Getting a ride back to the trail via fire truck was definitely a first for me, but hey, that's Wrightwood for you. A trail angel and retired firefighter I stayed with named Leroy drove me back in his vintage, pickup-sized fire truck with bells and all and we parted ways. My mission was to catch up to Rambo and Mcflurry, who opted to camp near the trail last night to get an early start. Fueled by a wonderful trail angel breakfast, I wizzed up to the summit of 9,400 foot Mt. Baden-Powell where throngs of day hikers and boy scouts awaited me. They saw me as sort of a novelty for attempting the entire PCT, which made feel like king of the hikers for a bit. However, the next section followed a ridgeline, which brought constant up and down and some tough terrain. I slogged over to the next water source and made my way through a crowd of boy scouts to meet back up with my friends.
A couple miles of trail ahead of us were closed due to the endangered mountain yellow-legged frog breeding there, so we let the lovers be and took the reroute along the Angeles Crest Highway. Motorcyclists and sport cars howled by until we came to a campground near the PCT, where we were greeted by a former thru-hiker weekend tripping with his four year old son. He cooked us up some bratwurst while his son quizzically looked at our packs and gear. Yes kid, things can get that dirty. After great food and conversation, we went a little ways to set up camp, where I noticed my feet had gotten quite bruised by all of that road walking. I looked forward to walking on cushy trail from now on.
The next day brought hot weather and a very drawn out ascent in a burned area with no shade (I guess Leroy can't get them all), but that wasn't what we were worried about. We learned of a plant called Poodle Dog Bush that often grows in burned areas. It can cause a rash when brushed up against, and we heard reports that it was growing close to the trail. We spent the day mentally blocking out the heat while keeping our wits about us enough to avoid the poodle dog bush. We got to a fire station where we filled up for an 18 mile stretch without water the next day, making our packs significantly heavier. To conserve water, we cooked dinner before heading two more miles to our campsite, but the wind in the valley kept trying to blow our stoves out. Whatever, I don't mind my ramen with a little bit of crunch.
The next day was even hotter than the previous day, so we took a three hour long siesta before we started hiking again. Since there was a campground with a snack bar eight miles ahead, we made good pace motivated by pints of cold ice cream. Many other thru-hikers seemed to be cooling off as well, especially a guy who had accidentally dropped one of his liters of water down a hill. I definitely wouldn't want to be in that situation during a hot day such as this. Since the campground sat right near train tracks that brought commuter trains to and from LA, we got poor sleep. But that didn't worry us much, because the next day, we were headed into Agua Dulce where we would go to Hiker Heaven.
No, we haven't died, at least not yet. This establishment is perfectly engineered to serve the needs of a thru-hiker, offering showers, laundry (with loaner clothes), wifi, gear repair, and most importantly, places to get out of the heat. I had fun relaxing and hanging out with other hikers, until I downloaded the latest water report. Just when I thought the desert would be over soon, I saw that one hundred miles ahead of us lay the driest section of the PCT. It would require thru-hikers to carry up to five liters of water at a time (eleven pounds!!) and would force us to get up extremely early in the morning to beat the heat. Basically, we're destined to be overburdened, sleep deprived zombies, a real fun way to hike for sure. I dreaded the thought of hiking that section so much that it made me sick to my stomach. That morning, I walked into heaven, but I left with a vision of hell. I hiked the next day on the fence about my thru-hike, wondering if there was any good that could outweight the horrible section to come.
Later that day, we arrived at a trail angels house that they called Casa de Luna, which felt very akin to an AT hangout spot. I was suddenly flooded with memories of the AT, good times and bad. Then it hit me: no matter how many bad moments I had on the AT, there was always without fail a good moment right around the corner. I started feeling more hopeful as the day went by, and I decided to focus on how magnificent and wet the high sierras and the rest of the trail will be. We thru-hikers all gorged on a nacho bar and had great conversation before passing out for the night. I believe that every thru-hike has a turning point, something that steers it in the right direction and gives confidence that things will work out for the better. I hope my time at Casa de Luna was just that.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Reunions and Rambunctious Times
While in the town of Big Bear Lake, I invited my friend Yankee from the AT to stop by our hotel room because he was in the area. We caught up, and Rambo joined us in reminiscing over how much wetter and steeper the AT was compared to the PCT. To be honest, I have trouble answering when first time thru-hikers ask me which trail I like better, because they each have their own good and bad. The next day though, we got to share in a beloved AT tradition. Yankee slack packed us for 20 miles, meeting us with our stuff and a big sub sandwich at a forest road crossing.
We woke up the next morning to frost on our tents, and we said goodbye to Yankee, who was just waking up comfortably from inside the customized cab of his truck. Filled with climbing gear, he'll be heading up to Mammoth Lakes, CA to climb all summer long. I hope I can meet up with him again in the Sierras, weather permitting. I have to say that this morning didn't surprise me, as I've felt at least a couple gusts of cold wind whipping across the trail each day. I like to tell thru-hikers who have also done the AT that California is warm just like Virginia is flat: in that it mostly isn't. I would've never guessed southern CA would be this cold, but I'm managing. I'm hoping that this is just spring mode and that the higher Sierras will be in summer mode by the time I enter them.
Later that day, we stopped by some hot springs near the trail to take a dip, being careful not to let our heads go underwater due to supposed brain eating amoeba. I was able to reunite with two other guys i had met on the AT who were also hiking the PCT. We caught up and got pictures, which we would send to fellow hiker trash as nostalgia. After warming up and soothing our sore muscles, we air dried before continuing on a bit more because none of us had brought towels. Something I've noticed about PCT hikers is that nearly all of them start the trail prepared, as opposed to the AT where some hikers carry unnecessary and cumbersome gear for weeks. Though I would say towns are about as commonly found at the beginning of both trails, it seems like PCT thru-hikers have more risk to mitigate, which requires then to be smart about their gear. However, they still need to develop their trail legs like AT thru-hikers. Maybe that's why my group has been cruising.
The next day took us near a picnic area with a pavilion, where we saw a group of hikers enjoying a pizza that they had delivered. While Rambo and Shannon decided to hike late into the day to get to a McDonald's near the trail, I decided to camp a bit before it. Eventually, the pizza group mustered up the energy to hike and camped with me. They were very appreciative of my ukelele playing, and there was great conversation that night. I got to the McDonald's the next morning, where I learned that what we thought was a 22 mile stretch without water was actually a 27 mile stretch according to the most recent water report. Since 20 of those miles ascended over five thousand feet and my right achilles tendon was starting to bother me, I opted to hitch ahead, do that section southbound (and thankfully downhill), and meet my friends in Wrightwood when we were all done.
Though it was a pretty tough hitch from just off Interstate 15 where the McDonald's was, I easily got a hitch from Wrightwood further along on trail. I enjoyed doing the section downhill so that I didn't need to carry as much water and I could go easy on my Achilles tendon, but I confused many hikers who saw me going southbound. The next morning, I did 5 more miles back to the McDonald's and hitched back into Wrightwood, where I stayed with a trail angel who had worked as a wilderness firefighter for 40 years. After seeing all the fire damage on the PCT and thinking how much worse it could be, I thanked him for his service. I then realized I had accidentally left a pair of socks at my campsite last night, but he had a pair that a hiker didn't want anymore (cleaned of course). I met up with Rambo and shannon and enjoyed the town or Wrightwood the wright way by gorging on mexican food.
