Читать книгу The State of Determination - Aaron J. Nicholson - Страница 4

8/9/08

I awoke at my parents’ house at five thirty. It was the first time in my life I had ever been anything but annoyed when hearing an alarm clock. This time, I was actually excited. I exited the house and tossed my pack into the back of my father’s Jeep. We then began our half-day drive. Throughout the morning, my small doubts grew larger and larger. I had fully expected the undertaking to be difficult—perhaps the most difficult task of my life—but with a time buffer of several months or even just a few days until my departure, it had still seemed distant. Now, it was here. As the hours in the Jeep went by, my drop-off point getting ever nearer, I almost wanted to laugh at myself for even attempting such a feat.

I had not asked my father his opinion of the hike, but had merely informed him of my intentions. That particular morning, as my doubts began to get the best of me, I wondered what he thought of the whole thing. Did he think it was crazy? Probably. Was he worried about my safety? Almost certainly. And he’s right, I admitted to myself.

We stopped for lunch at a fast-food joint in Ashland. I knew it would be my last warm meal for a while, and I intentionally pigged out in order to store as many calories as possible. Flame-broiled ground beef is a great backpacking fuel.

Just south of Ashland, we exited Interstate 5 and progressed toward Mt. Ashland Ski Area. I had printed some internet maps of US Forest Service roads in the area, and I now had a pretty good idea of how to access the trail just a few miles north of the border so as to limit backtracking. As we distanced ourselves from the freeway, the road became quite rough. We bumped along, advancing very slowly. I had not expected the drive to take so long, and I began to worry that we had somehow taken the wrong Forest Service road. Just as I was ready to throw down my map in frustration, we spotted a Forest Service employee walking down the road. What he was doing there, by himself and with no vehicle, I could not imagine. But he did have an extensive knowledge of all the roads in the area, including their USFS numbers. He recited, from memory and without hesitation, the fastest way to get to Road 2025, and where that road would intersect the PCT. The California border, he explained, was only a quarter-mile south of this junction. We thanked him and followed his directions to the intersection. It seems that the internet, with its immeasurable amount of information, is still sometimes less useful than a few words of advice from an experienced individual.

We stopped near a signpost with a small plaque. “Pacific Crest Trail,” it said across the top, with “National Scenic Trail” in smaller lettering at the bottom. The middle of the plaque depicted a tree and some mountains—the trail’s official insignia. We had arrived. I unloaded my pack. After a few pictures, I thanked my father for the ride, hoisted up my pack, and turned south.

I descended for a bit, and soon encountered some obvious signage indicating important mileages. “WELCOME TO OREGON,” the south-facing sign began. It then went on to note that I-5 was 28 miles away, Hyatt Lake was 51, and the Washington border was a whopping 498 miles down the trail. This last piece of information was about forty miles more than I was expecting, and led me to question the reliability of my seven-year-old maps. Perhaps the route had changed recently. Perhaps the sign was way off. I had no way of knowing. Great.

I activated my SPOT GPS device and waited at the edge of a patch of manzanita as the apparatus worked its magic. The recipients of the emails were family and friends, as well as Mike Stahlberg, the Eugene Register-Guard outdoor columnist. They would all be getting an “all’s well” message and a Google Map indicating my location.

The communication session done, I proceeded to hike north on the PCT, back to the road and beyond. In the first three miles, I gained about 800 feet of elevation as I made my way into the Siskiyou Mountains. Though not a terribly steep climb, this test of my endurance was far more trying than I had expected. Eight hundred feet in three miles is no big deal—unless you’re burdened with a gigantic pack containing a month’s supply of food. I began to curse myself for not having hiked with it before I left civilization. Apart from a stroll around the block in Eugene, this weight was new to me. I soon became soaked in my own perspiration. Reaching a crest, I glanced to the south. Mt. Shasta loomed in the distance, its peak covered with snow. I wondered if I would encounter any snow on my route.

