Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Summer in a weekend

When I lived in the rainforest, there were, on average, 84 days of sunshine. I began to believe, like most of the inhabitants, that this was better. That the constant mist, fog, or downright downpour was worth living there. I forgot about the sun. Who needed it, anyway?

But in the end, the sun won out. Now, eight years since I sailed away on a ferry, I still don't take sunshine for granted. Staying inside isn't an option. I also knew I had to roll 120 days of summer here into one weekend, since we are moving soon.  I was up for the challenge.

First off was a trail run on the end of Thursday. Though I had to dodge snowbanks and slosh through mud, the run restored my faith in humanity and my thought of myself as a runner. If all runs could be like that, I would run every day! Why is it that hiking can almost always be the same but running varies from easy to impossible?

Then it was time to kayak.

I had the lake to myself. This will soon change.
I have to admit that I'm a little frightened by the fear-mongering about crowds in Central Oregon. I hope it isn't as bad as people make it out to be.

The flower strewn hillsides of Chico.
When you move to a new town by yourself  later in life, friendships can be tenuous. Most people have a circle of friends and it can be hard to break in, especially in a place with less than two thousand people, where there are no outdoors clubs to get you started. For the first few years I asked more than was asked. For my hike into Davis Creek, I asked P, whom I had only hiked with once. To my surprise, she started talking about how she liked to do double-digit day hikes and would be interested in backpacking. Score!

Once again, we didn't see a soul except a trio silhouetted on Starvation Ridge, high above us.

The lake is located just below that grey rock at the top of  the picture.
Hope springs eternal,  and on the last day I had off from work, I decided to see how far I could push the snowline. Several out of town backpackers had the same idea. Even after I told them that the trail was completely snow-covered and impossible to follow after it climbed out of the basin, they shrugged and pressed on. "We have microspikes," one couple declared. Good luck with that! I decided to turn around and live another day. I was fine with as far as I made it--five miles up the trail.

My weekend of summer was over, and I trudged back to the computer. I wonder though: if I had every day to choose from, would I appreciate it as much, or would I instead fidget over the massive snowpack keeping me at low elevation?  As much as I am glad to be out of the rain, living in it taught me to accept what was. During gales, you stayed on the beach. If it rained the whole five days of a kayak trip, you dealt with it. There was no waiting for the perfect time, the perfect weather, the perfect trail.

Happy summer, friends!


Thursday, May 25, 2017

Once a runner

I'm not sure I can call myself a runner anymore.  I used to love running to the exclusion of all other activities. In fact, I would ponder invitations based on whether I would be able to run or not. Not being able to run was doom personified.

So what happened? Like most of my friends who started young (I started in my early teens), I kind of grew out of the competitive phase. I didn't see the point of paying to run, and didn't really care about personal records anymore. I wanted to run solo, not with a group of sweaty strangers.  Running became more about time free of electronics, even music, and turned exclusively to trails, because pavement just felt too harsh. Now, I find there are many other things I want to do with my limited free time, and running has been relegated to about two times a week.

So can I call myself a runner? I launched myself out of the house the other day. The cat followed, and I put him inside. He jumped back out the cat door. I distracted him with treats (he has me trained). I lumbered up the park trails, thanking my stars that I didn't carry a Garmin anymore. I know my pace is slow. I find it hard to care about this. I used to care, a lot.

Running was the first really hard thing I did. Back in the day, there weren't really training plans, nobody told you how to "fuel", we didn't have belts with GU, we ran uphill in the snow both ways, etc etc. But seriously, we mostly ran all out, all the time. As fast as we could, even in training. It taught me how to be tough. I don't know if I could have gone on to fight fire or work on a trail crew without this experience.

Now, everybody runs, but back when I started, it was still sort of unusual. People called it jogging. They wore sweatbands. Guys wore really short shorts.  I owned a Goretex suit of a shiny silver material that I wore in winter, a coat and pants. I probably looked like a Martian. But it was fun.