We woke up the next morning to frost on our tents, and we said goodbye to Yankee, who was just waking up comfortably from inside the customized cab of his truck. Filled with climbing gear, he'll be heading up to Mammoth Lakes, CA to climb all summer long. I hope I can meet up with him again in the Sierras, weather permitting. I have to say that this morning didn't surprise me, as I've felt at least a couple gusts of cold wind whipping across the trail each day. I like to tell thru-hikers who have also done the AT that California is warm just like Virginia is flat: in that it mostly isn't. I would've never guessed southern CA would be this cold, but I'm managing. I'm hoping that this is just spring mode and that the higher Sierras will be in summer mode by the time I enter them.
Later that day, we stopped by some hot springs near the trail to take a dip, being careful not to let our heads go underwater due to supposed brain eating amoeba. I was able to reunite with two other guys i had met on the AT who were also hiking the PCT. We caught up and got pictures, which we would send to fellow hiker trash as nostalgia. After warming up and soothing our sore muscles, we air dried before continuing on a bit more because none of us had brought towels. Something I've noticed about PCT hikers is that nearly all of them start the trail prepared, as opposed to the AT where some hikers carry unnecessary and cumbersome gear for weeks. Though I would say towns are about as commonly found at the beginning of both trails, it seems like PCT thru-hikers have more risk to mitigate, which requires then to be smart about their gear. However, they still need to develop their trail legs like AT thru-hikers. Maybe that's why my group has been cruising.
The next day took us near a picnic area with a pavilion, where we saw a group of hikers enjoying a pizza that they had delivered. While Rambo and Shannon decided to hike late into the day to get to a McDonald's near the trail, I decided to camp a bit before it. Eventually, the pizza group mustered up the energy to hike and camped with me. They were very appreciative of my ukelele playing, and there was great conversation that night. I got to the McDonald's the next morning, where I learned that what we thought was a 22 mile stretch without water was actually a 27 mile stretch according to the most recent water report. Since 20 of those miles ascended over five thousand feet and my right achilles tendon was starting to bother me, I opted to hitch ahead, do that section southbound (and thankfully downhill), and meet my friends in Wrightwood when we were all done.
Though it was a pretty tough hitch from just off Interstate 15 where the McDonald's was, I easily got a hitch from Wrightwood further along on trail. I enjoyed doing the section downhill so that I didn't need to carry as much water and I could go easy on my Achilles tendon, but I confused many hikers who saw me going southbound. The next morning, I did 5 more miles back to the McDonald's and hitched back into Wrightwood, where I stayed with a trail angel who had worked as a wilderness firefighter for 40 years. After seeing all the fire damage on the PCT and thinking how much worse it could be, I thanked him for his service. I then realized I had accidentally left a pair of socks at my campsite last night, but he had a pair that a hiker didn't want anymore (cleaned of course). I met up with Rambo and shannon and enjoyed the town or Wrightwood the wright way by gorging on mexican food.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Trial by Fire Closure
Rambo, Kate, Shannon and I each finished a football-sized breakfast burrito and then got a hitch into Idyllwild for our hard earned zero day. We were picked up by a cheery woman named Diane, who regaled us with a story of her and her sister being stalked by a mountain lion during an evening hike in the area. So far on our trip, we've encountered beetles, gnats, squirrels, and even a rattlesnake, who gave us plenty of warning of his presence. As improbable as it may be though, we each had mixed feelings about encountering a mountain lion. As for me, I debated carrying cat nip for a worst case scenario.
After replenishing lost calories and relaxing in Idyllwild, we hiked back up to the ridge to rejoin the PCT. Before us lay the highest peak in southern California, the majestic and still snow-covered San Jacinto Peak. Rambo and Kate were intent on making the 3 mile side trip up to the summit, but since I knew of a long stretch without water immediately after that I didn't want to camp in, I was on the fence. The sky was getting hazy, we would be receiving many more views on the PCT itself. I got about a third of the way up and decided not to tire myself out before clearing the waterless stretch.
The San Jacinto ridge presented a different kind of forest from the typical sage brush, yucca, cacti, and other prickly bushes that we had been used to seeing. We found ourselves surrounded by enormous ponderosa pines with trunks the width of queen size beds and firs that let off an aroma similar to what I've become used to in the northeast. I liked being up here, but eventually it was time to descend back to the desert biome. And descend we did, as we lost nearly seven thousand feet by the end of the day. We gradually switchbacked our way down, and I was starting to miss the quick and straight descents I've also become used to in the northeast.
The next couple of days presented us a problem: there was a 16 mile fire closure that PCT hikers could hike through, but could not camp due to the risk of a dead tree blowing over onto an unsuspecting hikers tent. The closure began 30 miles from our second day, meaning we had to either do two short days right up to the closure, or two long days to clear it. In this game of skill, we opted to do two long days cause we felt we could do it. Well, here goes nothing. Our first day started with a trail magic breakfast of cinnamon buns and root beer floats, which propelled us up the windy ridge and down to a wide, rocky river bed which proved difficult to follow the trail up through.
The second day immediately started with a posterior-kicking incline up to a ridge, which we followed for the rest of the day. Back among the ponderosa pines and firs, we stopped for a break and saw our first "horseback hiker" doing a section of the PCT. So that explains the intermittent piles of poop along this trail. Because Shannon was starting to develop shin splints, she hitched into the nearest town to rest up. At the end of the day, the rest of us came across a metal box filled with soda and oreo packets, which was a great way to celebrate the end of the fire closure. We pumped out miles the next morning to a road crossing and hitched into Big Bear Lake to meet up with Shannon and call our mothers. After all, who else would be rightfully nervous of us hiking from Mexico to Canada and encountering mountain lions?
After replenishing lost calories and relaxing in Idyllwild, we hiked back up to the ridge to rejoin the PCT. Before us lay the highest peak in southern California, the majestic and still snow-covered San Jacinto Peak. Rambo and Kate were intent on making the 3 mile side trip up to the summit, but since I knew of a long stretch without water immediately after that I didn't want to camp in, I was on the fence. The sky was getting hazy, we would be receiving many more views on the PCT itself. I got about a third of the way up and decided not to tire myself out before clearing the waterless stretch.
The San Jacinto ridge presented a different kind of forest from the typical sage brush, yucca, cacti, and other prickly bushes that we had been used to seeing. We found ourselves surrounded by enormous ponderosa pines with trunks the width of queen size beds and firs that let off an aroma similar to what I've become used to in the northeast. I liked being up here, but eventually it was time to descend back to the desert biome. And descend we did, as we lost nearly seven thousand feet by the end of the day. We gradually switchbacked our way down, and I was starting to miss the quick and straight descents I've also become used to in the northeast.
The next couple of days presented us a problem: there was a 16 mile fire closure that PCT hikers could hike through, but could not camp due to the risk of a dead tree blowing over onto an unsuspecting hikers tent. The closure began 30 miles from our second day, meaning we had to either do two short days right up to the closure, or two long days to clear it. In this game of skill, we opted to do two long days cause we felt we could do it. Well, here goes nothing. Our first day started with a trail magic breakfast of cinnamon buns and root beer floats, which propelled us up the windy ridge and down to a wide, rocky river bed which proved difficult to follow the trail up through.