The trail rounded a large, dusty-crimson hill (appropriately denoted “Big Red Mountain” on my map) and then began to decline as I approached Siskiyou Gap. At first, I was thankful for the break from climbing, but thankfulness was soon replaced by well founded fear. My right knee began to ache with every step. This downhill segment made it hurt in exactly the same way I had experienced when descending from Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. What I had blamed on the sandals in my August 6 entry was apparently something else entirely. I did not know the cause of this pain, but I did know that it was getting progressively worse and could ultimately mean the end of the trip. If I could not hike one day without my joints threatening to fail me, how could I hike across the entire state? I reached a flat spot near a road (one of the roads by which we had arrived, I thought) and called it a day. I had only gone ten miles or so. My knee ached. I was disgusted by this turn of events. Writing in my journal for the evening, I weighed the pros and cons of continuing:

. . . I managed to pull off ten miles today, starting at noon . . . but by five o’clock it was clear that continuing farther today would be unwise. All I can do now is lie in my sleeping bag and hope the knee feels better in the morning. If it continues to get worse, I could depart the trail at I-5 (twenty miles away), but of course I’d rather not. There is a store on the highway where I could buy pain killers, but I am afraid that without the constant painful reminder that something is quite wrong with my knee, I would further injure it by overexerting myself in my chemical-induced numbness. Bad idea. Waiting for a few days is possible, but I don’t count on the knee being in any better shape after the rest period than it was when I began this hike only ten miles ago.

This makes me wonder if I really am as absurd as everyone said I was when I announced this project. Did I bite off more than I can chew? Am I really just an underprepared, underexperienced moron who cares more about achieving the impossible than about employing common sense? I’d like to think not, but so far I have no evidence to back that up. All I have is a pack that feels twice as heavy as any pack I’ve carried before and a bum knee. I’m really not a reckless person. Am I trying to prove something to myself, or to others? I feel like a teenager who just totaled his car in a street race a month after obtaining his driver’s license. No forethought, all unplanned action. I didn’t even bring any first aid. What the hell was I thinking? I’m a better planner than this.

I am now lying on my foam pad in my down sleeping bag waiting to go to sleep. I haven’t eaten since BK. It’s eight thirty. Do I really want to violate my food consumption schedule on Day One? That would be a great example of a lack of stick-to-itiveness. Then again, if I depart the trail early, I’ll have plenty of leftover food. In the morning I will continue walking. If I am in agony by the time I reach the freeway, I will not continue, and the trip will be over even before it has really begun. We’ll see tomorrow . . .

I’ve decided that the last ten miles of each day (assuming that this absurdity is allowed to continue) should be followed immediately by sleep, not food. It would be better to eat the one pound of food the next morning so that it can fuel my hiking instead of my sleeping. For this reason, I will deny myself the one pound of food I earned today until tomorrow morning. The BK was my last meal in civilization, and as I was not yet on the trail at the time, I do not consider it to be a violation of the food plan, which strictly prohibits the purchase of any food during this excursion. No berries either, not that I’ve seen any. The only thing I will take is water. We’ll see how long that resolution (and this entire hike) will last. Even as I write my knee is feeling better, but its condition tomorrow morning is what really matters.

8/10/08

When daylight broke, I woke up and immediately decided to go back to sleep. A bit lazy, I confess, but I had decided to ease into the hike until my body was used to the level of exertion that was required. Of course, I could have just trained at home so as to hit the ground running when the hike actually began—but no. As I said: lazy.

When I finally got up, I felt quite sore from the previous day’s hike, as well as from sleeping on the hard ground using a very mediocre pad (I should have sprung for a nicer one, but alas, I had been too cheap). I commenced eating breakfast. It was even more unappetizing than I had imagined.

As soon as I hefted my pack into position, I knew this day would be three times as difficult as yesterday. In addition to the increased mileage, the pack itself seemed even heavier and more cumbersome. My body groaned under the weight, and my sides ached where they contacted the pack’s hip belt. I tucked my thumbs under the shoulder straps in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure there. I already had bruises on my shoulders.

Yesterday’s burger long gone, it was now only my meager breakfast that was fuelling my efforts. That fact was evident in the first five yards of hiking: every foot of progress seemed to require twice the effort needed the previous day. The success of the whole endeavor would have seemed impossible had not my knee recovered so beautifully. I barely heard a peep out of it all morning, and it remained quiet as I passed many sloped meadows and treed hillsides. Apart from experiencing more exhaustion than before, things were looking up.

