As promised, here are some pictures.
To view as a slideshow, click on the link, then the first picture, then click on 'Slideshow'
- Roger Dodger
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
O Canada!
Apparently the PCT wasn't going to take it easy this last leg of the trip.
Most importantly, it took Caroline away from me. Due to a family emergency (the crisis is over now, thankfully), she wasn't able to meet me in Chelan as expected. I spent the morning in Stehekin feeling awful. It took 2500 miles, but something finally made me feel awful. I was narcissistically hiking to Canada while Caroline was being a superhero for her family. And there was nothing I could do about it now but walk around feeling awful.
It was very difficult to hear all of the "How's it going?" or "Excited to see you're wife?" questions from everybody. Even though they probably would have preferred hearing "Everything's great!" and carrying about their day, I couldn't fake it. Nor did I really want to.
I did get a bit of a lift when a hiker who I had barely met the night before, hadn't even talked to, and didn't tell about my problems said to me "Sorry to hear you are going through family shit. If you need a shower, we've got a room for the night." I'm not sure how a shower would have helped, but I was touched by the offer.
I then made it to the post office where I picked up a care package from my mother. That helped, too.
At the post office, I got to play with the postmaster's (part lab) puppies (I miss my golden retriever). And how could I not feel better after that?
I decided not to continue on hiking without Caroline, but instead go to Chelan as planned, and visit Caroline's uncle in Wenatchee. I didn't want to be alone. And as distant family he was, he was still family. He (Craig) and his wife (Tanya) had apparently been reading my blog. When they picked me up from the hotel, they had a bag of "monster" cookies (peanut butter, m&ms, chocolate, oats, and probably lots of other goodies I'm forgetting) for me in the back seat. My mouth was watering. My eyes almost were as well.
At the restaurant over a "mammoth" burger (three patties), we reminisced about old times. After we rehashed (and rehashed) the time when we met in the Sierras, we realized that we had no other shared memories. So we set about making new ones. Like that time I sat in their kitchen playing with their two pure-bred labs (getting closer to a golden retriever).
By this time, I had found out that I would be reunited with Caroline the next day, so I was feeling much better.
I spent a couple of days off-trail with Caroline. I hadn't seen her in over two months, so I made sure not to let her out of my sight. It felt so good to be with her again, and so good to not be hiking, that I knew I was going to have trouble with these last 80 miles (due to scheduling issues, I would be hiking alone).
Although this section of Washington is beautiful, it was really more about finishing this hike already. One highlight was getting to meet Omar, a (almost all of Washington) section hiking lab-golden mix (getting even closer. I'll be home soon for a reunion for the ages). After I petted him long enough to lift my spirits again, I waited until I was out of sight and left him some trail magic. I put two animal crackers on a "For Omar" note on the trail. I just hope he's smart enough to be able to read.
Eighty miles goes really slowly when all you can think about is Canada. There's Tim Horton's donuts, poutine, and maple flavored everything, and seventy-nine miles to go. There's curling, and 110 yard football fields, and seventy-eight miles to go. There's...there's... wait a minute, what else is there? This Canada place hardly seems worth all this trouble. I probably should have just stayed on the beaches of Mexico.
But I made it this far, I figure I might as well finish. And finish I did.
O CANADA!!!
Yesterday evening I was thru-hiking. This morning I was through hiking. But I still had nine miles to go to get out of the woods. I was thinking about asking someone to break an ankle or two so I could be medevaced out. But that sounded a bit extreme. Instead, I think I'll just buy a celebratory motorized wheelchair and never walk again.
- Roger Dodger, eh
Friday, September 6, 2013
Here Comes the Sun
Little darling readers, just like every thorn has its rose, every dawn has its night, and every sad sad song has its presumably otherwise happy cowboy, every bad stretch of hiking must end sometime.
Perhaps it was the purple dress I had the honor of wearing (at least they told me I was supposed to feel honored). Yes, of course it was sequined. Yes, of course I will post pictures eventually. And if you are lucky, I might even post a picture of me in a purple sequined dress. One word: stunning. Six more words: not the good kind of stunning.
Maybe it was the bacon that was put into my egg scramble instead of sausage. The waitress didn't want to make any promises because her brother the chef sometimes didn't like doing substitutions, but she'd ask really nicely by putting a question mark next to the bacon on the order slip. I agree, first rate service at Der Baring cafe/general store/post office, the only store in town. At least I could order something other than prime rib this time.
Maybe it was the fact that I now had zero town stops between here and Caroline. That's right, zero. Count 'em with me.... good.
Maybe it was the fact that I left town in a new ir of socks. Oh, if only you knew how much new socks mean to me. Let's just say that I don't plan on removing myself from the socksaddict.com mailing list anytime soon. I'm hoping they will one day start a sock of the month club. I'd join that in a heartbeat. Even better would be a pair of socks of the month club. But I'm okay taking one thing at a time.
Maybe it was the sunshine. Maybe it was the lack of post-ultra soreness in my legs. Or maybe it was just the methamphetamines. But whatever the reason, I left Steven's Pass feeling great.
As good as day one was, day two was even better. I was one day closer to Caroline. The sun was shining brighter. The birds were singing in greater harmony. And I got to walk through Glacier Peak Wilderness. One word: wow. Six more words: wow, wow,wow,wow,wow,wow,wow. OK, that was seven words. But who's counting. Besides me (and perhaps now you). I haven't settled on an ordering yet, but Glacier Peak joins Goat Rocks and the High Sierra for my top four (will you stop counting already?) scenic spots on the PCT.
And the good times keep rolling. Day three started out even better. The sun was shining even brighter (I assume, it was hidden behind a sky full of clouds). And I was still one day closer to Caroline (again an assumption. My math skills have really gone to pot out here).
Since there were to be no views today, I decided to spice things up a bit by hurling myself down the side of the mountain. To be fair, this was more of a collaborative decision on the part of me and Gravity. While coming up with a plan, I kept proposing ideas the that were out of this world, but Gravity kept pulling me down to Earth. He really was able to keep me grounded. We then had a weighty discussion about how he was getting me down. I felt I had been doing all the heavy lifting in our relationship. So I jumped at this plan where I would just have to step off the trail and Gravity would do the rest.
I must have fallen 200-300 cm before I finally came to a stop. Quick check to make sure I was okay. Uh oh. I knew I would have difficulty finishing the last 125 miles of the hike with my right leg broken in two. There was no pain though, which surprised me until I realized I had simply been looking at my knee. I climbed back to the trail and did a more complete check. Everything seemed to be in order, but I couldn't seem to find my spleen or my sunglasses. Since I wouldn't have been able to find my spleen before the fall, I decided not to worry about that one. My sunglasses were another story though. "Here we go again," I thought as I hurled myself down the mountain a second time in search of them.
I found a big tree that, had there been sun, would surely have provided me with some nice shade. But there was no sun and I needed a pair. These shades had lasted me ten years. I had been looking for an excuse to get new ones. So I wasn't overly disappointed when I couldn't find them.