The second day immediately started with a posterior-kicking incline up to a ridge, which we followed for the rest of the day. Back among the ponderosa pines and firs, we stopped for a break and saw our first "horseback hiker" doing a section of the PCT. So that explains the intermittent piles of poop along this trail. Because Shannon was starting to develop shin splints, she hitched into the nearest town to rest up. At the end of the day, the rest of us came across a metal box filled with soda and oreo packets, which was a great way to celebrate the end of the fire closure. We pumped out miles the next morning to a road crossing and hitched into Big Bear Lake to meet up with Shannon and call our mothers. After all, who else would be rightfully nervous of us hiking from Mexico to Canada and encountering mountain lions?
Monday, May 15, 2017
Dust in the Wind
After a delightful time eating and chatting with other hikers at Carmens in Julian, I got a hitch back to the trail with a man and his 3 year old daughter. They were going for an evening hike, and they were the most adorable hiking duo ever. As it was my first time in a while interacting with kids, I asked the ever famous "what do you want to be when you grow up?" When she replied with wanting to be a PCT thru-hiker, I realized my heart was the only thing that hadn't melted in the desert earlier that day. The father, who is a meteorologist, told me in detail about the high winds and rain expected for the next few days. I guess this trail is intent on showing us its full personality right off the bat.
The duo dropped me off back at the trail, and a couple hikers and I went full troll and set our tents up under a bridge. None of us could've been prepared for the fierce wind that night, as it blew some of our tents violently side to side and in some cases even dismantled them. I was lucky to have my tent stay up, but we all woke up covered with a layer of dust. We literally shook the dust off of ourselves, and like a crew of skinny coal miners, we began our day up the next ridge. By the afternoon though, it had started to drizzle a bit. I was just glad we didnt have to slog straight up mountains like we so often had to on the AT. Since the PCT is graded for horseback travel, the trail goes up and down moutains very gradually, which is great for going up but a little infuriating when it takes takes forever to get dowm. Right before I had planned to camp, I discovered a man made cave big enough for one person, so I hunkered down with a book I picked up in Julian and made it my home for the night. I just hope the hiker community doesn't start calling me bear or something, as I don't think I'll be finding more caves or growing enough body hair to fulfill the name.
After a wonderful nights rest, I awoke to snow flurries which turned into steady rain as I hiked off the ridge. I had planned on doing a short 13 mile day into Warner Springs (perspective is an amazing thing, isn't it?), and was greeted by what must've been 30 hikers crammed into their community center. Much like an army mess hall, people were sharing stories of survival, playing cards, and dressing blisters. I took this opportunity to give my feet an Epsom salt bath and disinfect them real well, to the relief of some squeamish hikers who saw my blisters. I reassured them that they don't feel as bad as they looked, and I realized that many times this hike I've faced things with a "could be worse" mentality. I guess having already done a long distance trail gives you a strong sense of perspective indeed.
At the community center, I mostly hung out with Rambo (who had thru-hiked the AT last year), Kate from Portland, and Shannon from Idaho. Rambo and I struggled to find trail names for them, instead opting for a crazy scenario in the future to present the perfect name. The 4 of us decided to rent a cabin for a night in Idyllwild, which was 2 days away and nestled up near the San Jacinto ridge. We also learned of a fire closure south of town on the ridge, and since the reroute involved mostly road walking, we decided to forgo that misery and rejoin the PCT by hiking up to the ridge out of town. All in all, we will probably end up skipping about 20 miles of trail, but we unanimously agreed that it beats road walking.
We hiked from Warner Springs to a piece of property off the grid called Mikes place, owned by a trail angel. Though Mike is only present during the weekends, we still got to spend time with his friend Josh, who grilled some chicken for us hungry hikers and let us camp in the yard. He showed us some of te classic cars that he and Mike have been trying to fix up, and I of course let him sign my hat. The next day, Rambo, Kate, Shannon and I hiked 25 miles to get to the road crossing to Idyllwild, and we camped right next to a restaurant a little ways down the road. We planned on hitting it up in the morning to start our true zero day. We were disappointed to learn that the building didnt have a spigot, ao we rationed our water that night. On the plus side though, I realized my blisters were almost all healed up. The zero day tomorrow should bring me back to 100%.
The duo dropped me off back at the trail, and a couple hikers and I went full troll and set our tents up under a bridge. None of us could've been prepared for the fierce wind that night, as it blew some of our tents violently side to side and in some cases even dismantled them. I was lucky to have my tent stay up, but we all woke up covered with a layer of dust. We literally shook the dust off of ourselves, and like a crew of skinny coal miners, we began our day up the next ridge. By the afternoon though, it had started to drizzle a bit. I was just glad we didnt have to slog straight up mountains like we so often had to on the AT. Since the PCT is graded for horseback travel, the trail goes up and down moutains very gradually, which is great for going up but a little infuriating when it takes takes forever to get dowm. Right before I had planned to camp, I discovered a man made cave big enough for one person, so I hunkered down with a book I picked up in Julian and made it my home for the night. I just hope the hiker community doesn't start calling me bear or something, as I don't think I'll be finding more caves or growing enough body hair to fulfill the name.
After a wonderful nights rest, I awoke to snow flurries which turned into steady rain as I hiked off the ridge. I had planned on doing a short 13 mile day into Warner Springs (perspective is an amazing thing, isn't it?), and was greeted by what must've been 30 hikers crammed into their community center. Much like an army mess hall, people were sharing stories of survival, playing cards, and dressing blisters. I took this opportunity to give my feet an Epsom salt bath and disinfect them real well, to the relief of some squeamish hikers who saw my blisters. I reassured them that they don't feel as bad as they looked, and I realized that many times this hike I've faced things with a "could be worse" mentality. I guess having already done a long distance trail gives you a strong sense of perspective indeed.
At the community center, I mostly hung out with Rambo (who had thru-hiked the AT last year), Kate from Portland, and Shannon from Idaho. Rambo and I struggled to find trail names for them, instead opting for a crazy scenario in the future to present the perfect name. The 4 of us decided to rent a cabin for a night in Idyllwild, which was 2 days away and nestled up near the San Jacinto ridge. We also learned of a fire closure south of town on the ridge, and since the reroute involved mostly road walking, we decided to forgo that misery and rejoin the PCT by hiking up to the ridge out of town. All in all, we will probably end up skipping about 20 miles of trail, but we unanimously agreed that it beats road walking.
We hiked from Warner Springs to a piece of property off the grid called Mikes place, owned by a trail angel. Though Mike is only present during the weekends, we still got to spend time with his friend Josh, who grilled some chicken for us hungry hikers and let us camp in the yard. He showed us some of te classic cars that he and Mike have been trying to fix up, and I of course let him sign my hat. The next day, Rambo, Kate, Shannon and I hiked 25 miles to get to the road crossing to Idyllwild, and we camped right next to a restaurant a little ways down the road. We planned on hitting it up in the morning to start our true zero day. We were disappointed to learn that the building didnt have a spigot, ao we rationed our water that night. On the plus side though, I realized my blisters were almost all healed up. The zero day tomorrow should bring me back to 100%.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
PCT: It Begins
85 degrees in Campo tomorrow. That's what trail angel Bob Reiss ominously kept telling me as he brought me from the San Diego airport to his house just outside the city. Arriving at his house, I met four other hikers meticulously reconfiguring and weighing their packs in nervous anticipation. I remembered the feeling as I got close to starting the AT, but as a seasoned backpacker, I felt confident in my setup. After a restless night of sleep, a 4:30 AM departure, and an hour and a half drive to the southern terminus near Campo, CA, we took giddy photos of ourselves at the famous monument and took our first steps on PCT. But first, I had Bob sign my large sun hat, which I hope to have covered with trail angel signatures by the end of my trip. They make these long distance trails a more pleasant and interesting experience, and I look forward to having something to remember them by.