The day provided me two temptations. First, I encountered a cooler on the side of the trail. It had been placed on a high crest that had a great view. A handwritten sign indicated that its contents were intended for “long-distance PCT hikers.” A stern voice in my head warned me not to peer inside, lest the lure of tantalizing tasties should ruin the integrity of the entire mission. California to Washington on one pack! No restocking! Still, I was curious . . .

I lifted the lid. I saw unopened soda cans. All this could be mine, I thought. I looked around and beheld the panoramic view. I quickly slammed the lid shut and hoofed it down the trail. I had resisted the temptation, but the trial in the wilderness was far from over.

A few miles later, I came to Mt. Ashland Ski Area. The staff had installed a public water faucet for use by hikers. My hydration pouch was nearly dry, and I was a bit skeptical of the small creeklets which my map indicated were farther down the trail. For all I knew, they were merely seasonal trickles observed in months nearly the opposite of August. I realized that I had not actually decided on my stance toward improved water sources. True, it was just water, which I was gathering and drinking already. Then again, it somehow seemed like cheating to accept help from my fellow human beings in this way. I had hoped to traverse the whole state with no assistance. Did a faucet count as assistance? Difficult to say. I decided to forgo the opportunity to replenish water when I imagined myself in mental agony on the north bank of the Columbia River, at the end of the hike, trying to decide if I would have made it the whole way without using that accursed water spigot.

After Mt. Ashland, the going really got tough. The trail itself did not pose any huge difficulties, except for a gradual decline to Interstate 5—a feature that set off the knee again. It had been so peaceful most of the day, but now it was throwing a real tantrum. As I made my way toward the freeway, its moans gradually gave way to wailing and I had to stop for the evening. I was just west of I-5.

8/11/08

Day Three began with a five-mile march on no breakfast. As I had quit on the trip’s twenty-five-mile mark the previous day, it was necessary to hike five more miles before eating my next pound of food. I was tempted to eat the meal early, but decided against that course of action because it set a bad precedent. Departures from the food schedule, I decided, were very dangerous. I certainly did not want to find myself entering the Mt. Hood Wilderness with no food and several more days of hiking to do.

Shortly after setting out, I began to hear the traffic of the freeway. The trail’s descent continued, upsetting the knee. I began to force my right foot to land toe-first so I could use my ankle to lessen the impact on my knee. This tactic seemed to help.

After the decline, I was ejected onto a paved road that goes under the freeway. I had not been able to tell from my map exactly how I would be crossing I-5. I knew that Frontage Road was somehow involved, but I had imagined walking on a bridge over the traffic or possibly making a mad dash across the interstate, narrowly squeezing through an intentional gap in the median barrier.

A couple miles after the freeway, I had gone far enough to eat my first meal of the day. I stopped at a gate just after crossing a gravel road. I was ravenously hungry, but after the first few bites, I seemed to lose my appetite. The salty items, such as the cashews, were the most tolerable. The rest of it made me gag. I was really beginning to regret bringing the marshmallows and syrup. They were a chore to choke down, and the energy they provided consisted only of a short, sugary burst that lasted just a few miles.

The repulsive repast complete, I set out once more. I was nearing a landmark called Pilot Rock, which I could see to my right. This particular area was quite dry, and the heat of the day encouraged me to take long, quenching gulps from my hydration pouch. I just could not get enough of the refreshing, lukewarm water. I continued to hydrate, thinking I had plenty in reserve. Suddenly, the flow stopped. The drinking hose would emit no more water. The bladder was empty.

In a mild panic, I stopped to look at my map. The next water that intersected the trail was evidently fifteen miles away. I would have to hike off the trail to find water. The map indicated creeks in a few of the draws to my right and left, but I had no way of knowing whether they were dry this time of year. Now I was really worried. Glancing to the south, down a slope, I espied a patch of conspicuously green plants. I decided to explore it in hopes of finding a spring. Flinging down my pack, I left the trail. About ten minutes later, I spotted a tiny puddle gently overflowing into a small creek bed. A spring! I rejoiced as I hurriedly pumped water through my filter and into one of my bottles, stopping every five pumps or so to drink the contents of the bottle and start over again.