Day four is turning out to be another promising one. After over four months, I have finally figured out how to crack the one hundred miles to go barrier. I had a pair of sunglasses' weight less to carry. Gravity and I came up with a stand-up plan for the day. And again, I was one day closer to the Stehekin bakery. One day closer to cinnamon rolls. One day closer to pies. One day closer to cookies. Oh right. I was also one day closer to what's-her-name.
Day five: 8:13a. "Why is it still dark and how was I able to sleep so late?," I wondered. Let me double check the time. Yup, 8:13a. Wait a minute. How was I able to check the time without opening my eyes. Oh, that's why it was so dark. 3:45a. That makes more sense. I must be the world's most boring dreamer.
Day five: 3:45a. After hiking into Stehekin yesterday (22 miles on 120 calories), I had hit the bakery. A giant cinnamon roll, a big slice of pizza, and a piece of pie later, I walked back to "town" with the rest of the pie in hand getting eaten alive by the worst mosquitoes of the summer. Once there I killed a couple of hours (and a couple hundred mosquitoes) talking with hikers and vacationers, accepting a beer and offering pie in return (a decision I would later regret). After a giant plate of nachos, more pie, more hiker talk, and more pie, I went off to bed under a starlit night. I had done the same the evening before and was awakened in the middle of the night by someone pouring water on my face. So tonight I made sure to put a roof between me and the stars. Good thing I did, as I was awakened again by the rain. This time I'm thankfully dry. Dry, yes. But hungry, and with no pie. Damn my generosity (Can I say "damn" on the Internet? Fuckin' right I can!).
Now all I can think about (other than my brethren, those poor mittenless kittens) is that Caroline is only 12 hours away.
- Lovesick and Pieless (much preferred over Loveless and Piesick)
Perhaps it was the purple dress I had the honor of wearing (at least they told me I was supposed to feel honored). Yes, of course it was sequined. Yes, of course I will post pictures eventually. And if you are lucky, I might even post a picture of me in a purple sequined dress. One word: stunning. Six more words: not the good kind of stunning.
Maybe it was the bacon that was put into my egg scramble instead of sausage. The waitress didn't want to make any promises because her brother the chef sometimes didn't like doing substitutions, but she'd ask really nicely by putting a question mark next to the bacon on the order slip. I agree, first rate service at Der Baring cafe/general store/post office, the only store in town. At least I could order something other than prime rib this time.
Maybe it was the fact that I now had zero town stops between here and Caroline. That's right, zero. Count 'em with me.... good.
Maybe it was the fact that I left town in a new ir of socks. Oh, if only you knew how much new socks mean to me. Let's just say that I don't plan on removing myself from the socksaddict.com mailing list anytime soon. I'm hoping they will one day start a sock of the month club. I'd join that in a heartbeat. Even better would be a pair of socks of the month club. But I'm okay taking one thing at a time.
Maybe it was the sunshine. Maybe it was the lack of post-ultra soreness in my legs. Or maybe it was just the methamphetamines. But whatever the reason, I left Steven's Pass feeling great.
As good as day one was, day two was even better. I was one day closer to Caroline. The sun was shining brighter. The birds were singing in greater harmony. And I got to walk through Glacier Peak Wilderness. One word: wow. Six more words: wow, wow,wow,wow,wow,wow,wow. OK, that was seven words. But who's counting. Besides me (and perhaps now you). I haven't settled on an ordering yet, but Glacier Peak joins Goat Rocks and the High Sierra for my top four (will you stop counting already?) scenic spots on the PCT.
And the good times keep rolling. Day three started out even better. The sun was shining even brighter (I assume, it was hidden behind a sky full of clouds). And I was still one day closer to Caroline (again an assumption. My math skills have really gone to pot out here).
Since there were to be no views today, I decided to spice things up a bit by hurling myself down the side of the mountain. To be fair, this was more of a collaborative decision on the part of me and Gravity. While coming up with a plan, I kept proposing ideas the that were out of this world, but Gravity kept pulling me down to Earth. He really was able to keep me grounded. We then had a weighty discussion about how he was getting me down. I felt I had been doing all the heavy lifting in our relationship. So I jumped at this plan where I would just have to step off the trail and Gravity would do the rest.
I must have fallen 200-300 cm before I finally came to a stop. Quick check to make sure I was okay. Uh oh. I knew I would have difficulty finishing the last 125 miles of the hike with my right leg broken in two. There was no pain though, which surprised me until I realized I had simply been looking at my knee. I climbed back to the trail and did a more complete check. Everything seemed to be in order, but I couldn't seem to find my spleen or my sunglasses. Since I wouldn't have been able to find my spleen before the fall, I decided not to worry about that one. My sunglasses were another story though. "Here we go again," I thought as I hurled myself down the mountain a second time in search of them.
I found a big tree that, had there been sun, would surely have provided me with some nice shade. But there was no sun and I needed a pair. These shades had lasted me ten years. I had been looking for an excuse to get new ones. So I wasn't overly disappointed when I couldn't find them.
Day four is turning out to be another promising one. After over four months, I have finally figured out how to crack the one hundred miles to go barrier. I had a pair of sunglasses' weight less to carry. Gravity and I came up with a stand-up plan for the day. And again, I was one day closer to the Stehekin bakery. One day closer to cinnamon rolls. One day closer to pies. One day closer to cookies. Oh right. I was also one day closer to what's-her-name.
Day five: 8:13a. "Why is it still dark and how was I able to sleep so late?," I wondered. Let me double check the time. Yup, 8:13a. Wait a minute. How was I able to check the time without opening my eyes. Oh, that's why it was so dark. 3:45a. That makes more sense. I must be the world's most boring dreamer.
Day five: 3:45a. After hiking into Stehekin yesterday (22 miles on 120 calories), I had hit the bakery. A giant cinnamon roll, a big slice of pizza, and a piece of pie later, I walked back to "town" with the rest of the pie in hand getting eaten alive by the worst mosquitoes of the summer. Once there I killed a couple of hours (and a couple hundred mosquitoes) talking with hikers and vacationers, accepting a beer and offering pie in return (a decision I would later regret). After a giant plate of nachos, more pie, more hiker talk, and more pie, I went off to bed under a starlit night. I had done the same the evening before and was awakened in the middle of the night by someone pouring water on my face. So tonight I made sure to put a roof between me and the stars. Good thing I did, as I was awakened again by the rain. This time I'm thankfully dry. Dry, yes. But hungry, and with no pie. Damn my generosity (Can I say "damn" on the Internet? Fuckin' right I can!).
Now all I can think about (other than my brethren, those poor mittenless kittens) is that Caroline is only 12 hours away.
- Lovesick and Pieless (much preferred over Loveless and Piesick)
Sunday, September 1, 2013
There Are Fungi Among I
Did you know that there are more mushrooms in Washington than there are in the rest of the states combined? Neither did I until I made that piece of trivia up. What? You need your trivia to be factual? How utterly pedestrian. But just for you, the Puget Sound Mycological Society has over 1200 members, one of the largest such societies in the country.