Our first day started leisurely, with most of us hiking in a group stopping frequently for sips of water and pictures of the desert landscape. The granite rock formations and the spiky arid plants made me think of a landscape conjured up by Dr. Seuss. This start could not be more different from the AT, but I enjoyed it just as much. As it got close to noon, most of us hikers were eager to find some shade and relax until it got cooler, a practice which is very common on the PCT during hot weather days. Though it gets pretty hot in the sun, there is almost always a gentle cool breeze, which still made me fortunate to be in the desert rather than a hot and humid environment. Our first day ended after 20 miles at Lake Morena Campground, which had a general store nearby where we could top off much needed electrolytes with ice cold gatorade. We sat for a while talking to a guy who was showing off some skin from a rattlesnake he caught earlier that day and listening to stories of his father's small roles in a couple of western movies and hearing him brashly joke with the waitstaff and...................
Blisters. Making feet painfully tender to walk on, and agonizing to put into shoes before the ibuprofen and morning adrenalin kick in. I personally didn't have much problems with blisters on the AT, but the heat and penetrating sand of the PCT destroyed my feet after day one. I'm wearing the same shoes I did on the AT because they fit my feet well, but there was no way I could prepare my feet for the heat and sand. For a couple of days, it was very frustrating to have the motivation and stamina to hike, only to have my blisters be the limiting factor. The most I could do was pop them in as sterile of a manner as possible, wrap them in tape, soak my feet in Epsom salt baths, and prevent infection with antibacterial cream and prayer.
The third day brought my first PCT trail magic of pb&j sandwiches and cold fresh fruit, which really hit the spot in the desert. At the end of the day, I found a camping spot next to a water tank meant for hikers as well as horses, and I met two Canadian girls seeing how far they could get, a guy with a smooth baritone voice appropriately named Radio, a guy who hiked the AT last year named Rambo, a girl carrying a substantial bottle of hot sauce, and many other characters. We watched the sun set over the wide open pasture, and got up early the next morning to get into the town of Julian before it got too hot. A couple of miles along the scrubby desert floor and thoughts of cold lemonade got me to the road crossing, where I got a hitch from someone who regularly fills the water cache near the road. Since he does such an important service to hikers, I gladly let him sign my hat.
As I got into Julian, I followed the stench of other hikers and the aroma of freshly cooked burgers to an establishment called Carmans. With a petite figure and motherly demeanor, the owner welcomes hikers to hang out on the porch of her restaurant which is currently being renovated. I had a great time talking with her and getting to know more hikers. I noticed that many pct hikers are from the west coast and that this is their first long distance hike, so the reality of me having already done the AT attracted some attention. From how I got my trail name to how the two trails compare and contrast, I enjoyed answering questions and figuring out potential trail names for some fresh thru-hikers. I've noticed that the age range of people on the PCT is very similar to that of the AT, but regardless of age, people tend to have around the same quality of gear. Much different than seeing some people begin the AT with 50+lb packs. But perhaps the pct has a smallet margin of error.....
Our first day started leisurely, with most of us hiking in a group stopping frequently for sips of water and pictures of the desert landscape. The granite rock formations and the spiky arid plants made me think of a landscape conjured up by Dr. Seuss. This start could not be more different from the AT, but I enjoyed it just as much. As it got close to noon, most of us hikers were eager to find some shade and relax until it got cooler, a practice which is very common on the PCT during hot weather days. Though it gets pretty hot in the sun, there is almost always a gentle cool breeze, which still made me fortunate to be in the desert rather than a hot and humid environment. Our first day ended after 20 miles at Lake Morena Campground, which had a general store nearby where we could top off much needed electrolytes with ice cold gatorade. We sat for a while talking to a guy who was showing off some skin from a rattlesnake he caught earlier that day and listening to stories of his father's small roles in a couple of western movies and hearing him brashly joke with the waitstaff and...................
Blisters. Making feet painfully tender to walk on, and agonizing to put into shoes before the ibuprofen and morning adrenalin kick in. I personally didn't have much problems with blisters on the AT, but the heat and penetrating sand of the PCT destroyed my feet after day one. I'm wearing the same shoes I did on the AT because they fit my feet well, but there was no way I could prepare my feet for the heat and sand. For a couple of days, it was very frustrating to have the motivation and stamina to hike, only to have my blisters be the limiting factor. The most I could do was pop them in as sterile of a manner as possible, wrap them in tape, soak my feet in Epsom salt baths, and prevent infection with antibacterial cream and prayer.
The third day brought my first PCT trail magic of pb&j sandwiches and cold fresh fruit, which really hit the spot in the desert. At the end of the day, I found a camping spot next to a water tank meant for hikers as well as horses, and I met two Canadian girls seeing how far they could get, a guy with a smooth baritone voice appropriately named Radio, a guy who hiked the AT last year named Rambo, a girl carrying a substantial bottle of hot sauce, and many other characters. We watched the sun set over the wide open pasture, and got up early the next morning to get into the town of Julian before it got too hot. A couple of miles along the scrubby desert floor and thoughts of cold lemonade got me to the road crossing, where I got a hitch from someone who regularly fills the water cache near the road. Since he does such an important service to hikers, I gladly let him sign my hat.
As I got into Julian, I followed the stench of other hikers and the aroma of freshly cooked burgers to an establishment called Carmans. With a petite figure and motherly demeanor, the owner welcomes hikers to hang out on the porch of her restaurant which is currently being renovated. I had a great time talking with her and getting to know more hikers. I noticed that many pct hikers are from the west coast and that this is their first long distance hike, so the reality of me having already done the AT attracted some attention. From how I got my trail name to how the two trails compare and contrast, I enjoyed answering questions and figuring out potential trail names for some fresh thru-hikers. I've noticed that the age range of people on the PCT is very similar to that of the AT, but regardless of age, people tend to have around the same quality of gear. Much different than seeing some people begin the AT with 50+lb packs. But perhaps the pct has a smallet margin of error.....
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Maine to Finish
My time in Maine ended the same way it began. Tears were shed, the dazzling scenery which we found ourselves in momentarily eclipsed our pain, and I wondered if this really was the end while not giving much thought to what was after. The state of Maine begins with the revered-but-often-feared Mahoosuc Range, bombarding the thru-hiker with deceptively abrupt ups and downs, rocky terrain which made our walking style resemble an awkward prom dance, and steep pitches that demanded the use of our arms as much as our trail-worn legs. Every mile of this stretch seemed to require the effort of 2 or even 3 miles found in the south, shortening our pace to no more than 10 miles a day (a far cry from the 20 mile days earlier on in the trip). The epicenter known as the Mahoosuc Notch, where the trail snakes through a pit of car-sized boulders, is widely regarded as "the most difficult or fun mile of the AT". Right afterwards, the Mahoosuc Arm sends hikers about 1600 feet up root ladders and eventually bare rock in less than a mile.