Do I miss the way it used to be? Sometimes. There were plenty of moments on a long run when the stars aligned and nothing could hold me back. I've run all over the country, mostly in the national parks where I worked. There were a plethora of trails, and unlike the ones here, these were soft and smooth, free of rocks. Those were the good times. I will always be grateful for them. And even though I run in one week what I used to in one day, I don't regret a thing. Running will always be something I do, even if it's slow, even if it's only a few times a month. It's changed, but it hasn't gone away.
After a record-setting race. Don't laugh! These outfits were the height of fashion!









Saturday, May 20, 2017

Retreat from a high point

The trails are opening up!  It's been a long winter of the bike trainer and the gym. While it will be a couple of months before the high country melts out, the lower elevation trails are once again open for business. We are able to now trot along about six miles in before snow stops us.

Going to be awhile before anyone climbs Sacajawea.
The late spring means that the narrow Hells Canyon window is open a little longer than usual.  "I don't think I've ever climbed up Freezeout this late," I mused to T as we ascended the trail. Usually baking in the heat by now, it was downright pleasant this April...I mean, May. A 50% chance of thunderstorms was not about to deter us from our goal, Freezeout Saddle. Only about three miles, it can feel like a lot farther as you plod up endless switchbacks, climbing over two thousand feet. 

We had a bigger day than that planned. We hoped to hike along the ridge for a few miles, on a little-used trail that circles the canyon rim. I hadn't been on it in years and T never had. It would be a good, long hiking day.

Two backpackers lounged on the saddle, getting ready for the rocky descent into the canyon. I felt envious, as I always do when I day hike. It would have been a perfect night to camp.
This view doesn't really get old.
Ruby!
Or not. A clap of thunder from nearby sent us on high alert. A storm crouched just to the west, ready to descend. We were on the highest point around. Time to leave. The miles went a lot faster on the way down.
 

Yikes!

We gained the parking lot just as the storm unleashed. A bear hunter observed us.
"You girls got back just in time," he said. Disregarding the fact that in no known universe can I still be considered a girl, he was correct.

So it would be a short day, but you don't mess with thunderstorms around here. I recently talked with a lightning strike survivor, and his story pretty much convinced me that retreat was the better part of valor.  In these mountains, you have to know when to retreat. 

As we drove away, lightning pounded the hills. I thought of the backpackers and hoped they had made it to a low point. Though six miles is nowhere near an epic day, it felt fine. When I used to run more, I got caught up in the miles I recorded in my training log. Less than a certain number meant I had failed. I'm glad I've moved past that point.

Monday, May 15, 2017

They call me the breeze ( a packing story in memes)

I stared at my outdoor gear totes. How can you know what you'll need for four months? Clothes are easy. It's summer (allegedly. It is snowing currently). Shoes? Just a pair to run in and a couple to hike in. But outdoor gear! How to choose? I threw three tents into a pile. What? It makes sense! The PCT tent that folds up as small as a water bottle. The two person deluxe. And my overnight fave.



Over the last eight years I have mostly lost my gypsy nature. I used to be up for any kind of move. I was like the breeze, always moving on. I've lost that person, and it's time to find her again. I am moving about six hours south, for 4 months, a job thing. Just like I never thought I would do, I am following a man (but it's okay, I am married to him). The alternative is to stay here and take care of the two houses we own. Oh Honey. No.

It's surprising how deeply rooted I've become and how hard it is to prepare for this. How did I ever move every six months, for years? At the same time, I've become kind of comfortable. Time to shake things up.

And the stuff! How did I acquire so much stuff? I'm cleaning out the house so some short-term renters can move in. What are all these electronic chargers and what do they charge? What is this unidentifiable gadget? How did I end up with four nail clippers? And on what planet did I ever think these shoes were stylish?


Weeding out your life is actually a good exercise. Minus furniture, I have discovered that my belongings all fit in a small shed. I've taken stock of everything I have and decided if it's worth keeping. I still hang on stubbornly to a few things. Doesn't everyone need two camp stoves? And five sleeping bags is totally reasonable.