All this is to say that there are a lot of big, odd and/or fascinating mushrooms to look at while hiking. I mention this only to tell you that that implies there is a lot of rain in Washington. In fact, it rained the very first day I entered the state, welcoming be back as well as reminding me why I left.
After spending a nice time in Seattle visiting some old friends (and a sister who just happened to be passing through as well), I set off on this short three day section by hiking for a day and a half in the rain. The rain, the soreness from the ultra, the heavy mind, the obsessive focus on the destination and not the journey; (I don't think I've ever used a semicolon before. I can't imagine that I'm using it correctly ;-) all managed to make this section my least favorite yet. And to top it off, the only restaurant in town was only serving prime rib. I have never tried it before. And if my hiker hunger wasn't enough to overcome my aversion to that mooing cut of meat, I can't imagine that I ever will.
Instead of focusing on the negative, I will instead focus on this tiny keyboard on my phone while I try to keep you entertained.
Washington is like a five hundred mile victory lap. On one hand, we know that five hundred miles is an insanely far distance to walk. On the other hand, we have already done it four times in a row, and are in such good shape that it seems like we are walking on cake. Ever since I crossed the border I have been getting congratulated by anyone who knows anything about the trail.
One notable exception was the Safeway checkout lady who asked if I was hiking back to Mexico once I reached the border. Wasn't she impressed enough by one direction, I wondered? Apparently she asked "just to find out how crazy [I] really [am]".
After telling the following story a couple of times, I have since learned that I should not start with "I had a nice time with a ten-year old girl". So, about a week ago, I had a nice time with two sisters (seriously? It was a nice 'conversation'. Get your minds out of the gutters folks.) One was about eight, the other ten. The eight year old played the part of almost all adults that I've talked with about the trail. She would ask question after question about the logistics of the hike. Where do you sleep? What do you eat? How many Sasquatch have you seen? No matter what was asked, no matter what was answered (wherever I want; whatever I can; as many as the number of bears I've seen), the older one's response was always the same. She would look at me with wide eyes and say "That is SOOO cool!" (By the way, did you notice the proper use of semicolons a sentence back? sorry; it shan't; happen again.) It got me to thinking about why we hike the trail. Yes, for some people it surely is the allure of maple syrup. But for most of us, it is simply because every time we heard about the trail, our eyes lit up and "That is SOOO cool!" flashed in our head.
It is now three in the morning (yup, there is apparently a three in the AM as well), and I can't seem to go back to sleep. Maybe it is the trains that keep coming within 50 years of me at the Dinsmore's house where I'm staying. Or maybe it's all the Coke I drank instead of dinner (ok, I exaggerate. I did have pie and ice cream). But either way, I sit here counting down the five hours until the restaurant opens. After which I will get on the trail and count down the 104 miles until I get to see Caroline again.
; Fun Guy
All this is to say that there are a lot of big, odd and/or fascinating mushrooms to look at while hiking. I mention this only to tell you that that implies there is a lot of rain in Washington. In fact, it rained the very first day I entered the state, welcoming be back as well as reminding me why I left.
After spending a nice time in Seattle visiting some old friends (and a sister who just happened to be passing through as well), I set off on this short three day section by hiking for a day and a half in the rain. The rain, the soreness from the ultra, the heavy mind, the obsessive focus on the destination and not the journey; (I don't think I've ever used a semicolon before. I can't imagine that I'm using it correctly ;-) all managed to make this section my least favorite yet. And to top it off, the only restaurant in town was only serving prime rib. I have never tried it before. And if my hiker hunger wasn't enough to overcome my aversion to that mooing cut of meat, I can't imagine that I ever will.
Instead of focusing on the negative, I will instead focus on this tiny keyboard on my phone while I try to keep you entertained.
Washington is like a five hundred mile victory lap. On one hand, we know that five hundred miles is an insanely far distance to walk. On the other hand, we have already done it four times in a row, and are in such good shape that it seems like we are walking on cake. Ever since I crossed the border I have been getting congratulated by anyone who knows anything about the trail.
One notable exception was the Safeway checkout lady who asked if I was hiking back to Mexico once I reached the border. Wasn't she impressed enough by one direction, I wondered? Apparently she asked "just to find out how crazy [I] really [am]".
After telling the following story a couple of times, I have since learned that I should not start with "I had a nice time with a ten-year old girl". So, about a week ago, I had a nice time with two sisters (seriously? It was a nice 'conversation'. Get your minds out of the gutters folks.) One was about eight, the other ten. The eight year old played the part of almost all adults that I've talked with about the trail. She would ask question after question about the logistics of the hike. Where do you sleep? What do you eat? How many Sasquatch have you seen? No matter what was asked, no matter what was answered (wherever I want; whatever I can; as many as the number of bears I've seen), the older one's response was always the same. She would look at me with wide eyes and say "That is SOOO cool!" (By the way, did you notice the proper use of semicolons a sentence back? sorry; it shan't; happen again.) It got me to thinking about why we hike the trail. Yes, for some people it surely is the allure of maple syrup. But for most of us, it is simply because every time we heard about the trail, our eyes lit up and "That is SOOO cool!" flashed in our head.
It is now three in the morning (yup, there is apparently a three in the AM as well), and I can't seem to go back to sleep. Maybe it is the trains that keep coming within 50 years of me at the Dinsmore's house where I'm staying. Or maybe it's all the Coke I drank instead of dinner (ok, I exaggerate. I did have pie and ice cream). But either way, I sit here counting down the five hours until the restaurant opens. After which I will get on the trail and count down the 104 miles until I get to see Caroline again.
; Fun Guy
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Oops, I just ran an ultramarathon
I had been thinking about the dearth of trail magic since entering Washington (a congealing mass of donuts does not count) when I ran into a trail crew building a footbridge. I figured that if I wasn't receiving trail magic, at least I could be providing it (I don't understand the logic of that either, but I being around trail magic is generally a good thing). So I gave the rest of my homemade cookies (after grabbing a couple and whispering a sweet goodbye to the others) to people who had been out in the woods for a while helping us hikers (we don't like wet feet), and getting very little recognition in return other then a few passing words of appreciation. To really show appreciation, you need to put your cookies where their mouth is, as I always say (Just kidding. I have never said that. It's way too inelegant wordplay even for my standards.) (Just kidding. I have no such standards.)
As much as I would have enjoyed eating the rest of the cookies, these volunteers clearly enjoyed them more (and if they knew how much thru-hikers value their food, they would realize how strong of a gesture this was). And I enjoyed watching them enjoy the cookies. And hopefully they were able to enjoy me enjoy them enjoying their cookies, though that may be too taxing a thing to think about when you've got cookies on the brain. The only thing I'd be thinking about in that case was how they got on my brain, and why not in my mouth instead, where it would be so much easier to get them to my stomach where they belong. Thank you again for the cookies, Jerilyn, on behalf of the trail crew as well as myself.