But big effort reaps big reward: much of this section is above treeline, and we got sweeping views in all directions, starting from the alpine meadows around us to the gnarly spruces on the perimeter all the way to the morning sun-tinted mountains on the horizon. From a makeshift campsite right on the New Hampshire-Maine border (yesterday's goal was to do 17 miles into Maine, and I was far too tired to find a real campsite after the border), Seinfeld had entered hiker euphoria: dense fairy tale-like forest on each side which made the trail feel like a magical and undeserved safe haven, sharp peaks rising like church steeples and valleys like nestled town squares to contrast, and a total lack of human influence all around. It was only me and the mountains. Like a fly fixated on top of a roaming elephant, my surroundings seemed to propel me forward as to reward me for my toil. Me and the wilderness were at a stalemate, and with each step I earned its worth, a fair trade leading to ultimate satisfaction. The only other comparison would be leading traffic on Broadway and timing the lights perfectly. For the first time on my trip, the goal of finishing (even on the day's level) was irrelevant, as each mountain and meadow was a gift that never spoiled or became dull before the next one arrived. It was excruciating, numbing, stunningly beautiful--it was and is the purest reason why I hike.
After finishing the Mahoosucs, me and some other hikers I had hiked with before decided to hitch into town and resupply. There we met a rafting instructor named Spencer, who chatted with us about hiking in Maine and invited us to his lake house for a barbecue. We talked and played with his cats on the dock that night, illuminated by the full moon. The next day, I hiked up Baldpate mountain, which had smooth, exposed rock on and around the summit, which would've been very treacherous in rain. Even with good weather, going down required full trust in my shoes' tread. A couple miles after the descent, rain looked like it make an appearance, but I was able to wait it out underneath a rock outcropping that I found right off trail at the perfect moment. I met a section hiker named Caption, who has somehow jumped the learning curve and fits in well with thru-hikers. We heard about an adventurous and hospitable husband and wife in the next town called Rangeley who has let hikers stay at their place, so we booked it only to find out that they were out of town that day. And to make matters worse, it started raining again. Only, this was the most furious storm on the entire trip and possibly in my whole life. The almost constant claps of thunder left our ears ringing while traffic and pretty much the town in general came to a halt. All of the streets turned into rivers, and the wind tore off and mangled branches, shingles, flags, and even some powerlines. Trying to talk over the sound of rain pounding on an ice cream parlor's tin roof was impossible as we repeatedly committed to and chickened out on dashing to different hotels in town. I don't know how often storms like these pass through Maine, but I can honestly say that it was the closest thing I've ever experienced to a natural disaster (after a quick google search, this storm even made national news, I'm not kidding. Side note--I was in Michigan during Hurricane Sandy). Thankfully, none of our friends on trail were hurt, but it was a key conversation point from here on out in the hiker community.
Eventually, we found 2 bunks at an overpriced hostel (sort of undermining my mental budget), but we were glad to be in in enclosed space for the night. The next day, I spent most of the day relaxing and then headed up the Saddleback ridge in the incredible evening light, having the mountain all to myself. The next day was a severely over-ambitious 22 miles of trail and a proverbial cliff that shouldn't have been the trail to get to the next road crossing, where I hitched for a while sore as hell. After almost a hour and a half of standing with my thumb out (a personal record, whoopee), a real estate agent from southern NH picked me up and started asking me questions about the trail. We got along really well, and he invited me to his cabin which he was renovating for his family. There, we barbecued, watched for moose, and told funny jokes around a bonfire. The following day, I traversed the sharp ridge of the Bigelows and munched on blue berries the way down. I met a flip-flopper named Veggie Viking, called so because he looks like a viking but is somehow incongruously a vegetarian. We got along due to our West Michigan connection. While we were settling in at a shelter, a SOBO told us about some trail magic of cold sandwiches at the next road crossing about a mile away, so I decided to push farther to check it out. Unfortunately, there was no trail magic (I guess they didn't want to risk leaving spoiled sandwiches out for long), and I really could've used it due to not having much buffer food on me (wasn't keen on spending even more money in Rangeley).
At the next shelter though, and what I can only assume to be a blessing directed by God, was a plastic crate full of cereal bars and brownies! It really helped take the stress out of possibly not having enough food. I had a great rest of the day on dramatically flatter terrain, and I caught up with some friends that I hiked with back in NH. It was great to hike with them again, but they were moving fast according to one guys' schedule to start college soon after the trip. We got to town of Monson and parted ways, but I decided to wait up for another friend of mine, so I did work-for-stay at Shaw's Hostel recently bought by a younger couple named Poet and Hippie Chick. It was probably my favorite hostel on the entire trail, and I thoroughly enjoyed staying there and getting to know the owners. Me and other hikers watched movies including the Wizard of Oz (inevitably responsible for my mental soundtrack the rest of the trip).
I started the 100 Mile Wilderness later that day, which is considered to be the most remote section of the entire AT. A sigh at each end warns hikers and strongly advises them to pack 10 days of food, even though about 4 dirt roads and a rail line slice through the so-called wilderness (allowing food drop options for slow-moving hikers who don't want to carry 20 lbs of food). The first road had a sign pointing to trail magic put on by two older guys at a cabin, which was done in memory of a friend who recently passed away. They had a great life story, and I was able to learn some valuable history of Maine. The next day, I was able to explore a lake using a canoe left on shore for hikers to use, and I randomly saw a guy named Finn who I hiked a while with near the beginning of the trip, but then zoomed ahead. It was great to catch up, and we took a blue blaze to see "The Grand Canyon of the East" called the Gulf Hagas. The sheer cliffs and waterfalls were incredible, and we were caught off guard by day hikers also enjoying the scene (so much for wilderness). The next day I had my first view of Katahdin (aka, the end of the trail!) from White Cap Mountain, and I saw my first moose along with her calf from across a lake. I quietly observed for a while, and even tried out some moose calls.
The following day, I met up with two other friends that I haven't seen in a while and met some new ones, and we finished out the 100 mile wilderness. The last night, we camped by a lake and watched leaches and crawfish fight among the rocks, betting little morsels of food and cheering on our respective choices. Right before entering Baxter State Park (where Katahdin is located), we stopped at a camp store at Abol Bridge and gorged on food for the last time (historic because Henry David Throreau and his party set up base camp there on while ascending Katahdin in the early 1800's). Entering the park signified the last of many things, which we named off in solemn memorial. After signing in at the ranger station and securing our day permits for our big ascent tomorrow, we settled in at the last lean-to and and reminisced over our trips that were about to end. It was certainly an emotional evening followed by a restless night not much different from Christmas Eve.
