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Over the top
May 24, 2006An odd coincidence on a Labor Day hiking trip last year left me wondering just what the universe was up to.
Just before we started the first day of the hike, Christina, Chris, Lon and I huddled together for a group picture.
There we were, captured on film in a pristine state not to be seen for the next 50 miles and six days. A nice mountain dude took our picture. He had a brown beard down to his chest, a khaki shirt with frayed sleeves and well-worn shorts. Judging from his appearance, he'd spent some hard days on the trail.
"So how long was your hike?" one of us asked him.
"Oh, I'm just getting started," he said.
It was a little like asking a woman who just had her baby when it's due.
We carried on with our hiking plan and he with his.
But it wouldn't be the last we'd see of him.
By day three or so, we were headed toward Forester Pass. I was in the groove of hiking, no longer fearing the stretches of aloneness or whether I could hack it.
Then came the Forester Pass experience.
Again, the switchbacks seemed to go on indefinitely. Again, I cursed my foolhardiness in embarking on such a crazy undertaking as this dang hiking trip.
But this time, the inside commentary was more like a low hum than a defeaning squeal of fear.
I told myself I was pretty tough just to make as far as I had.
When I finally got up to the pass, I felt a joyful lift of spirits as my trailmates congratulated me.
Then I noticed a guy standing at the top with very little gear -- no tent, not much in his backpack -- a fuzzy brown beard down to his chest, a shirt with frayed sleeves and well-worn khaki shorts.
We greeted each other, and the mountain dude described his route. It sounded something like a pinball's path except around the High Sierras. Then he described his road home. It sounded like some sort of super hiker's agenda. I couldn't believe he was going so far in one day. He said he had to get home in time to go to work the next morning.
"Yeah, I'll be hiking in the dark," he said nonchalantly.
Hiking in the dark? This idea had never occurred to me. Was that even possible?
What kind of crazy, suicidal person hikes in the dark over treacherous switchbacks at 12,000 feet altitude?
But before the trip was over, I was going to find out all about hiking in the dark.
The best part of my conversation with the mountain dude -- he was a biologist -- was his disclosure that snakes were rare to nonexistent at that altitude.
And no rattlesnakes.
Posted by at 04:37 PM | Permalink
In the mix
May 23, 2006Sometimes the best things in life really are free.
During a hiking trip, that might be the beautiful starry skies, the windswept cliffs and the sound of a bubbling brook.
Or it could be something entirely manmade.
One of the downers of being the SLOWEST person in my hiking group during last year's trip through the High Sierras over Labor Day was being the last person to choose a tent site.
When I finally stumbled into camp after a day alternating between terror and joy -- thought I was lost a few times and then found out I wasn't -- my three trailmates had already pitched their tents and were chilling out before the evening meal.
I ended up setting mine up about 1.5 feet from where Lon would cook our supper that night.
This posed a bit of a logistics problem, but I figured it would be OK as long as my tent didn't catch fire, and Lon said it was all right.
Then came some trail socializing with a couple and their tagalong trailmate.
Sitting upright on a log and making chitchat taxed my endurance terribly. At any given moment, my system might have started shutting down from sheer exhaustion. Heck, I'd made it into camp, and now I was supposed to make nice?
The only thing I wanted was to crawl into bed.
But I joined the "fun," interrupted by a brief awkward moment.
Someone, who shall remain nameless (but it wasn't me), made a noise that indicates one's digestion is right on track.
The conversation paused and all eyes shifted to me for a moment, including the real culprit's. I wasn't sure what to do.
Should I say, "Hey, I didn't do it"? Then the noise would be acknowledged, and we'd all have to deal with it some way.
The guilty party said nothing. So I maintained silence about the gaseous elephant on the mountain we were all tiptoeing around for a second. Then someone started up the chat again.
Sure, I took the fall, but worse things have happened.
After a few more minutes, it was time for bed. That's when the miraculous happened.
Chris and Christina were the heartiest eaters during the trip, so when the wife held out a bag of brown powder and asked if they'd like some chocolate pudding, their eyes lit up.