The pets are the issue. I've never wanted to be a person who would not go on vacations because of their pets. But it definitely becomes a consideration when embarking on a temporary move. Some of them don't get along, which raises the complexity of the whole thing.


It's hard to think about missing a summer here.This is about perfect--enough tourists to make sure we have some nice restaurants and a bookstore, but not so many you feel road rage trying to get home. People in the mountains, but less than other places. On the bright side, this is a way to try out a new place without a commitment. I have new trails to explore, a pool (!), lakes to kayak on. The town is full of athletes, which can be good and can be bad. I'll have to get over being passed by other runners, which never happens here. But I might be able to find some kindred souls, which can sometimes be lacking in my small town.



I have three weeks to cull the herd, so to speak. The thrift store won't know what hit it. And I know once I get there, it will be an adventure. Welcome back, wanderer.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

The Pacific Crest Trail, Section C, Cabazon to Cajon Pass, Days 5-7:Strange Encounters

Triscuit and I hiked through the ominously gathering heat in a deep river canyon. Far below us, enticing, inaccessible beaches lined the shores of dark water--Deep Creek. I wanted nothing more than to jump in, but steep canyon walls guarded the creek, making it only a shimmering mirage. We had seen very few people in the last eight miles, and it felt like we were the only people alive.

Lovely Willow Creek
Then we rounded a corner to discover a scene of utter weirdness. In the middle of nowhere, there were tents. There was music. There was a slackline across the river. There were people hollering. There were...naked men?

This was Deep Creek hot springs, probably once a sweet destination, but now the site of a fatal ameobic disease if you submerge your head (though we saw plenty of people doing this) and a high fecal coliform count. I had to admire the tenacity of these people who had actually hiked in a couple of miles from a road to visit, but the scene was way out of place and uncomfortable. We quickly moved on.

Inaccessible Deep Creek beach

As we hiked, the heat became intense, and as a giant, strange dam holding back zero water came into place, we staggered to some cottonwood trees. A woman roared up on an ATV. "Ladies. A hundred yards from here I have beer, soda and kale salad."

Kale salad? It was a strange thing to have while hiking, but I would take it. As we sat by the Mojave River, the trail angel peppered us with offers. I'll drive you to Silverwood! I'll bring you hot dogs! It's too hot to hike the burned area! Take my phone number! Are you sure you don't want to go to Silverwood? I'll go get more food! We can get pizza! Have more salad!

She was sweet, but it was too much after a week of near solitude. We escaped, walking through an eerie burnt landscape. Fire doesn't bother me much, and it was interesting to see the bones of the land laid bare, even though we were walking in an oven. Arriving at our campsite, with a welcome seasonal stream still flowing, I encountered a southbound hiker who looked...oddly familiar. It was Pebble, whom I had met briefly on the steep climb up from Seiad Valley in Northern California last summer! What were the chances? Life is strange.

Silverwood Lake. Looks nice, but...

The next day we wound by Silverwood Lake, which was sadly trashed. The water was silty and garbage lined the sandy beaches. My hopes for a swim were dashed on this, the hottest day yet, over ninety degrees. We sat, homeless looking, in a picnic area with two other hikers. One of them would later write in her trail journal that she had met two others "about her age." Judging by a few things she said, I deduced her to be in her 60s. Did I really look sixty out here? The desert does strange things to you though. When I returned home, my skin felt like rough parchment. It takes a week for the desert varnish to leave, and a boatload of lotion.

Not the best picture of me, but I wanted to show you my hiking setup. Long sleeve shirt and a hat were necessities. Everyone thought I was a thru-hiker so I guess I looked the part.
Our last night on the trail was only six miles from the interstate but after 18 miles we called it quits by a small trickling stream. Hiding in the shade, I felt the same old dilemma. I wanted to be home with the ones I loved, but the trail has a pull I can't deny. I wanted to keep going.

The last six miles were truly magical.

