranger Station in Snoqualmie Pass. I pushed on, knowing the summit couldn’t be far off now.

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The views, suddenly and somehow, made everything worth it. Made me forget the work I’d done to get there. The three women joined me several minutes later, and they named each of the peaks for me, telling stories of previous hikes or commenting on this glacier or that, and which fed what lake or watershed. They asked me about my preparations and wished me well, and told me to come find them when I passed through.

And then I left.

It had me thinking about the nature of relationships of all sorts–long or short term, professional, platonic, romantic, familial, even the small, brief moments spent on mountaintops with those momentarily intimate kindred spirits. There are some relationships I know won’t survive quitting my job or the five months I’ll be hiking the PCT. What do you say when you look into the eyes of a friend you know you’ll never see again? As one of my favorite authors, Jonathan Safran Foer, writes, “So many people enter and leave your life–hundreds of thousands of people! You have to keep the door open so they can come in–but that also means you have to let them go!”

Delicious Foodstuffs & Training Hikes

I don’t think I’ve ever spent this much time thinking about food. And I work as a cook.

The last month or so has been a flurry of dehydrating foods (and buying them when I got sick of that–Harmony House has excellent vegan/vegetarian options), blending up a few different trail mixes (all with chocolate. Lots of chocolate.), repackaging fruit snacks and hot chocolate, and putting meals together.

As of now, I’m planning on having my point person send me sixteen resupplies over the course of my hike–though that number is still rough. I suppose it sort of depends on how much food I end up with after my fixed supply points are covered.

My friend Jessie stopped over for an afternoon beer and took the liberty of garnishing many of the pictured trail mix bags with little notes. They started off sweet and lovely–“Jessie loves you,” and “We miss you!” and slowly turned sassy, till the final ones read “you’re gross” and “I’ve already replaced you.” It’s always nice to get an ego check, and will be even more lovely to see her handwriting while I’m crying under a tree in the rain in the middle of nowhere.

Though some of my pre-packed resupplies will just contain food, others will have the next set of maps I’ll need, a new pair of shoes/socks, a restock of first aid and medical products as well as hygiene items like a couple q-tips and a little baggie of wet wipes to get the grit out from behind my ears before crawling into my sleeping bag.

Beyond food resupplies, I’ve been paying close attention to the water reports coming out of Southern California to give me an idea of what I can expect in terms of stream levels in the desert. Trail Angel and former PCT hiker Double Tap maintains the PCT Water Report–a website to which hikers can contribute information about a particular water source by email/text/voicemail if they happen to pass by. Two hikers (trail names Trauma and Pepper) completed the first successful winter thru-hike of the PCT headed southbound on March 1st. Their water reports have proven invaluable to my plans of what to expect in just a few weeks.

My mother flew out from Michigan at the beginning of the month to see me off before I leave (and possibly die), cart me around Seattle to help pick up items I wasn’t willing to haul onto public transportation (see above Costco picture), and take a little training hike along Eagle Creek in northern Oregon.

Not absent from my daily thoughts are incredible excitement and anticipation sewn together with nerves. Am I prepared enough? Am I going to run out of food or water? I’m not nearly as knowledgeable about the trail as some of my fellow hikers–I can’t rattle off the list of passes in the Sierra or major climbs in the San Jacinto–but am I enlightened enough about the difficulties I’ll face? Am I planning my resupplies too far apart?

As my departure date slowly edges closer (seventeen days, now), I find myself taking stock of where I am. I heard an interview on NPR with a neuroscientist several months ago about the nature of memory. She posited that as adults, time seems to slip by more quickly not because the hours and days make up a smaller percentage of our lives as we age, but because we enter routines. There is nothing new to recall on this day or that, no significant changes or events, and so they meld together into a week or a month or a year or ten years.

Jon Krakauer wrote that the core of man’s spirit lies in new experiences, and I don’t intend on wasting my strongest, healthiest years doing menial work to reach a non-existent goal. So this weekend I wandered more slowly through Saturday’s farmer’s market; I walked more deliberately through my neighborhood and along the waterfront to work, as if I could physically immerse myself in the little details of my life–the small parts that so often seem insignificant, but actually make up the majority of our day-to-day lives.