You'd have thought it was gold.
They grabbed it and made off to the campsite. I quickly went to bed, but for several minutes I heard a chorus of ecstasy coming from Chris and Christina while they stood just outside my tent (in the cooking area) and mixed up the pudding with hot water.
They were literally singing, "Pudding! Pudding! Pudding!"
"Ouch, pudding burn!" Chris said once when the chocolate stuff spilled over onto his hand during a particularly enthusiastic stir.
But they went right back to, "Pudding! Pudding! Pudding!"
I never again saw them quite as happy as they were upon scoring the pudding, mixing it up and consuming it.
I wonder sometimes if they ever have been as happy as on that evening in the High Sierras with the pudding.
Posted by at 04:18 PM | Permalink
Nothing To Fear But Being Lost
May 11, 2006The day before I'd barely been able to totter along in the thin air of the High Sierras, but there I was running as if my life depended on it the very next day.
I kept thinking, "Where is everybody? Is this the right trail? Am I lost?"
Just like in the city, sometimes the best part of the day on a backpacking trip is lunch.
My trailmates and I were enjoying an idyllic meal by a bubbling -- icy cold -- stream around last Labor Day. We sat in the shade and munched crackers, cheese and summer sausage.
After a morning of tromping down the trail alone, I had company, and I was happy.
The log I was sitting on felt less bumpy and my stinky shirt smelled better when I had someone to share the moment with.
After lunch, Lon told us where to meet up -- way up there. He described a campsite with a certain plaque, blah, blah, blah.
For once, I tuned out the trialmaster. I knew by the time I caught up, everyone else would already have their tents set up.
Then came the dreaded words, "Well, are you ready to head out?"
No, I wasn't ready.
I needed about two hours more of rest, but I would have rather faced a razor without shaving cream on my legs than have told my trialmates. I had my pride.
So I told them I'd be along in about 15 minutes. I watched them take off, refreshed from the break.
I took 30 minutes more and then shouldered my pack.
The hours ticked by in woodsy terrrain, crisscrossed with streams.
It started to seem awfully late.
I began looking for my trailmates and the fabled campsite with some kind of plaque, something to do with Boy Scouts maybe?
I saw nothing but tree after tree and the trail.
It'll be just around the next corner, I told myself.
In fact, I told myself that about a dozen times as the sun slipped down in the western sky. I started just plain lying to myself.
It was all part of my hiker pschology. If the possible truth is too scary -- You might be really lost. You might have taken a wrong turn. You have nothing but an energy bar. Someone else has all the food. Wait, you've got a bear cannister. Hold it. You don't know if you can get it open. -- then just ignore it.
But soon enough, I couldn't ignore the fact that I STILL hadn't come across my trialmates, and it was getting late. That's when the low scaredy-cat murmur in my mind turned into a scaredy-cat roar.
I kept going though. Wouldn't do me any good to sit by the trail and bawl like a baby, now would it?
Besides, my trailmates could actually be around the next corner, and it would be too embarrassing to be caught weeping in the wilderness.
I took a swig out of my treated water and soldiered on.
Then suddenly, there was Lon.
I was so glad to see him that I almost hugged him. However, I acted cool and calm.
He said we'd both already passed the campsite we were supposed to meet at, and there had been no sign of Chris and Christina.
He seemed more perplexed than worried. He took off again, and I walked along without my unwelcome visitor of the last few hours, PANIC.
An hour slipped by, and the idea of twilight menaced me.
That's when I started a sort of half-trot/jog -- something I've never done before.
It turned into a genuine run after about 15 minutes. I actually kept this up -- pack and all -- for about 45 minutes.
Still no sign of human life.
Finally, I decided that if I was going to die alone in the wilderness, let it be with dignity and with breath in my lungs.
So I settled down to a regular walking pace.
Then -- when it seemed the light was poised to deepen into real twilight -- I heard voices.
I broke into a gallop, pack banging away on my back, and, suddenly, there I was, in camp.
I felt true joy.
I'd made it through another day.