Once quenched, I assessed my situation. In my hurry, I had taken only my filter and one bottle, leaving my other water containers with my pack at the top of the ridge. I had been so concerned with getting something to drink now that all foresight had gone out the window. Stupid. After hiking back up to my pack, returning to the spring, filling all my containers, and then hiking to the trail once again, I had wasted about an hour and really upset the knee. Feeling ridiculous, I took up my pack and continued down the trail. If I encounter easy water within the next few miles, I thought to myself, I am going to be very angry.

Just a few minutes later, a dark-haired, bearded hiker approached from behind. He appeared to be in his early thirties. From his expensive-looking gear and his mountain-man appearance, I suspected that he was a through-hiker travelling from Mexico to Canada. He stopped to greet me.

“How far you headed?” he jovially inquired.

“Just to Washington,” I replied, still panting from my exertion. “Are you doing the whole thing?”

He responded in the affirmative, in a manner that seemed to suggest that walking 2650 miles is no big deal. “I’m Wombat,” he said, reaching for a friendly handshake.

“I’m Aaron,” I responded, feeling somewhat inadequate for lack of a trail name. Before this encounter, I’d always thought trail names were silly, but the instant respect commanded by Wombat’s impressive undertaking and his friendly demeanor led me to consider adopting one. (Greenhorn, perhaps? Tenderfoot?) Somehow, within just a few minutes of talking to him, this guy was my friend and my hero at the same time. I debated whether I should tell him of my one-pack goal.

“So you’re hiking the Oregon section, eh? When did you start?”

“Two days ago.”

“Well, you’re making good time,” he said. I could not tell if he was just trying to encourage me, or if he actually meant it. I had heard of through-hikers achieving forty-mile days, so my speed should have been anything but impressive to him.

“Thanks,” I said. Hesitating, I added: “I’ve got this crazy goal to hike all of Oregon without restocking food or supplies.”

“What?” he asked, reacting as though he must have misunderstood what I had said. “For the whole state? You mean you’re just buying stuff at stores without shipping food to yourself, right?”

“No, I’m carrying all my food and gear with me for the whole trip. I promised myself that I won’t restock anything.”

“No town stops?”

“Nope.”

“You’re saying you have all of your food in that pack right now?” he asked, pointing to my red backpack.

“That’s right.”

“How much does it weigh?”

“I started with fifty pounds of food. I just guessed my gear weight, but I think I’m carrying at least seventy-five pounds.”

“And you’re lugging that all the way to Washington? You’re more of a man than I am, that’s for sure.” This compliment was uplifting. “Well, if you find that it’s just too hard, you could always ship some of your food ahead when you reach Hyatt Lake Resort or Crater Lake.” I could sense that he had his doubts about my project.

“That would be cheating,” was my only response.

I hiked with Wombat for a bit. When I mentioned that day’s water crisis, he replied that there was a spring with a cistern coming right up. We soon came to it, and I was glad that I had not seen this improved water source in my state of extreme thirst. The temptation to use a man-made water-supplying device might have overpowered me. The cistern further increased my distrust in my maps, which made no note of it. A little later, in the vicinity of Soda Mountain, Wombat left me in the dust as I struggled up a small incline. I wondered if I would see him again.

I stopped for the night in a clearing near Soda Mountain Road. I had hiked about fifteen miles that day, but I felt much less exhausted in comparison to the first two days, and the knee had been manageable most of the time. I was optimistic. I was also very hungry. My thoughts turned to food.

It had occurred to me that I was carrying quite a bit of superfluous food. I had packed extra for the thirty miles of hiking south from Interstate 5 to the border—an additional distance that I did not end up traversing. I had also brought enough for a possible side trip up the South Sister, a trip I was now determined to skip in light of my sore knee. With enough extra food for forty miles—about four pounds—I could afford to splurge a bit. I decided that eating the surplus food in the first few days of the trip would be best, as it would lighten my load and provide me more energy at a time when my body was still not used to such intense exertion. After just a few minutes of performing these mental acrobatics to justify breaking my food schedule, I chowed down. Disgusting, of course—but filling nonetheless.