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In the last year and a half I’ve cultivated a life in a new city, I’ve found a new and favorite hobby to which I’ve decided to dedicate a full five months of my life, I’ve met fascinating people and seen incredible things and experienced intense love and joy and gratitude. I don’t know what’s next for me, but I’m happy to wait and see.

a few beans & some thoughts.

As my departure date looms ever nearer on the calendar, I’m continually surprised by the level of skepticism, snide remarks, and the barrage of unsolicited advice from non-backpackers about my hike. Everyone from extended family members, friends, coworkers and managers, the barista at my favorite coffee shop, and the checkout lady at Safeway (who inquired after the many bags of dried beans, pasta, and rice I was purchasing for resupplies), can’t wait to give me their two cents, tell me how miserable I’ll be, and ask me what type of gun I’ll be carrying (see FAQ post). While I try to remind myself that many of their thoughts are well-intentioned, answering the demand for justification with each person is wearisome. Though I want to spread the love of the outdoors with others, I find myself getting irritated with some of the more unsupportive interrogations and passing jibes.

Maybe you think I’m a little crazy, but I’m not going into this blind. I’ve done my research. I’ve been out in the mountains. I have a water filter. I know my own body.

Concealed within these remarks, I suppose, lies a reflection of each commenter’s or inquirer’s or cross-examiner’s values. Perhaps even his or her own fears.

When I was in high school, I was deathly afraid of falling into the trap that is the American Dream. I hoped I wouldn’t meet a handsome, charming, and ambitious man in college and fall in love. I prayed not to begin my adulthood with the requisite 2.5 children, golden retriever, and SUV with a house in the suburbs, as so many of my contemporaries pined for, and what appeared to be a common thread in my community. I didn’t know what I wanted (still don’t), but it wasn’t that.

Of course, as I discovered, I didn’t have to. I’d caged myself in with what I believed my family & friends expected of me, when in reality they thought nothing of the sort.

Sometimes I still look at family and friends who have followed the more traditional course, and I envy their security. They have 401ks and stable jobs and reliable cars, and they stay around long enough to see their autumn tulip bulbs sprout in April.

And perhaps they fear leaving this lifestyle of certainty behind, or feel pinned to decisions and commitments they made many years ago, or ones that were made for them.

I am young, I’ll be the first to admit that. I often feel naive and humbled by the experiences of those around me. And I’m not prone to voicing grand pronouncements (but face it, we’re all more than a little supercilious about our chosen lifestyles), but I suppose I like to think I live intentionally–I fear frittering away my small allotment of existence at a menial job, tolerating a static or mercurial relationship, playing video games, or trolling the internet for entertainment. I sometimes get caught up checking up on old classmates I don’t even know anymore on Facebook, or standing in an impossibly long line at the store, waiting to purchase an item I don’t really even need, and I get a little flustered. Is this really what I want to be doing? 

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I don’t feel my decision to thru-hike the PCT was in any way crazy or brave–it just feels like the next thing to do, for me, in this moment.

Anyhow.

This weekend I’ve been dehydrating like a fiend!

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I purchased a million dollars worth of dried beans, soaked them all, cooked them, and then dehydrated them, so I’m back with a bunch of bags of dried beans again. I also picked up a few boxes of mac and cheese, a bunch of peppers and onions, and some ground beef to cook, dehydrate, and mix into chilis, pastas, rice mixes, etc.

My entire apartment smells like black beans, and the dehydrator (thanks LeeAnne & Nolan!) is working overtime and steaming up all of my windows.

I even found some little packets of silica beads to throw in each meal package to help keep it dry for as long as possible.

Things are coming together!

Trail Jargon

Trail language is brimming with monikers & all around strange turns of phrase, and hikers love their acronyms. It took me a full month to catch on to all the shorthand, and I’ll be the first to admit I’ve fallen into the habit of using trail-speak with Regular People. You know. Those folks who don’t take half their year to walk across the country. That’s you, probably, typical blog-reader.

I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a small dictionary. Some of them are less intuitive than others. Some are stupid.

Cairn: (n) A stack of rocks ranging from two or three small stones to massive altar-like structures which mark the trail where it may be difficult to follow (over rock or open forest floor).