I didn't toss my cookies for this reason, but was happy that this act broke my trail magic dry spell. There is no other plausible explanation to the following days' bounties. The very next day I ran into Spoons and Miracle Zen relaxing on a pass next to a big red cooler full of fruit and muffins (magic #1). I wouldn't have seen the cooler as it was doing a good job of hiding off the trail, but Spoons and Zen had been paying attention to the trail gossip, and had known where to look. I was a bit jealous when they told me that while I had been sleeping in a fly-infested motel a couple of days ago, they had been having a campfire cookout of hotdogs and beer by a lake. Boy was I jealous. I was only partially consoled later that day I ran into another trail crew of about 8 backcountry horsemen (it goes without saying that they were all in cowboy hats), where I was offered an apple (magic #2) while I was on display fielding PCT questions from the audience. But I was still reeling over my lack of hotdogs and beer. For the rest of the afternoon, I kept imagining that the shelter I was going to get to that night (one of the extremely few shelters on the trail) would be full of weekenders who were having a cookout with hotdogs and beer, and would offer me some. Unfortunately, that did not happen. Yes, there were weekenders there. Yes, they had a campfire. Yes, they were roasting hotdogs and drinker beers. And yes, they did offer me one of each. But not "some". (magic #3).
One day later I found myself next to another big red cooler (magic #4) full of soda, beer, cookies, cheese, and fruit. Not only was it fully stocked, but it was put there only one day prior. Lucky me. I was sitting at this cooler trying to control myself from eating its entire contents (there are other thru-hikers besides me, even though I was alone and there weren't actually any other thru-hikers besides me) when I overheard a couple of people drive up to the trailhead and start talking about setting up an aid station for the Cascade Crest 100 (CC100) mile race. Apparently, I was sitting at mile 23 of the course. The organizer of the aid station offered me a couple of donuts (magic #5) and later was given free reign at the snacks table (magic #6).
I stuck around for a couple of hours, in which Spoons and Zen showed up. They were a bit shy about asking for food. But I know the ultra community, and I know how generous they are, and how similar ultrarunners are to thru-hikers, and so I gently nudged them towards the table. They still were a little hesitant even after the volunteers told them to go ahead. I sat back and enjoyed the spectacle of them waiting until enough heads were turned to grab a couple extra handful of snacks, only to appear as natural as could be while eating and talking to the volunteers. Apparently, they too were struggling with the dilemma of how much to eat and how much to leave to the other just as hungry people who were going to follow in their footsteps.
After watching the lead runners go through the aid station, we decided to continue hiking. But instead of walking away, we made our exit by running through the aid station (from the woods just before it) amid lots of cheers from the crowd. It's possible to run with 30 pound packs on, just not very easy. As soon as we were out of sight, we went back to hiking.
We got passed by runners, but eventually made it to a non-aid station tent, home of a PCTA volunteer crew helping to maintain the trail. They do this trail maintenance the week of the race on purpose, so they can take some time off and watch it. But with only 150 runners, they have lots of free time between participants, which they were eager to kill by cooking us hamburgers and feeding us beer (magic #7).
Spoons, Zen, and I spent about 25 miles of the PCT that happened to coincide with the CC100, getting passed by runners, enjoying the food (and fans) and the aid stations (magic #8-11). We were having such a good time that we didn't want it to end. But it had been a really long day. It was 11p, and I had hiked 38 miles (to their 44). So we did what any rational people in our shoes would have done. We dropped our packs. Then we set out to run the last 50 miles of the race.
We quickly became known to all runners and volunteers throughout the race. One of my favorite parts was later on when a pacer said to his runner "Thru-hiker coming through". The runner turned around, looked at me, and asked "Do you really want to pass me?" I told her I did, if she didn't mind. "Really?" I don't think she could believe it.
We stopped to talk to everyone who wanted. Took pictures with everyone who wanted. And told our story over and over to all the people who could not possibly understand how three PCT hikers were running in their race.
In our defense, none of us were strangers to running. I had run a couple of hundreds before. Spoons had run a half-marathon (13.1 miles), and Zen had a previous long run of 7 miles. So it's not like we didn't know what we were doing.
On one hand, you can say that we came into this race totally unprepared. But on the other hand, you can say that we trained harder than almost all of the competitors. We had been exercising for ten hours a day, five to six days per week for the the last four months. We had been climbing mountains. We had been hiking at altitude. And all that training paid off handsomely. I have never had such an easy time at an ultra. I have never had so much fun at an ultra. We were laughing and picking huckleberries and goofing around and just having the time of our lives while all the people we kept passing (after we dropped our packs, I don't think anyone passed us) were struggling to stay awake, struggling to keep from vomiting, seemingly struggling just to keep moving forward.
The only downer of the run was when Zen started getting a pain in his knee acute enough that he decided it was better to drop out then risk ending his PCT hike. Spoons and I thought it was a wise decision. But we missed him. So when I heard 25 miles later that he was a mile ahead of us coming backwards to catch up and take us home the last six miles to the end of the race, I was more than just happy. I ran as hard as I could to meet him, gave him a quick hug, took a quick drink from the energy drink he was carrying, and told him to go get Spoons who was by then struggling a bit. At the previous aid station, he needed to sit down for 10 minutes or so, and had be moving a bit slower ever since. Jogging still, just slower.
I got to the next aid station (mile 96), and waited for them. I don't know what Zen told him, but by the time they got there Spoons said "Let's go!" He didn't even stop to refill his water bottle.
Zen ran us to the finish line where we heard the announcer say "These guys didn't start with us, but they are ending with us. Welcome to Easton, PCT hikers". We put on our CC100 shirts that the race director gave us, took more pictures, answered more questions, and enjoyed more of the after race trail magic.
- Ultra-bandit
ps. A bandit is a runner who doesn't enter a race, but runs anyway. We may be the first bandits of ultramarathoning
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
No Lions nor Tigers nor Bears, Oh My!
It's been a while since I've written a blog entry. I plan to make this one extra long. If it is too long for your liking, I will completely understand if you decide to only read it twice.
Ages ago (okay, last week. But it felt like ages ago), while I was hiking with Sharkbait (Laura) and Kevbot (Kevin), Laura (she wasn't Sharkbait yet) was off in the woods and said to us
"Guys, I just saw a quail."
"Grouse?," I asked.
"I saw a Quail."
"Grouse?," I asked.
"QUAIL!" "Grouse?," I asked.
"Oh yeah, it was a grouse."
Kevin couldn't believe that had worked, and we had a good time giggling over what a slightly meaner brother might have convinced her she had seen. Jimmy Hoffa's body? The lost city of Atlantis? One of those imaginary bears?
A couple of days later, we found ourselves thick in the middle of huckleberry bushes.
"Did you see all those blueberry bushes?" she asked when I caught up to her. "Huckleberry bushes?," I asked.
"Blueberry bushes!," she insisted.
Okay, I figure I'd let her win this one.