It was dark before I started to hang my pack in a nearby tree as a precaution against bears. On the first two evenings, this task had been done in daylight. Now, flashlight in mouth, I was struggling. I tied one end of my cord to my pack and the other to a stick, and then attempted at least ten times to throw the stick over a tree branch. When I finally got it, the stick dangled about twelve feet above the ground—just out of reach. I had to pull it down and select a lower branch. After another seven throws, the cord was over the lower branch and I began to hoist with all my might. I really wished that I had packed my food in a stuff sack so that didn’t have to hang the whole pack. Bad planning. When I finally tied off the end of the rope and inspected my work, I realized that even a medium-sized black bear could easily reach the pack from the trunk of the tree. I sighed and went to bed.

8/12/08

Breakfast was the first thing on my mind when I awoke next to Soda Mountain Road. I got my pack out of the tree (no bears!) and eagerly ate another pound of food. For some reason, the summer sausage was more repulsive than usual.

The scenery of my morning hike alternated between shady forests and warm, dry meadows. I noticed within the first few minutes of walking that my energy level was much better than before. I attributed this to going to bed with something in my stomach.

In the early afternoon, I stopped for lunch near a small reservoir. The dilapidated dam that held it at bay seemed almost ready to burst. Streams of water poured through obvious cracks. A strange system of pipes had been retrofitted to the structure, allowing some water to be siphoned to the other side of the dam instead of all of it pouring over the top. I guessed that these were intended to reduce the strain on the sorry device. If the dam ever failed, the ensuing flood would surely destroy the nice bridge that the PCT uses to cross the overflow stream.

After lunch, I was given some great views of Hyatt Lake. The trail wraps around the south and east sides of this body of water, but not very close to the shore. By virtue of my elevation and distance from the water, I was able to observe large portions of the lake at one time. I appreciated its scenic beauty and hoped that Howard Prairie Lake, my intended stopping point for the day, would be just as magnificent.

When I finally reached a good camp spot near Howard Prairie Lake and headed to the shore to wash clothes, I was very disappointed. The water was an ugly, brown, almost mud-like substance. I could not see my toes six inches below the surface. As I scrubbed the sweat out of my clothing, it was replaced by brown silt—only a slight improvement. When I tried to fill my hydration pouch, I had to stop twice to clean the filter element in my water pump.

I returned to my camp spot and ate dinner, thinking that I had made a full twenty miles that day. Rereading my map, I noticed during the last few bites of food that I had only gone eighteen miles. Oh, well.

Making sure to hang my pack before nightfall, I nestled down in my sleeping bag right at dusk and began to write in my journal by flashlight. I paused when I noticed two pairs of eyes staring at me in the dark. I could not tell what sort of creatures they belonged to. My thoughts turned to my poorly-hung pack, and I began to see prophetic images of the thing lying in the morning sunlight, torn to shreds. To acquire peace of mind, I flashed the light in the direction of my nighttime observers. The eyes turned away and flitted into the bushes, and in the moonlight I saw the white rumps of two blacktail deer.

8/13/08

I awoke feeling very refreshed. Going to bed on a full stomach probably had something to do with that. As the sun climbed in the sky and the temperature rose, I consumed my breakfast with great haste. I wanted to make some serious miles, and I knew that my surprisingly high energy level would not be enough to achieve that. I would need to get an earlier start.

Much of my day was spent hiking in forested areas. I was glad that I could be in the shade, as the day proved to be even warmer than I had expected. I stopped for lunch at a highway that my map referred to as “Dead Indian Road.” Despite the unpleasant name, the area was quite charming. Shortly after this road, I passed a camping shelter with a hand-operated water pump. I briefly debated in my mind whether this pump counted as a developed water source. True, the water flowed through a man-made device, but I had to use my own effort to obtain it. What a dilemma. Although I was nearly out of water, I decided to skip the pump in favor of replenishing at a stream depicted on my map. I would only have to walk a mile or so. I headed down the trail.