But something even better than that lay ahead for my trailmates, something shocking and wonderful at the same time.
Posted by at 03:43 PM | Permalink
Just Breathe
May 05, 2006Something strange happened by about day 2.5 of the hike.
As far as I was concerned, it was a miracle.
The second day of the hike was a purgatory of aching muscles, stiff limbs and trail shock for me.
But a rhythm of hiking settled in for the group.
Chris and Christina struck out together. They were the fastest and nimblest on the hike.
Then Lon followed a short way behind them.
And I was somewhere way back there, anywhere from 30 minutes to 90 minutes behind. It all depended on the terrain.
My trailmates graciously waited for me to catch up for breaks and for meals.
Chris and Christina were exuberant, their boots eating up mile after mile. And Lon was his usual competent self, dealing out the food and checking on his trialmates' feet when appropriate.
I wasn't exactly thrilled about mile after mile on my own. But every so often, I'd come across a solo hiker -- always a male -- who seemed to want nothing more than solitude.
Usually, the solo was scruffy, thin and deeply tanned. They passed quickly, walking to a beat that they'd probably established 100 miles ago.
The second day was another challenge, but I made it through. At some point, I noticed that I could breathe.
Not only that, I could sustain my own rhythm with little to no trouble for miles.
I started noticing the almost surreal beauty surrounding me, enjoying the sky-blue pools and rocky crags piercing the sky above me.
Maybe all that working out wasn't in vain after all.
I was finally enjoying myself, and I felt I could depend on my trailmates to cheer me on and never make me feel crummy because I was the snail of the pack.
Any gripes they might have had about that, they kept to themselves.
Anyway, as Christina told me later, "We weren't going to go all Darwin on you."
It was more about a group effort, made more enjoyable by the diversity of experience and personality among us.
Chris was the joker. Pair he and Christina up, and they were a comedy team.
Lon was quietly cheerful and pleasant to be around.
I was just breathing.
And that was the best thing that had happened to me since the trip began.
Posted by at 11:26 AM | Permalink
At the bottom
May 04, 2006The first night of camping in the High Sierras was a chilling experience.
Anyone who's lived through a North Texas winter has been cold. They've suffered through bone-chilling winds and gray days.
Snow and ice -- maybe not so much.
Parts of the High Sierras pack snow and ice even on a sunny day in August.
The first night of true overnight camping during a six-day, 50-mile hiking trip last August taught me things I hadn't known before about cold.
When my group reached the other side of Kearsage Pass, we went about setting up camp and eating supper. The crazy, cruel efforts of the day were catching up with me.
I've never, ever before been so tired. I could barely stay awake long enough to eat.
Christina and another trailmate, Chris, were joking and laughing.
My main goal was just to remain sitting upright.
After the meal, Chris assigned me the task of refilling Lon's water bag. Suffering a bit from the altitude, he'd already turned in.
Refilling the bag turned out to be sort of like filling a balloon up with water -- without a faucet. Between finding my way to the pool in the dark, struggling with the ornery water bag, wondering if snakes lived that high up and feeling exhausted, a two-minute job took about 20.
In the process, my fingers turned ice cold. I was surprised the pool, itself, wasn't solid ice because the water's temperature was so glacial.
I staggered back up the path in the dark, put down the water bottle and crawled into my tent.
There followed several minutes of wrestling with boots, clothing and sleeping bag.
And then, I thought, that surely I would fall into a coma until the next afternoon.
Instead, I felt terribly awake.
I tossed, turned, put on more clothes and tossed some more.
Sleep was elusive because it was cold and getting colder, the ground was no mattress and I was worried about surviving the next five days.
Sure, it was awesome to be among beautiful scenery, pushing myself to -- literally -- reach new heights physically.
But could I really take five more days of this insanity?
What kind of an idiot goes on backpacking trips anyway? This was stupid. Civilization was calling. I was going to turn right back around, climb back up to the top of Kearsage Pass and ...
Wait a minute. Oh Lord, No!
My plans were to avoid Kearsage Pass for the rest of my life. I wasn't going back there.