NOBO/SOBO: (adj) Northbound/Southbound–the direction you’re headed on you PCT hike

Yo-yo: (adj) Hiking the entire trail, and then simply turning around and doing the whole thing over again. (I know).

HYOH: (v) Hike Your Own Hike. I love this one, and it’s often thrown around during all sorts of conversations. Do your hike on your own terms–go at your own pace, eat what and when you like, filter your water or not, take this gear or that, take this alternate route or don’t. Don’t hike on someone else’s agenda.

Zero Day: (n) Taking a day off and hiking zero miles.

AZDPCTKO: (N) Annual Zero Day Pacific Crest Trail Kick-Off, sponsored by Trail Angels, the PCTA (I think), and a bunch of fancy big name outdoor gear companies. Located at Lake Morena Campground in California at PCT mile 20. Gear companies sell cool stuff at sweet prices (but you probably don’t need anything by then, as you’ve already begun your hike), locals give water & snow reports for Southern California and the Sierra as well as trail closures, and you get to meet a bunch of fellow thru-hikers! This year, there are two kick-offs to accommodate the trail’s growing popularity, both at the end of April. I’ll have passed the area by then, but am considering hitching a ride back just to see what all the fuss is about.

Marathoner: (n) A day in which you hike 26 miles.

LNT: (N/v) Leave No Trace, the most important of backcountry ethics. Clean up after yourself, and don’t be a dick. Pack out all of your trash including food scraps, make sure to dig your cat hole at least six inches, respect wildlife, minimize camp and hiking impact, and consider others around you.

BPW: (n) Base Pack Weight–i.e., how much your pack weighs minus consumables (water, fuel, food). Ultralight packers boast a BPW under 10lb, lightweight is under 20lb, and anything over is considered traditional backpacking.

Cache: (n) An unnatural occurrence of water in the wilderness, where someone has left behind jugs of the sweetest of chemical compounds just when you thought you were going to die of thirst. Questionable alignment with LNT.

Bounce Box: (n) A form of resupply wherein a hiker will mail a box or a five-gallon bucket ahead to herself with items she doesn’t need every day, and doesn’t want to carry. Upon reaching town, she’ll pick it up at the post office, enjoy and refresh its contents, and mail it out again to herself further on up the trail.

Cowboy Camping: (v) Sleeping under the stars.

Hiker Trash: (n) Affectionate self-titled name for thru-hikers.

PCTA: (N) Pacific Crest Trail Association. They maintain the trail, and are a wealth of information on anything from water sources ad bear sightings to gathering the necessary backcountry permits and caring for your blisters. They’re pretty great, and they take donations.

Flip Flop: (v) Thru-hiking the PCT, just not all in order… usually a result of wildfire closures or snow pack. For example: hiking north to the Sierras, then flipping up to BC and hiking south to that same point.

Posthole: (n/v) The energy-sapping, annoying, but unavoidable result of walking through deep snow–when your leg collapses the snow and sinks in up to your thigh, requiring a strong lift, and often resulting in another post-hole.

Post-holing. Canada

Vitamin I: (n) Ibuprofen. ‘Nuff said.

Triple Crowner: (n) A Thru-hiker who has completed the Appalachian Trail (AT), the Continental Divide Trail (CDT), and the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT).

Yogi: (v) To convince, persuade, or inveigle locals/day-hikers into giving you food/water/a ride without actually asking for it. This can be a true art, and one at which I imagine I will not excel, as I don’t think I’m particularly charming or graceful. Here’s to hoping, though.

Trail Angel: (n) Basically anyone who gives you a hand on the trail, be it a ride to/from the trail, letting you camp out in their backyard/garage/house, giving you food/water, etc. Some trail angels are just passing day hikers, and some take on the duties full time. The Dinsmores near Stehekin, WA for example, put up PCT thru-hikers in a special-built dormitory, hold packages, have showers and laundry and all the modern conveniences you’ve forgotten about. They do it for free, but a little donation doesn’t go amiss.

Trail Magic: (n) Anything done by a Trail Angel, essentially. Sometimes its small (a beer or soda cache & some snacks near a trail head), and sometimes it’s a full-fledged mobile restaurant. I heard this excellent story on NPR in December about a pop-up cafe set up on a picnic table at Sonora Pass for thru-hikers, complete with a pancake breakfast and free wifi.