To be honest, my emotional moment came when I got up before dawn and put my hiking shoes on for the last time. I knew that after today, it just wouldn't be the same. I was ready to finish up the trip of a lifetime and finally see my friends from back home, but I would be lying if I said that I was ready for it all to be over. Breaking treeline fairy early and scrambling over boulders to the top, we came upon the sign marking the end of the Appalachian Trail atop Katahdin. We kept a brisk pace on the ascent and made it up in about two hours, having the summit completely to ourselves. Each of us got pictures standing above and next to the sign, letting out many a victory yell. Everyone's emotions were completely real, because how could you keep on a mask after discovering yourself after five months in the woods? It reinforced the fact that despite very different backgrounds and upbringings, we all had one achievement in common that we would pride ourselves on for the rest of our lives. As I write this now (way overdue), I still think about the trail constantly, and only some of the experiences I have been able to put into written form and shared through stories. The trail took five months pain and drudge, but I believe that the trail gave me a lifetime of self-achievement and satisfaction, and I cannot thank you all enough for your encouragement before, during, and after my experience. Though the trip is over, I can say with full honesty that my thirst for adventure is not. With that, it has been a pleasure writing this blog for all of you, and as my namesake would say--you've been a great audience.
But big effort reaps big reward: much of this section is above treeline, and we got sweeping views in all directions, starting from the alpine meadows around us to the gnarly spruces on the perimeter all the way to the morning sun-tinted mountains on the horizon. From a makeshift campsite right on the New Hampshire-Maine border (yesterday's goal was to do 17 miles into Maine, and I was far too tired to find a real campsite after the border), Seinfeld had entered hiker euphoria: dense fairy tale-like forest on each side which made the trail feel like a magical and undeserved safe haven, sharp peaks rising like church steeples and valleys like nestled town squares to contrast, and a total lack of human influence all around. It was only me and the mountains. Like a fly fixated on top of a roaming elephant, my surroundings seemed to propel me forward as to reward me for my toil. Me and the wilderness were at a stalemate, and with each step I earned its worth, a fair trade leading to ultimate satisfaction. The only other comparison would be leading traffic on Broadway and timing the lights perfectly. For the first time on my trip, the goal of finishing (even on the day's level) was irrelevant, as each mountain and meadow was a gift that never spoiled or became dull before the next one arrived. It was excruciating, numbing, stunningly beautiful--it was and is the purest reason why I hike.
After finishing the Mahoosucs, me and some other hikers I had hiked with before decided to hitch into town and resupply. There we met a rafting instructor named Spencer, who chatted with us about hiking in Maine and invited us to his lake house for a barbecue. We talked and played with his cats on the dock that night, illuminated by the full moon. The next day, I hiked up Baldpate mountain, which had smooth, exposed rock on and around the summit, which would've been very treacherous in rain. Even with good weather, going down required full trust in my shoes' tread. A couple miles after the descent, rain looked like it make an appearance, but I was able to wait it out underneath a rock outcropping that I found right off trail at the perfect moment. I met a section hiker named Caption, who has somehow jumped the learning curve and fits in well with thru-hikers. We heard about an adventurous and hospitable husband and wife in the next town called Rangeley who has let hikers stay at their place, so we booked it only to find out that they were out of town that day. And to make matters worse, it started raining again. Only, this was the most furious storm on the entire trip and possibly in my whole life. The almost constant claps of thunder left our ears ringing while traffic and pretty much the town in general came to a halt. All of the streets turned into rivers, and the wind tore off and mangled branches, shingles, flags, and even some powerlines. Trying to talk over the sound of rain pounding on an ice cream parlor's tin roof was impossible as we repeatedly committed to and chickened out on dashing to different hotels in town. I don't know how often storms like these pass through Maine, but I can honestly say that it was the closest thing I've ever experienced to a natural disaster (after a quick google search, this storm even made national news, I'm not kidding. Side note--I was in Michigan during Hurricane Sandy). Thankfully, none of our friends on trail were hurt, but it was a key conversation point from here on out in the hiker community.
Eventually, we found 2 bunks at an overpriced hostel (sort of undermining my mental budget), but we were glad to be in in enclosed space for the night. The next day, I spent most of the day relaxing and then headed up the Saddleback ridge in the incredible evening light, having the mountain all to myself. The next day was a severely over-ambitious 22 miles of trail and a proverbial cliff that shouldn't have been the trail to get to the next road crossing, where I hitched for a while sore as hell. After almost a hour and a half of standing with my thumb out (a personal record, whoopee), a real estate agent from southern NH picked me up and started asking me questions about the trail. We got along really well, and he invited me to his cabin which he was renovating for his family. There, we barbecued, watched for moose, and told funny jokes around a bonfire. The following day, I traversed the sharp ridge of the Bigelows and munched on blue berries the way down. I met a flip-flopper named Veggie Viking, called so because he looks like a viking but is somehow incongruously a vegetarian. We got along due to our West Michigan connection. While we were settling in at a shelter, a SOBO told us about some trail magic of cold sandwiches at the next road crossing about a mile away, so I decided to push farther to check it out. Unfortunately, there was no trail magic (I guess they didn't want to risk leaving spoiled sandwiches out for long), and I really could've used it due to not having much buffer food on me (wasn't keen on spending even more money in Rangeley).
At the next shelter though, and what I can only assume to be a blessing directed by God, was a plastic crate full of cereal bars and brownies! It really helped take the stress out of possibly not having enough food. I had a great rest of the day on dramatically flatter terrain, and I caught up with some friends that I hiked with back in NH. It was great to hike with them again, but they were moving fast according to one guys' schedule to start college soon after the trip. We got to town of Monson and parted ways, but I decided to wait up for another friend of mine, so I did work-for-stay at Shaw's Hostel recently bought by a younger couple named Poet and Hippie Chick. It was probably my favorite hostel on the entire trail, and I thoroughly enjoyed staying there and getting to know the owners. Me and other hikers watched movies including the Wizard of Oz (inevitably responsible for my mental soundtrack the rest of the trip).
I started the 100 Mile Wilderness later that day, which is considered to be the most remote section of the entire AT. A sigh at each end warns hikers and strongly advises them to pack 10 days of food, even though about 4 dirt roads and a rail line slice through the so-called wilderness (allowing food drop options for slow-moving hikers who don't want to carry 20 lbs of food). The first road had a sign pointing to trail magic put on by two older guys at a cabin, which was done in memory of a friend who recently passed away. They had a great life story, and I was able to learn some valuable history of Maine. The next day, I was able to explore a lake using a canoe left on shore for hikers to use, and I randomly saw a guy named Finn who I hiked a while with near the beginning of the trip, but then zoomed ahead. It was great to catch up, and we took a blue blaze to see "The Grand Canyon of the East" called the Gulf Hagas. The sheer cliffs and waterfalls were incredible, and we were caught off guard by day hikers also enjoying the scene (so much for wilderness). The next day I had my first view of Katahdin (aka, the end of the trail!) from White Cap Mountain, and I saw my first moose along with her calf from across a lake. I quietly observed for a while, and even tried out some moose calls.
The following day, I met up with two other friends that I haven't seen in a while and met some new ones, and we finished out the 100 mile wilderness. The last night, we camped by a lake and watched leaches and crawfish fight among the rocks, betting little morsels of food and cheering on our respective choices. Right before entering Baxter State Park (where Katahdin is located), we stopped at a camp store at Abol Bridge and gorged on food for the last time (historic because Henry David Throreau and his party set up base camp there on while ascending Katahdin in the early 1800's). Entering the park signified the last of many things, which we named off in solemn memorial. After signing in at the ranger station and securing our day permits for our big ascent tomorrow, we settled in at the last lean-to and and reminisced over our trips that were about to end. It was certainly an emotional evening followed by a restless night not much different from Christmas Eve.