For the rest of the week, we found ourselves splitting the time almost evenly between picking blueberries, eating blueberries, and hiking. It was deliciously wonderful. When we meet up with a couple of hikers (Moses, Hebrew Hammer, and Operator) for lunch, Laura couldn't help but remark how deliciously wonderful all those blueberries have been. "Huckleberries?," asked Moses, Hebrew Hammer, and Operator. Sorry Laura, I did try to give you that one.
Cascade Locks is the last town in Oregon, lying on the Columbia River just across from Washington. I ran into a cache just before town which had a jar of maple syrup inside. This was meant to incentivize us hikers with the message that we had almost made it to Canada. I found it hysterical as my one-liner to why I am hiking the trail is to get some decent maple syrup. Caroline pointed out that I should instead be disincentivized because I no longer needed to make it to Canada to get my maple syrup. But just as huckleberries taste better when picked right from the bush, so maple syrup tastes better when licked right from the tree. So onward to Canada. But first Washington. But first Cascade Locks.
Laura and I stayed at Shrek's house during our stay at Cascade Locks. Shrek looks like an ogre. He has a giant Shrek doll that I would say is life-sized, but I'm not quite sure how big ogres are. The only thing that would make his ogreness more complete would be if instead of collecting tolls on the Bridge of the Gods (as is his job), he were to collect trolls under it.
Cascade Locks is tiny. They do have an ice cream shop though. While waiting on line, I saw them dole out a medium soft-serve cone. It was the biggest ice cream cone I had ever seen. So I ordered a large. "I'm a PCT hiker, I think I can handle it" I assured the soft-server, when she warned me of its behemoth size. I could not handle it. My ecstatic smile turned quickly to a fear driven panic when the tower of ice cream toppled over under its own weight. Luckily, I was able to catch it with my free hand and shove it into the quart-sized cup they had given me for this apparently anticipated eventuality. In reality, I was only able to shove most of it in the cup. What was left protruding over the top was still more than your typical ice cream cone. I did the best I could, but eventually I had to admit defeat. I could try to blame it on the fact that I had had a pint of ice cream the day before and was all ice creamed out. Or I could try to blame it on the fact that I was saving room for the taco dinner that Laura was making for me and another half-dozen or so hikers (and one ogre) that would be ready momentarily. But no, I will not make excuses and will take my defeat like a man. Perhaps one day I'll make it back to Cascade Locks for a rematch. I can think of no other reason I'd ever need to return.
Before we left Cascade Locks, Laura insisted we go anniversary shopping for Caroline. Our eighth anniversary is coming up, and I needed to find her something made of bronze. I had very little hope of finding anything in this nothing of a town, but decided to humor Laura and check out the art gallery anyway. Unbelievably they actually had several items made of bronze. Nothing spoke to me though, so we decided to leave. On our way out, the proprietor told us that if we were looking for bronze, there was a bronze sculpture artist's studio just down the street. This must be a sign. Surely I was going to find the perfect gift for Caroline there. And I did. A ten foot tall sculpture of Sacajawea. It was meant to be. But alas, the sculpture would not be ready for some months now, way to late for our anniversary. Hope you can make do with your replacement gift, Caroline.
With absolutely nothing else to do in Cascade Locks, Laura escorted me across the bridge and into Washington. With a hug, I wished her goodbye, and so too said goodbye to our beloved huckleberries. There were plenty of bushes, mind you. But no huckleberries.
There was another cache, however. This one of donuts. Mmm, donuts. And not just any donuts. But Portland's own VooDoo Donuts, with such toppings as Froot Loops or bacon. Mmm, VooDoo donuts. Unfortunately, these donuts happened to be almost two weeks old, and in a bucket with instructions to use a spoon and not your fingers. I was brave enough to open the bucket. I was brave enough to smell the donuts. But I was not brave enough to pull out my spoon. No syrup. No donuts. Ice cream left on the table. My appetite just hasn't been up to the challenge of the PCT of late.
I was lamenting my lack of huckleberries ten miles later to Walkie Talkie (because he walks a lot and talks a lot) over lunch. When he got tired of hearing me complain about the berries, he set off hiking again. I left about twenty minutes later. So I was very surprised when I saw him within a mile not moving, holding a finger (which I was glad to see was his own) to his lips letting me know I was to be quiet. A bear. I was sure of it. Maybe that's why there had been no huckleberries left for me. I was going give that bear a piece of my mind. And maybe a knuckle sandwich or two to chase those berries down with.
I walked silently up to him and whispered "Bear?"
"No. Bears do not exist. This was a cougar."
When I looked around, there was no cougar.
He told me that the cougar was in the middle of the trail, had jumped up on the ridge within ten yards of him, had growled, and had basically a staring contest for those twenty minutes it had taken me to catch up.
Cougar sightings are incredibly rare (unless you are a cougar). While I was deciding whether or not to believe his story, I noticed he was standing in a puddle. When he showed me a picture of the lion he had taken, it just confirmed what I already knew. It was a big cat, and he got very close to it.
We decided to hike together for a while. And we calmed ourselves with logic that since we could no longer smell the cougar, than the cougar could no longer smell us. But just in case, I told the cougar (through my thoughts. I'm assuming that they can read minds) that Walkie Talkie was a chef for the British navy, and that since he surely ate much better than me, he would surely eat much better than me.
We eventually decided the coast was clear and split up. I camped alone that night. When I heard rustling behind me I thought to myself "S***, a cougar!" I took a look and was relieved to find it was only a deer...being stalked by a cougar! I was relieved to find out that that last bit was just my imagination...being mind controlled by a telepathic cougar!
I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep unless I did something about this. I took out a pad and paper and wrote the following:
Dearest cougar (I assume cougars are suckers for formality) (I did not write this parenthetical, of course) (or that one) (or that.... hmm...aha! or that one or this one),
Please do not eat me. I am trying to sleep and would prefer it if I were not disturbed.
Sincerely,
Roger Dodger
ps. If you really feel the need to eat someone, Walkie Talkie is just up the trail a little ways.
All in all, this was pretty scary. Not quite as scary as seeing my ice cream falling over, but pretty scary nonetheless.
Walkie Talkie credits me with chasing the cougar away. And since he cooks for the British navy, I don't think it's a stretch to say that I single handedly saved the British navy from starvation. I expect to receive a commendation any day now. I'll put it next to the one I should be receiving for saving the entire PCT from burning a couple of weeks ago.
I'm glad I have this blog to wrote events while they are fresh in my mind. Having to recall them later and I'm sure the temptation to exaggerate would be too much to overcome.
The following day I was eating lunch with a spectacular view of Mt. Adams, lamenting to myself that I had lost all my snacks. I always leave town with plenty of snacks, but by the second day out I can never seem to find them.