Early morning walking
Triscuit and I sat, homeless looking, at the hotel where the shuttle would pick us up and deliver us back to Palm Springs. A van hove into view, the driver waving at us enthusiastically. It was....our lonely trail angel from the Mojave dam! For a moment we thought she had been tracking us. How else to explain how, thirty miles later, she would suddenly appear at exactly the same moment that we were sitting at this random hotel? After she drove away T and I burst into hysterical laughter. This strange encounter was the perfect ending to a long, strange trip.

the last campsite

Friday, May 5, 2017

Pacific Crest Trail, Section C, Cabazon to Cajon Pass: Against the Wind, Days 1-4

the mysterious whitewater area
Triscuit and I stood under a harsh Southern California sun. Wind, the equivalent of a blowdryer aimed at the face, whipped around us. Where was the trail? We could see the trail angel house we had stopped at the year before, but the angels had retired and this was clearly off limits. Taking a wild guess, we scrambled up a prickly hillside to find it: the PCT. We were back.
Uphill, always uphill

Triscuit views the trail ahead


Mt, San Jacinto, still snowy

Our goal: Cajon Pass, 132 miles away. Six days? Seven? Since we had started at three in the afternoon, we could only hope to reach Whitewater Preserve, an oasis in this parched landscape of cactus, creosote, and ceanothus. Trudging uphill, burdened by the entire food supply we had planned on taking (no resupply), we made it eight miles: a gurgling river and green grass, populated by a sea of thru hiker tents. Frogs in the desert, how was this possible?



out of the oasis

But this wasn't true desert. Over the next few days, we gradually ascended to nearly 9,000 feet. Our camp on Day 2, after an all day 18 mile grind uphill, though admittedly through a fascinating river landscape, was the result of a rookie mistake on my part. Arriving at the so-called "creekside camp" on my map, I was dismayed to note that it was only a wide spot in the trail, already festooned with tents. At lunchtime we had shared a sitting log with several other hikers and those were sure to follow. While others can sleep with tents right next to them, I am not one of those. I found a small sandy beach by the river and dropped down to it with delight. When Triscuit appeared after a rough day, she was too tired to argue.

During the night, the Santa Ana winds rose to a crescendo. I lay awake as a gritty substance blew in through the exposed mesh of the tent. Sand--I was being buried alive in the sand! After a sleepless night and a morning of panic when I dropped a contact lens on the beach and, amazingly, found it--we marched on twenty more miles, to find a forest of pine trees.

Was this really Southern California, I marveled, as I hurtled myself down switchbacks, near hypothermia? The scenery resembled the Sierra, with a deep forest and huge sand-shaped boulders. Who knew this existed?  The landscape was almost impossible to capture via camera, but it was composed of stark and strange beauty. We walked through burned areas, the bones of the land revealed by wildfire.

The people were a hardy, friendly bunch, far different than last year. We came upon a hiker huddled in a crevice to escape the ceaseless wind. When asked for his trail name, he said sheepishly, "Spooner.", alluding to the fact that some girls had given it to him on another trail. Other hikers weren't as circumspect about prior hiking experience: one man found a way to insert the fact that he had "hiked the AT" twice in a two minute conversation. (He was also carrying a bear canister, hundreds of miles before it was required, claiming he might as well get used to it. Okay, Bear Can Boy.)


Pine trees!

With our dedication to mileage, we outdistanced the hiker bubble we were in and reached a new one, with hikers who had started several weeks ago. At campsites the trail seemed crowded but during the day we mostly walked alone. Alone, but with the wind, a constant companion.

On Day 4, we hit a camping jackpot. It had been 21 miles of descent from the freezing pines into the swelter of the lowlands, and we knew we were coming into a restricted camping area. We had to stop somewhere, and we spied it, a small flat area near some boulders, with a view of trackless mountains. Nobody camped near us, not any of the people we had given our own trail names to and never saw again--the Australians (we had mistook their accents for Aussies), International Girl, Creeper, Tat--nobody was in sight. The wind even stopped breathing.

We were holding our own. Looking at the maps, it looked like an easy, though hot, cruise ahead. Little did we know things were about to get weird. Very, very weird...

To be continued...