To be honest, my emotional moment came when I got up before dawn and put my hiking shoes on for the last time. I knew that after today, it just wouldn't be the same. I was ready to finish up the trip of a lifetime and finally see my friends from back home, but I would be lying if I said that I was ready for it all to be over. Breaking treeline fairy early and scrambling over boulders to the top, we came upon the sign marking the end of the Appalachian Trail atop Katahdin. We kept a brisk pace on the ascent and made it up in about two hours, having the summit completely to ourselves. Each of us got pictures standing above and next to the sign, letting out many a victory yell. Everyone's emotions were completely real, because how could you keep on a mask after discovering yourself after five months in the woods? It reinforced the fact that despite very different backgrounds and upbringings, we all had one achievement in common that we would pride ourselves on for the rest of our lives. As I write this now (way overdue), I still think about the trail constantly, and only some of the experiences I have been able to put into written form and shared through stories. The trail took five months pain and drudge, but I believe that the trail gave me a lifetime of self-achievement and satisfaction, and I cannot thank you all enough for your encouragement before, during, and after my experience. Though the trip is over, I can say with full honesty that my thirst for adventure is not. With that, it has been a pleasure writing this blog for all of you, and as my namesake would say--you've been a great audience.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Hiker vs. The Whites: An Ultimate Showdown
As I began the second-to-last state of my trip, I felt like an experienced hiker who has seen it all -- from the lofty ridgelines of North Carolina to the hidden valleys of southern New England, the incessantly rocky to the straight-up muddy, the biting cold to the sweltering heat. Though I've heard many accounts of the White Mountains of New Hampshire being steeper and rougher than anything I've experienced thus far, I received the most ominous warnings from southbounders who had just gotten out of the Whites, having completed about 400 miles of the trail. Though novices in our book, many greeted us with a pompous sense of achievement hidden behind cautionary statements such as, "Just wait 'til the Whites, you don't even know." Obviously, many northbounders gained a sort of resentment toward the nerve of southbounders calling us the novices, but I decided to take the Whites as they came.
Before I even got to them though, I had to cross the western portion of New Hampshire, and I found myself on that first chilly New England evening sitting on the porch of 90-year-old Bill Ackerly's house munching on an even chillier ice cream bar. This lifelong woodsman who had built his house from scratch passes the time offering each thru-hiker he meets an ice cream bar, followed by a sharing of his wisdom and a very unevenly matched game of croquet. Having experienced so many years of life, he was a joy getting to know, and his sense of humor was highlighted by a sign placed on the trail to reel in hikers, parodying the song "My milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard." He even offered me to join him in singing the original version, which I couldn't resist! As nobos and sobos alike set tents up in his yard, the night was capped by even more singing, which turned into a jam session led by a very musical sobo picking at his very weathered and well-used guitar, which I feebly tried to accompany with my humble ukulele.
The next day brought me up Smarts Mountain, which was topped with a dilapidated fire tower covered in signs warning hikers of a hefty fee if caught up there. As this would be my first proper view of New Hampshire and the Whites and the fact that I couldn't waste such a beautifully clear day, I took my chances and was rewarded with spectacular views of the easy mountains I had done previously in Vermont and the monsters that awaited me ahead. Hearing footsteps coming from below, I promptly headed down only to find a fellow thru-hiker who wasn't afraid of fines either, so he checked out the tower as I played "watch for the ranger." I ended the day picking my weight in blueberries over the bald summit of Mt Cube and camping at a maple sugar farm that according to my guide book "sometimes offers more." Excited over the vague prospect of free maple sugar products and wanting to wait out some rain, I gave myself a slower morning but ultimately didn't receive more, but I was still glad to miss much of the rain. From there, I made a short day to Hiker's Welcome Hostel in the not-so-much-a-town of Glencliff, NH. Being the first decent place to stay after the Whites for sobos and an ideal spot for nobos to wait out any bad weather before heading in, it was a great hangout spot with a staggering collection of DVD's, which me and some other nobos took advantage of in order to start the Whites in better weather the next day.
Mt. Moosilauke, the first ascent of the Whites for nobos, required nearly 4000 feet of continuous elevation gain, which wasn't as hard as I expected due to a steady rise as well as smaller rocks dominating the terrain. As the summit opened up above treeline, layers upon layers of mountains stretched out before me emitting an eerie mist speared by persistent beams of sunlight under a mostly cloudy sky. I had always traditionally preferred to be on top of mountains during clear days, but I was glad to have received a majestically threatening view that morning. However, as I headed down, the rain returned and I finally felt like I was thrown into the ring with my first formidable opponent of the Whites. What laid before me--or should I say straight below me--was a trail so steep and wet that descending seemed to feel like a string of reluctant suicide attempts. I lowered myself down cliff after cliff, occasionally having to slide down and put my trust in whatever was waiting for me at the bottom. Fortunately, wooden blocks had been secured to the bedrock of some of the most extreme sections, but I made it down with the slowest pace I think I've ever had on my entire trip--about 2 miles in 3 hours! Waiting at the bottom of the mountain was an older Estonian woman by the name of Mary (she thinks that trail names are a cop-out for owning your thru-hike). Possessing an unsettlingly total lack of fear, she told me of how she had run out of daylight on Moosilauke's summit, set up camp during last night's rain, and didn't sleep because she had to hold her tent town all night to keep it from flying away in the high altitude winds! As if I needed any more reminders to take the Whites seriously...
As more nobos made it down, some of us decided to slackpack the next day's section by staying in the nearby town of North Woodstock, hitching back to the trail, hiking 17 miles, and hitching back into town afterwards to our not-at-all-missed packs. It went down without a hitch (actually, it did, and a couple of them even got one from the local police sheriff!), and we braved the thigh-deep mud (my friend Yankee tested that by slipping off a bog bridge) and the impossibly steep rock scrambles to recuperate in the pool at our motel. Despite the following day calling for thunderstorms, I headed up by myself to Franconia ridge and was rewarded with incredibly clear views (showing just how accurate weather reports can be in the Whites), then over to Mt Garfield where I braved another trail/stream down to Galehead Hut. There are eight "high-elevation" huts run by the Appalachian Mountain Club all located near the Appalachian Trail through the Whites (limited amounts of thru-hikers each evening are allowed to do work-for-stay in order to avoid having to pay $150 dollars for rugged luxury). However, this is where the similarities of these two entities abruptly end. Despite the hut's and the AMC's mission to serve hikers, we thru-hikers generally felt pushed to the side due mainly in part to our nerve of not going through the Whites with loads of money. Finding shelters or even camping without fees was very challenging, and the AT was consistently unmaintained and poorly marked in comparison to most other trails we saw.....but at least the huts serve great homemade bread.