Just then I looked up for a moment and saw a huckleberry. It had a couple of brothers, too. Not many, but enough to make it with my while to stand up. When I had eaten them, I looked across the trail and saw another bush. This was gushing with berries. As soon as I had it picked clean, I found the bush next to it was also gushing berries. So I picked that one clean too. Then I looked up and saw the entire hillside was covered with berries. I didn't yet quit, but did have to admit defeat. Again. The spirit was willing, but the stomach was weak.
I then discovered I was half a day away from a town. I hadn't planned on stopping there until I realized one thing. Town equals snacks. Mmm, snacks. When I got there I was happy to find out that they will put huckleberries in just about anything. Before I left the following morning, I had eaten a huckleberry cinnamon roll, a huckleberry pancake, and had two slices of huckleberry coffee cake in my pack for the road. I had to say no to the huckleberry pie, huckleberry lemonade and huckleberry milkshakes (of course I had a milkshake in town. But the first one is always coffee. If I could have handled a second one, I would have gone for coffee again. But the third, coffee still. Perhaps I would have gotten around to a huckleberry one, though I strongly doubt it). My poor stomach. It is way bigger my eyes but was still defeated. Again.
Well, I can't sit around here and talk about huckleberries all day. I've got Canada to get to. But first, Snoqualmie Pass. But first, the nearest huckleberry bush.
- Huck Finn, Lion Tamer
Ages ago (okay, last week. But it felt like ages ago), while I was hiking with Sharkbait (Laura) and Kevbot (Kevin), Laura (she wasn't Sharkbait yet) was off in the woods and said to us
"Guys, I just saw a quail."
"Grouse?," I asked.
"I saw a Quail."
"Grouse?," I asked.
"QUAIL!" "Grouse?," I asked.
"Oh yeah, it was a grouse."
Kevin couldn't believe that had worked, and we had a good time giggling over what a slightly meaner brother might have convinced her she had seen. Jimmy Hoffa's body? The lost city of Atlantis? One of those imaginary bears?
A couple of days later, we found ourselves thick in the middle of huckleberry bushes.
"Did you see all those blueberry bushes?" she asked when I caught up to her. "Huckleberry bushes?," I asked.
"Blueberry bushes!," she insisted.
Okay, I figure I'd let her win this one.
For the rest of the week, we found ourselves splitting the time almost evenly between picking blueberries, eating blueberries, and hiking. It was deliciously wonderful. When we meet up with a couple of hikers (Moses, Hebrew Hammer, and Operator) for lunch, Laura couldn't help but remark how deliciously wonderful all those blueberries have been. "Huckleberries?," asked Moses, Hebrew Hammer, and Operator. Sorry Laura, I did try to give you that one.
Cascade Locks is the last town in Oregon, lying on the Columbia River just across from Washington. I ran into a cache just before town which had a jar of maple syrup inside. This was meant to incentivize us hikers with the message that we had almost made it to Canada. I found it hysterical as my one-liner to why I am hiking the trail is to get some decent maple syrup. Caroline pointed out that I should instead be disincentivized because I no longer needed to make it to Canada to get my maple syrup. But just as huckleberries taste better when picked right from the bush, so maple syrup tastes better when licked right from the tree. So onward to Canada. But first Washington. But first Cascade Locks.
Laura and I stayed at Shrek's house during our stay at Cascade Locks. Shrek looks like an ogre. He has a giant Shrek doll that I would say is life-sized, but I'm not quite sure how big ogres are. The only thing that would make his ogreness more complete would be if instead of collecting tolls on the Bridge of the Gods (as is his job), he were to collect trolls under it.
Cascade Locks is tiny. They do have an ice cream shop though. While waiting on line, I saw them dole out a medium soft-serve cone. It was the biggest ice cream cone I had ever seen. So I ordered a large. "I'm a PCT hiker, I think I can handle it" I assured the soft-server, when she warned me of its behemoth size. I could not handle it. My ecstatic smile turned quickly to a fear driven panic when the tower of ice cream toppled over under its own weight. Luckily, I was able to catch it with my free hand and shove it into the quart-sized cup they had given me for this apparently anticipated eventuality. In reality, I was only able to shove most of it in the cup. What was left protruding over the top was still more than your typical ice cream cone. I did the best I could, but eventually I had to admit defeat. I could try to blame it on the fact that I had had a pint of ice cream the day before and was all ice creamed out. Or I could try to blame it on the fact that I was saving room for the taco dinner that Laura was making for me and another half-dozen or so hikers (and one ogre) that would be ready momentarily. But no, I will not make excuses and will take my defeat like a man. Perhaps one day I'll make it back to Cascade Locks for a rematch. I can think of no other reason I'd ever need to return.
Before we left Cascade Locks, Laura insisted we go anniversary shopping for Caroline. Our eighth anniversary is coming up, and I needed to find her something made of bronze. I had very little hope of finding anything in this nothing of a town, but decided to humor Laura and check out the art gallery anyway. Unbelievably they actually had several items made of bronze. Nothing spoke to me though, so we decided to leave. On our way out, the proprietor told us that if we were looking for bronze, there was a bronze sculpture artist's studio just down the street. This must be a sign. Surely I was going to find the perfect gift for Caroline there. And I did. A ten foot tall sculpture of Sacajawea. It was meant to be. But alas, the sculpture would not be ready for some months now, way to late for our anniversary. Hope you can make do with your replacement gift, Caroline.
With absolutely nothing else to do in Cascade Locks, Laura escorted me across the bridge and into Washington. With a hug, I wished her goodbye, and so too said goodbye to our beloved huckleberries. There were plenty of bushes, mind you. But no huckleberries.
There was another cache, however. This one of donuts. Mmm, donuts. And not just any donuts. But Portland's own VooDoo Donuts, with such toppings as Froot Loops or bacon. Mmm, VooDoo donuts. Unfortunately, these donuts happened to be almost two weeks old, and in a bucket with instructions to use a spoon and not your fingers. I was brave enough to open the bucket. I was brave enough to smell the donuts. But I was not brave enough to pull out my spoon. No syrup. No donuts. Ice cream left on the table. My appetite just hasn't been up to the challenge of the PCT of late.
I was lamenting my lack of huckleberries ten miles later to Walkie Talkie (because he walks a lot and talks a lot) over lunch. When he got tired of hearing me complain about the berries, he set off hiking again. I left about twenty minutes later. So I was very surprised when I saw him within a mile not moving, holding a finger (which I was glad to see was his own) to his lips letting me know I was to be quiet. A bear. I was sure of it. Maybe that's why there had been no huckleberries left for me. I was going give that bear a piece of my mind. And maybe a knuckle sandwich or two to chase those berries down with.
I walked silently up to him and whispered "Bear?"
"No. Bears do not exist. This was a cougar."
When I looked around, there was no cougar.
He told me that the cougar was in the middle of the trail, had jumped up on the ridge within ten yards of him, had growled, and had basically a staring contest for those twenty minutes it had taken me to catch up.
Cougar sightings are incredibly rare (unless you are a cougar). While I was deciding whether or not to believe his story, I noticed he was standing in a puddle. When he showed me a picture of the lion he had taken, it just confirmed what I already knew. It was a big cat, and he got very close to it.