What I found when I arrived at the stream was nothing but a dry bed. Vexed and thirsty, I continued hiking, making for another stream not far off. I soon discovered that it, too, was dry. The next known water source was about seven miles away. I was not looking forward to hiking that distance with nothing to drink, but I cringed when I thought of the inefficiency of backtracking to the pump. I pressed on.

Advancing through the trees, I scanned my surroundings for any sign of water. The vegetation was all green here—a spring would not be marked by a color variation like the one I saw in the drier region near Pilot Rock. Just as my mouth started to become parched, I spotted a ditch to the left of the trail. Squatting down to peer into it, all I saw were broken sticks and forest clover. As I stood up again, preparing to move on, I thought I caught a glimpse of something reflective. Taking a closer look, I spotted a tiny trickle under the debris in the ditch, the product of a small, obscured spring that surfaced about a yard from the trail. I celebrated as I unpacked my water filter.

The next big landmark on the trail would be Brown Mountain. I could tell it would be somewhat large, because its image on my topo map occupied about half of the map’s surface area. Judging by the contour lines, it looked to be almost perfectly conical (and probably brown). As I came nearer to it, I noticed that it was largely covered by lava rock. The trail circumscribes the mountain at the base of its western face, and as I walked around it I crossed many large lava flows. I was impressed by how the trail retained its definition in these flows—the rocks below my feet had been firmly packed together to form an obvious track. I was very appreciative of the trail volunteers who had spent many hours moving the igneous stones.

The PCT began to descend a gentle downgrade. I was nearing my intended stopping place, Highway 140. This downhill segment caused the knee to begin whining, and by the time I reached the highway (twenty-three miles from my last camp) it was very sore. What had been a great day would now end on a sour note.

I walked across the pavement and found a small clearing by a stream. I would once again be hanging my pack in the dark, in manner humorous to any bear that saw it.

8/14/08

The noisy semi trucks on nearby Highway 140 could do nothing to prevent a sound sleep. After twenty-three miles, I was out like a light as soon as I rested my head on my right boot—my makeshift pillow. The next morning I rose with plenty of energy, eager to approach the majestic Mt. McLoughlin.

The first five miles of the day were uphill. I trudged for about two hours without stopping. The PCT eventually met the Mt. McLoughlin trail, which starts at Lake of the Woods and proceeds to the northwest until it reaches the summit of the mountain. Staring at my map with some confusion, I decided to turn right at the junction, thinking I was following the PCT. After a pleasant ten-minute descent (with no knee ache!), I realized that I was headed for Lake of the Woods via the Mt. McLoughlin trail. Apparently, the PCT and this other trail run in conjunction for a short while before diverging into separate paths once more. This, along with my poor sense of direction, had led me down the wrong track. Miffed by the waste of time, I burned many precious calories making my way back up the slope.

Finding the PCT once more, I continued on my northbound trek. As I drained the last few ounces of water that remained after the morning’s strenuous uphill climb, I decided to take a side trail to Squaw Lake to refill. This proved to be a longer diversion than I was expecting. As I made my way down the side trail, I began to wonder if I had taken a wrong turn. Finally, Squaw Lake appeared through the trees and I was reassured. I sat down and began briskly pumping my filter, the water pouch placed between my knees to catch every drop. To my alarm, the pump was not drawing any water and offered frighteningly little resistance to my pumping efforts. Something was awry.

Afraid that this could mean the end of the journey, I hurriedly disassembled the device so that I could troubleshoot. Using the pump lever with the filter element removed, I perceived that the rubber reed valve at the base of the pump assembly was not seating properly, causing it to suck air. How this had come to malfunction, I could only guess. I suspected that my habit of pumping the unit dry to save weight while hiking might have been the cause. I’d previously noticed that doing this created a strong vacuum in the filter housing, where typically there should be only pressure.

Having diagnosed the problem, I tried to deduce how to remedy the situation. I submerged the entire pump, minus the filter and housing, under the surface of the lake. I pumped several times, not really sure if this approach would help. Removing the device from the water and reattaching the filter assembly, I tried once more to procure clean water. When I felt the pump provide the familiar amount of resistance and saw pure water trickle from the unit’s output, I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen again, I thought.