The next day, I had wonderful views from South Twin Mountain and headed over the broad alpine summit of Mt. Guyot, which had a very Scottish feel. From there, it was a very gradual and easy trail to Crawford Notch, right before the Presidential Range. Finding free camping was pretty hard, but I found a stately pine grove right near a river. The next day was a steep and exposed ascent up Webster Cliffs, and I made it a short day to Mizpah Springs Hut to account for bad weather they were calling for the following day (pushing on meant I'd have to go over Mt. Washington in the ugliness, which is not worth the risk, in my opinion). The next day, I slogged through cold wind and rain to the base of Washington at Lake of the Clouds Hut at 5000 feet, where I played board games and saw friends that I had not seen in a while. The next morning cleared up, and I summited Washington with incredible views to the west and a sea of clouds stretching infinitely to the east. The rest of the Presidentials were foggy unfortunately, but we made it Pinkham Notch where we got picked up by the Twelve Tribes community to stay at their hostel near Gorham (I have not converted, I swear). The next day, we slackpacked an absurdly hard 21 miles over the Wildcat and Carter ranges, where we got caught in a 15 minute torrential rainstorm (if anyone is wondering why I haven't connected with them in a while, my phone only has about 30 minutes of battery life thanks to said storm, oh well) and a valley with an incredible echo. After playing in nature's echo chamber for a while, we rolled into the parking lot right before dark. And that was when we conquered the Whites. Surely it will get easier from here, right? RIGHT?!
Before I even got to them though, I had to cross the western portion of New Hampshire, and I found myself on that first chilly New England evening sitting on the porch of 90-year-old Bill Ackerly's house munching on an even chillier ice cream bar. This lifelong woodsman who had built his house from scratch passes the time offering each thru-hiker he meets an ice cream bar, followed by a sharing of his wisdom and a very unevenly matched game of croquet. Having experienced so many years of life, he was a joy getting to know, and his sense of humor was highlighted by a sign placed on the trail to reel in hikers, parodying the song "My milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard." He even offered me to join him in singing the original version, which I couldn't resist! As nobos and sobos alike set tents up in his yard, the night was capped by even more singing, which turned into a jam session led by a very musical sobo picking at his very weathered and well-used guitar, which I feebly tried to accompany with my humble ukulele.
The next day brought me up Smarts Mountain, which was topped with a dilapidated fire tower covered in signs warning hikers of a hefty fee if caught up there. As this would be my first proper view of New Hampshire and the Whites and the fact that I couldn't waste such a beautifully clear day, I took my chances and was rewarded with spectacular views of the easy mountains I had done previously in Vermont and the monsters that awaited me ahead. Hearing footsteps coming from below, I promptly headed down only to find a fellow thru-hiker who wasn't afraid of fines either, so he checked out the tower as I played "watch for the ranger." I ended the day picking my weight in blueberries over the bald summit of Mt Cube and camping at a maple sugar farm that according to my guide book "sometimes offers more." Excited over the vague prospect of free maple sugar products and wanting to wait out some rain, I gave myself a slower morning but ultimately didn't receive more, but I was still glad to miss much of the rain. From there, I made a short day to Hiker's Welcome Hostel in the not-so-much-a-town of Glencliff, NH. Being the first decent place to stay after the Whites for sobos and an ideal spot for nobos to wait out any bad weather before heading in, it was a great hangout spot with a staggering collection of DVD's, which me and some other nobos took advantage of in order to start the Whites in better weather the next day.
Mt. Moosilauke, the first ascent of the Whites for nobos, required nearly 4000 feet of continuous elevation gain, which wasn't as hard as I expected due to a steady rise as well as smaller rocks dominating the terrain. As the summit opened up above treeline, layers upon layers of mountains stretched out before me emitting an eerie mist speared by persistent beams of sunlight under a mostly cloudy sky. I had always traditionally preferred to be on top of mountains during clear days, but I was glad to have received a majestically threatening view that morning. However, as I headed down, the rain returned and I finally felt like I was thrown into the ring with my first formidable opponent of the Whites. What laid before me--or should I say straight below me--was a trail so steep and wet that descending seemed to feel like a string of reluctant suicide attempts. I lowered myself down cliff after cliff, occasionally having to slide down and put my trust in whatever was waiting for me at the bottom. Fortunately, wooden blocks had been secured to the bedrock of some of the most extreme sections, but I made it down with the slowest pace I think I've ever had on my entire trip--about 2 miles in 3 hours! Waiting at the bottom of the mountain was an older Estonian woman by the name of Mary (she thinks that trail names are a cop-out for owning your thru-hike). Possessing an unsettlingly total lack of fear, she told me of how she had run out of daylight on Moosilauke's summit, set up camp during last night's rain, and didn't sleep because she had to hold her tent town all night to keep it from flying away in the high altitude winds! As if I needed any more reminders to take the Whites seriously...
As more nobos made it down, some of us decided to slackpack the next day's section by staying in the nearby town of North Woodstock, hitching back to the trail, hiking 17 miles, and hitching back into town afterwards to our not-at-all-missed packs. It went down without a hitch (actually, it did, and a couple of them even got one from the local police sheriff!), and we braved the thigh-deep mud (my friend Yankee tested that by slipping off a bog bridge) and the impossibly steep rock scrambles to recuperate in the pool at our motel. Despite the following day calling for thunderstorms, I headed up by myself to Franconia ridge and was rewarded with incredibly clear views (showing just how accurate weather reports can be in the Whites), then over to Mt Garfield where I braved another trail/stream down to Galehead Hut. There are eight "high-elevation" huts run by the Appalachian Mountain Club all located near the Appalachian Trail through the Whites (limited amounts of thru-hikers each evening are allowed to do work-for-stay in order to avoid having to pay $150 dollars for rugged luxury). However, this is where the similarities of these two entities abruptly end. Despite the hut's and the AMC's mission to serve hikers, we thru-hikers generally felt pushed to the side due mainly in part to our nerve of not going through the Whites with loads of money. Finding shelters or even camping without fees was very challenging, and the AT was consistently unmaintained and poorly marked in comparison to most other trails we saw.....but at least the huts serve great homemade bread.
The next day, I had wonderful views from South Twin Mountain and headed over the broad alpine summit of Mt. Guyot, which had a very Scottish feel. From there, it was a very gradual and easy trail to Crawford Notch, right before the Presidential Range. Finding free camping was pretty hard, but I found a stately pine grove right near a river. The next day was a steep and exposed ascent up Webster Cliffs, and I made it a short day to Mizpah Springs Hut to account for bad weather they were calling for the following day (pushing on meant I'd have to go over Mt. Washington in the ugliness, which is not worth the risk, in my opinion). The next day, I slogged through cold wind and rain to the base of Washington at Lake of the Clouds Hut at 5000 feet, where I played board games and saw friends that I had not seen in a while. The next morning cleared up, and I summited Washington with incredible views to the west and a sea of clouds stretching infinitely to the east. The rest of the Presidentials were foggy unfortunately, but we made it Pinkham Notch where we got picked up by the Twelve Tribes community to stay at their hostel near Gorham (I have not converted, I swear). The next day, we slackpacked an absurdly hard 21 miles over the Wildcat and Carter ranges, where we got caught in a 15 minute torrential rainstorm (if anyone is wondering why I haven't connected with them in a while, my phone only has about 30 minutes of battery life thanks to said storm, oh well) and a valley with an incredible echo. After playing in nature's echo chamber for a while, we rolled into the parking lot right before dark. And that was when we conquered the Whites. Surely it will get easier from here, right? RIGHT?!
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