We decided to hike together for a while. And we calmed ourselves with logic that since we could no longer smell the cougar, than the cougar could no longer smell us. But just in case, I told the cougar (through my thoughts. I'm assuming that they can read minds) that Walkie Talkie was a chef for the British navy, and that since he surely ate much better than me, he would surely eat much better than me.
We eventually decided the coast was clear and split up. I camped alone that night. When I heard rustling behind me I thought to myself "S***, a cougar!" I took a look and was relieved to find it was only a deer...being stalked by a cougar! I was relieved to find out that that last bit was just my imagination...being mind controlled by a telepathic cougar!
I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep unless I did something about this. I took out a pad and paper and wrote the following:
Dearest cougar (I assume cougars are suckers for formality) (I did not write this parenthetical, of course) (or that one) (or that.... hmm...aha! or that one or this one),
Please do not eat me. I am trying to sleep and would prefer it if I were not disturbed.
Sincerely,
Roger Dodger
ps. If you really feel the need to eat someone, Walkie Talkie is just up the trail a little ways.
All in all, this was pretty scary. Not quite as scary as seeing my ice cream falling over, but pretty scary nonetheless.
Walkie Talkie credits me with chasing the cougar away. And since he cooks for the British navy, I don't think it's a stretch to say that I single handedly saved the British navy from starvation. I expect to receive a commendation any day now. I'll put it next to the one I should be receiving for saving the entire PCT from burning a couple of weeks ago.
I'm glad I have this blog to wrote events while they are fresh in my mind. Having to recall them later and I'm sure the temptation to exaggerate would be too much to overcome.
The following day I was eating lunch with a spectacular view of Mt. Adams, lamenting to myself that I had lost all my snacks. I always leave town with plenty of snacks, but by the second day out I can never seem to find them.
Just then I looked up for a moment and saw a huckleberry. It had a couple of brothers, too. Not many, but enough to make it with my while to stand up. When I had eaten them, I looked across the trail and saw another bush. This was gushing with berries. As soon as I had it picked clean, I found the bush next to it was also gushing berries. So I picked that one clean too. Then I looked up and saw the entire hillside was covered with berries. I didn't yet quit, but did have to admit defeat. Again. The spirit was willing, but the stomach was weak.
I then discovered I was half a day away from a town. I hadn't planned on stopping there until I realized one thing. Town equals snacks. Mmm, snacks. When I got there I was happy to find out that they will put huckleberries in just about anything. Before I left the following morning, I had eaten a huckleberry cinnamon roll, a huckleberry pancake, and had two slices of huckleberry coffee cake in my pack for the road. I had to say no to the huckleberry pie, huckleberry lemonade and huckleberry milkshakes (of course I had a milkshake in town. But the first one is always coffee. If I could have handled a second one, I would have gone for coffee again. But the third, coffee still. Perhaps I would have gotten around to a huckleberry one, though I strongly doubt it). My poor stomach. It is way bigger my eyes but was still defeated. Again.
Well, I can't sit around here and talk about huckleberries all day. I've got Canada to get to. But first, Snoqualmie Pass. But first, the nearest huckleberry bush.
- Huck Finn, Lion Tamer
Laura's Birthday
[We interrupt the irregularly scheduled blog entry with this special
report from my little sister Laura, with whom I hiked almost 200 miles
from Elk Lake Resort to Cascade Locks, Oregon. Below is her story,
interspersed by my inappropriate commentary in square brackets]
Last [really, Laura? "Last"? You've got to start off this blog with
a hook. Think about how the greats start their works. "Call" --
'Moby Dick', or "It" -- 'A Tale of Two Cities'. But "Last"? I think
you just lost half my readership] summer [there goes the other half.
Well, at least the pressure is off, now], I was hiking with Rog
[that's Roger Dodger to you] in early August. When I woke up on the
7th, I went down to the creek to freshen up while Rog [I thought we
went over this, already. Roger Dodger] was still asleep, and thought
how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place for my birthday [and
how lucky you were to have me for a brother].
When I returned to camp, I realized Roger had been busy. He had covered
my backpack in balloons! He handed me a party hat and kazoo-like
instrument and wished me a happy birthday [Once in a while, I can be a
decent brother. After all, I do have to make up for the rest of the
year. Which I am starting off well with massacring her writing]. We
had been hiking off trail,
were miles from "civilization," and although no one was around to witness
it, I am certain I appeared absolutely ridiculous [not unlike the
times that you aren't wearing a packful of balloons]. Several lakes,
miles,
hours, and at least one pass later, we ran across of troop of boy scouts
who, upon seeing my get-up, sang me happy birthday. It was, by far, my
most memorable birthday.
Before joining him on the PCT, Roger promised (*i.e.*, threatened)
[not true. The real story is that Laura demanded this of me] to beat
last year's surprise. I thought to myself, "you can try, but good luck. My
27th was the best birthday I've ever had" . . . that is until I turned 28.
On the night of the 6th, we finished hiking by a sleep-away camp cleverly
named after an adjacent cleverly-named lake, Big Lake [Youth] Camp. That night I
watched one of if not the most magnificent sunsets I have ever seen. If
you don't believe me, ask the staff at Big Lake [as the staff is
particularly well aware of the litany of your sunset memories]. Even
the counselors who
had been there all summer ran to get their cameras remarking that this type
of light, clouds, and coloring only occurs once or twice a summer. We
cowboy camped [no tent] on a littoral beach, watched a couple shooting
stars [too bad Laura fell asleep five days later at Timberline Lodge,
where I got to witness a meteor shower that had apparently 150
shooting stars per hour. But if you think that that was the best part
of the evening, you apparently have never had an 8" chocolate chip
cookie baked in a cast-iron skillet topped with vanilla ice cream
while sitting at the base of Mt. Hood, even if you aren't actually
looking at the mountain], and
fell asleep just before midnight. When I awoke, I went with Kevin, my
backcountry skiing and hiking buddy who had hiked the first couple days
with us, to grab our resupply he had kept in his car. We chatted and sat
by the lake while [Kevin was desperately trying to kill time on my
behalf, doing everything in his power "Hey Laura, look. It's Elvis!"]
--unbeknownst to me--my brother executed his scheme [and still it
wasn't long enough].
When we walked back to camp, he was, once again, blowing up my birthday
balloons. But, this time, with a helium tank! That's right! Roger had
just walked 45 miles while covertly carrying a helium tank [Nothing
says "I love you" like strapping on a portable, yet terribly
uncomfortable, bomb and carrying it through the woods for two days].
Kevin and Roger sang me happy birthday [actually, I sang Kevin "Happy
Unbirthday"] and a neighboring camper came over to me, wished me a
happy birthday, and presented me with a bag of skittles [which I
presently stole. I figured I would get a head start on next year's
big brothering already]. After
eating some carrot cake (Kevin carried that in), opening my
three-by-two-foot hamburger-shaped card ("ideal" for backpacking), and
drinking a beer--all before 7 am--I was ready to hike with thirty balloons
floating above me. So I started through the trail and "pop," "pop," "pop"!