That left no way to go but forward.
Meanwhile, I was freezing my Texas toes off. Around 5:30 a.m., I dropped off into a fitful sleep.
At 5:31 a.m., I thought I heard people stirring around and talking in our campsite.
For criminey's sake, couldn't my trailmates sleep late like any sane person would do after the Herculean efforts of yesterday?
No.
Not at all.
I crawled out of my tent at around 7 a.m. after more tossing, turning and shivering.
It occurred to me that I was colder than I'd ever been in my life, even when I lived in New Mexico and snow was a regular feature. It was a different kind of cold, the kind that sinks through your skin, into your bones and rewrites your DNA.
I knew one thing: Whatever happened no this trip for good or ill, I'd be a different person when it was all over.
Posted by at 06:03 PM | Permalink
No end in sight
May 01, 2006A pass is not a voluntarily skipped turn, a document allowing entry somewhere or a proposition.
A pass is something different to hikers.
It's a piece of purgatory come to Earth -- at least the Kearsage Pass was.
In mythology, the gods condemned Sisyphus to roll a big rock to the top of a mountain again and again. If they really wanted to mess with him, they should have made him roll the rock up the endless twists and turns of Kearsage Pass again and again.
After lunch, my trailmates took off on their much more in-shape and nimble legs. I continued to trundle to the top as trees and greenery became more and more scarce.
Eventually, the landscape resembled a spent volcano's domain. Black gravelly rock and an occaisional big rock seemed all that was left of the world.
My feet seemed to have giant tubs of chicken-fried steak weighing them down -- which they did but in a more figurative sense.
I was barely plodding along when I finally ran into another hiker going down.
"How far? How far?" I puffed.
"What?" he said.
I silently cursed him for making me waste more valuable oxygen on talking.
"How far to the pass?"
"Oh, not too far. Pretty soon you'll be able to see it," he said.
Thank you, Lord.
Well, if there wasn't much more to go, heck, get out of my way, world.
I managed a much quicker plod for two switchbacks.
These things called switchbacks are torture devices. They go on forever. You get to the end, and then there's another one right in front of you.
After a couple of hours, I couldn't see any pass (that liar), and I couldn't see any end to this very first stretch of a six-day, 50-mile trip. I felt like I'd already gone the 50 miles. I was ready to go home now.
Pick me up. Where's the rescue helicopter? Where's a cute ranger who can get me to a ranger station? Where's ANYTHING that will take me off this Godforsaken trail.
Turns out, I was the only one who could take me off the trail.
If I didn't keep going, then the high-altitude vultures were going to swoop down and pick my bones.
So I kept going. I played a game. All I had to do was make it to the next rock.
"You can do that, can't you, Trish? You gave birth, graduated from college -- twice -- and ... ."
Yes, I was talking to myself by then. But sometimes I ran out of breath even in my mind.
I was resting two to three times a switchback, but I was still going. People I would see several switchbacks below me caught up and passed me.
Great. It was confirmed. I was the slowest hiker on the High Sierras, maybe in the world. But since I was so far from civilization, I'd never know for sure.
Sometime during the haze of constant tromping through the volcanic fields at high altutide, I looked up and saw some tiny heads above me.
Could that be my friends?
"Yes, Trish or whoever your name is, that's your friends," the voice in my head said. "That must be the pass. You can make it now. Keep going. Try to go a little faster. Wait. Not that fast. That'll kill you. Yes, perfect, one foot after another."
About an hour and a half after I first spotted my friends, I crested the pass.
Wow. It was high. My trialmates clapped and cheered. I loved them. I loved the world. I drank water and took sustenance. Life was, indeed, perfect. I could do this hiking thing, no problem. Shoot, it was a breeze.
Then I realized I'd have to go down the other side.
Life sucked.
But, of course, going down wasn't half as bad as going up. The main thing, in fact, was not to go down too fast. I slid to my bottom a couple of times in the scramble down, but I didn't care.
I had survived the first leg of my journey, and, sometimes, survival is victory.
Posted by at 03:36 PM | Permalink