Okay, 27. [I never wished so hard that I had darts while hiking
before. And if Laura thinks she looked foolish last year, this year
put that to shame.]
We ate breakfast at Big Lake Camp and instead of a troop of boy scouts, I
had a room full of campers and counselors singing to me. One of the
counselor's parents donated vats [and vats] of blueberries from their
farm. So, when
in line for food, the chef piled mounds [and mounds] of blueberries
onto our trays.
After bellies full of berries [don't exaggerate, Laura. My belly is
never full], we were finally ready to hike. I put on my backpack and
balloons. [Balloons were also tied to her hiking poles]
And, in the midst of those 27 colorful balloons floated a three-foot long
mylar shark with a huge grin and with "Happy Birthday" written across his
body. As I hiked, he followed me. [and annoyed her as they
continuously got tangled up and in her way. It was the perfect big
brother gift-something that she absolutely loved, yet at the same
time annoyed the heck out of her]. As the day wore on, Sharkey [that's
Sharkey Malarkey to you] and his
helium-filled entourage deflated. He came closer. Instead of resting a
couple feet above me, he was now right behind my head. [and
eventually, ramming his head into her pack] So, on my birthday, I got
my trail name: ['Weirdo'. But other hikers took pity on me and instead
called me] Sharkbait.
[Laura, I hope you forgive me, the teasing is all done in good fun
{Not a good enough reason, Rojerk}. I'll make it up to you next birthday {darn right you will}.]
— Sharkbait [and Rojerk]
report from my little sister Laura, with whom I hiked almost 200 miles
from Elk Lake Resort to Cascade Locks, Oregon. Below is her story,
interspersed by my inappropriate commentary in square brackets]
Last [really, Laura? "Last"? You've got to start off this blog with
a hook. Think about how the greats start their works. "Call" --
'Moby Dick', or "It" -- 'A Tale of Two Cities'. But "Last"? I think
you just lost half my readership] summer [there goes the other half.
Well, at least the pressure is off, now], I was hiking with Rog
[that's Roger Dodger to you] in early August. When I woke up on the
7th, I went down to the creek to freshen up while Rog [I thought we
went over this, already. Roger Dodger] was still asleep, and thought
how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place for my birthday [and
how lucky you were to have me for a brother].
When I returned to camp, I realized Roger had been busy. He had covered
my backpack in balloons! He handed me a party hat and kazoo-like
instrument and wished me a happy birthday [Once in a while, I can be a
decent brother. After all, I do have to make up for the rest of the
year. Which I am starting off well with massacring her writing]. We
had been hiking off trail,
were miles from "civilization," and although no one was around to witness
it, I am certain I appeared absolutely ridiculous [not unlike the
times that you aren't wearing a packful of balloons]. Several lakes,
miles,
hours, and at least one pass later, we ran across of troop of boy scouts
who, upon seeing my get-up, sang me happy birthday. It was, by far, my
most memorable birthday.
Before joining him on the PCT, Roger promised (*i.e.*, threatened)
[not true. The real story is that Laura demanded this of me] to beat
last year's surprise. I thought to myself, "you can try, but good luck. My
27th was the best birthday I've ever had" . . . that is until I turned 28.
On the night of the 6th, we finished hiking by a sleep-away camp cleverly
named after an adjacent cleverly-named lake, Big Lake [Youth] Camp. That night I
watched one of if not the most magnificent sunsets I have ever seen. If
you don't believe me, ask the staff at Big Lake [as the staff is
particularly well aware of the litany of your sunset memories]. Even
the counselors who
had been there all summer ran to get their cameras remarking that this type
of light, clouds, and coloring only occurs once or twice a summer. We
cowboy camped [no tent] on a littoral beach, watched a couple shooting
stars [too bad Laura fell asleep five days later at Timberline Lodge,
where I got to witness a meteor shower that had apparently 150
shooting stars per hour. But if you think that that was the best part
of the evening, you apparently have never had an 8" chocolate chip
cookie baked in a cast-iron skillet topped with vanilla ice cream
while sitting at the base of Mt. Hood, even if you aren't actually
looking at the mountain], and
fell asleep just before midnight. When I awoke, I went with Kevin, my
backcountry skiing and hiking buddy who had hiked the first couple days
with us, to grab our resupply he had kept in his car. We chatted and sat
by the lake while [Kevin was desperately trying to kill time on my
behalf, doing everything in his power "Hey Laura, look. It's Elvis!"]
--unbeknownst to me--my brother executed his scheme [and still it
wasn't long enough].
When we walked back to camp, he was, once again, blowing up my birthday
balloons. But, this time, with a helium tank! That's right! Roger had
just walked 45 miles while covertly carrying a helium tank [Nothing
says "I love you" like strapping on a portable, yet terribly
uncomfortable, bomb and carrying it through the woods for two days].
Kevin and Roger sang me happy birthday [actually, I sang Kevin "Happy
Unbirthday"] and a neighboring camper came over to me, wished me a
happy birthday, and presented me with a bag of skittles [which I
presently stole. I figured I would get a head start on next year's
big brothering already]. After
eating some carrot cake (Kevin carried that in), opening my
three-by-two-foot hamburger-shaped card ("ideal" for backpacking), and
drinking a beer--all before 7 am--I was ready to hike with thirty balloons
floating above me. So I started through the trail and "pop," "pop," "pop"!
Okay, 27. [I never wished so hard that I had darts while hiking
before. And if Laura thinks she looked foolish last year, this year
put that to shame.]
We ate breakfast at Big Lake Camp and instead of a troop of boy scouts, I
had a room full of campers and counselors singing to me. One of the
counselor's parents donated vats [and vats] of blueberries from their
farm. So, when
in line for food, the chef piled mounds [and mounds] of blueberries
onto our trays.
After bellies full of berries [don't exaggerate, Laura. My belly is
never full], we were finally ready to hike. I put on my backpack and
balloons. [Balloons were also tied to her hiking poles]
And, in the midst of those 27 colorful balloons floated a three-foot long
mylar shark with a huge grin and with "Happy Birthday" written across his
body. As I hiked, he followed me. [and annoyed her as they
continuously got tangled up and in her way. It was the perfect big
brother gift-something that she absolutely loved, yet at the same
time annoyed the heck out of her]. As the day wore on, Sharkey [that's
Sharkey Malarkey to you] and his
helium-filled entourage deflated. He came closer. Instead of resting a
couple feet above me, he was now right behind my head. [and
eventually, ramming his head into her pack] So, on my birthday, I got
my trail name: ['Weirdo'. But other hikers took pity on me and instead
called me] Sharkbait.
[Laura, I hope you forgive me, the teasing is all done in good fun
{Not a good enough reason, Rojerk}. I'll make it up to you next birthday {darn right you will}.]
— Sharkbait [and Rojerk]
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