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]
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Stranger Danger
Well, I just spent the last couple of days taking the California Bar Exam. No wait, that was Laura. I remember now, I was the one hiking the last couple of days from the hamburgerless Shelter Cove resort to hamburger-filled Elk Lake Resort.
Yes, that's right. A short little two-day danger filled stretch. It's been a bit lonely out there, as I haven't seen a single northbound thru-hiker in 150 miles. Southbounders and section hikers, sure, but not my peeps.
The first day out I was hiking through a burned out area. It felt like a graveyard. Very eerie. And to make matters worse, I was walking through the misty, drizzly clouds. I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I swung around and saw a dead tree falling in the distance. Holy smokes, I thought. I better get out of here before that maniac with such a powerful gun fires one my way. As I quickened my pace, I started to hear all kinds of animals. There were no leaves/needles on the trees to muffle the sounds, so I was able to hear every yowling and shuffling of all the werewolves, Sasquatchi, unicorns, and bears. Who is going to help me, I thought, when a rabid jackalope attacks? Certainly not a southbounder.
For those of you without a finely tuned subtle sense of humor and/or an extraordinarily good memory -- i.e. not Caroline -- I made a joke almost a thousand miles ago that bears weren't real. This is why I listed them with all the other imaginary animals. Even though it seems every hiker has had one, if not multiple, bear sightings, I have yet to see one. And if I haven't see it, than it's not real. Just like Ecuador, my internal organs or a bad pun.
Want to know a secret of being funny? Just set your audience up to expect one thing, and then tell them an otter.
Eventually, I made it out of that dead forest alive. The next morning, I passed a hand-written sign on a piece of cardboard that said "Fire alert! The fire poses no threat, but be cautious of the lightning strike *skull and crossbones* SNAG *skull and crossbones*". No worries, I'll just be careful of the snag. One small snag in the plan. I don't know what a snag is. Not ten seconds later I came across another cardboard sign, facing the opposite direction. It had the exact same message. Phew, I was out of danger now. Curiously, I looked behind me at the 20 yard danger zone to find what was so dangerous about it. I couldn't see anything. Whatever it was, it must have been hidden from view behind that huge dead tree.
Two hours later, I came across another handwritten note. This one said "Lightning Strike. Smoldering. Called 911. ---> Kyle." At least this note had an arrow pointing to where the danger was. Sure enough, as my eyes followed the arrow, I could see a lot of smoke, and smelt the burning wood.
Here is a running commentary of my thoughts at the time. As I wouldn't really enjoy being burned alive, I should double-time it out of here. Besides, someone had already called the authorities, I don't have to do anything. Boy, I wish Chief were here. Why can't he get his lazy ass to where he is needed. Where are those people on the other end of the 911 call. Certainly, it's not my job to do anything about this. Wait a minute. Chief isn't here. Neither are the authorities. Neither is the person who left the note and did nothing about the fire. I'm here. Canada isn't going anywhere. I don't have anything better to do than fight a little forest fire. The fire is only 15 feet from a lake, so I can always go for a little swim if things get out of hand. Besides, I've got everything I need. I've got water (the lake). I've got a fire hose (Gatorade bottles). I've got the know-how (I talked with Chief for about a half hour about forest fires. What more could he possibly know from 30 years as a fire fighter than he didn't convey to me in those 30 minutes?). And since Chief wasn't here yet (really, Chief, what's taking you so long), I had his large pants to fill.
Seriously, I was wearing his pants. And they are at least 4 inches too big for me at the waist. Backing up a bit, when I was in Etna, I saw Chief's wife at the brewery. I was sporting my best hobo look with my long pants that I had worn every day for almost three months. The right leg had recently ripped up to my knee. I had been tripping over the day before (when I was speed hiking with ZenMaster and Victuals), and as a temporary solution had just tied off the flopping pant leg at my knee. In town, I met Hammer who I hadn't seen from Day 0 at Scout & Frodo's house and told him that I was thinking about making shorts out of them. He convinced me that the hobo look was great and I should keep it. That was a good enough argument for me. But not for Maureen, apparently. She looked absolutely appalled, and told me (between chuckles) that under no circumstances that I was allowed to continue to wear them. She had just bought a new pair of pants for Chief which he refused to take on the account that they didn't fit him. A proper fit is not a requirement for me, and seeing as Maureen thought an extra four inches around the waist and two inches at the ankles was a significant step up from my current attire, she insisted I take these pantaloons.
So, after all these thoughts, and a hundred yards of walking, I turned around in Chief's pants, and headed back to the fire. I thought I'd keep one Gatorade bottle to drink out of later, and use one to fight the fire. Back and forth I went to the lake, pouring a liter at a time over the smoke. When a couple of pine needles on the tree next to me burst into flames (oh yeah, this fire just got real), I decided it was time to use both Gatorade bottles. I don't want to exaggerate (here. I do like exaggerated everywhere else), but the flames were at least as big as, say, once matchstick burning. Maybe even two.
I got the flames out, kept pouring water over the ground, kicking and splashing in the mud to try to cool down anywhere that had been smoking. After 5-10 gallons of water, there was no more smoke left, and no warm ground, I was satisfied. I waited a couple of minutes longer. Still nothing, and as I figured that Canada wasn't going to come to me, I headed back on the trail.
For the next hour I heard a helicopter but couldn't see it. I imagine it was looking for the fire, but I don't know. I ran into a southbound thru-hiker, and talked with him a bit. When I told him that I just put out a forest fire, he informed me that the last couple of hikers he saw told him the same thing. Never trust a section hiker to do the job right, I thought. A couple hours later I saw an eight man fire crew heading out to put out the fire. Eight guys. All their fire-fighting equipment. Don't worry about it guys. Me and my Gatorade bottles took care of it. Thanks, anyway. I might have been arrogant enough to think it, but certainly not arrogant enough to say it.
When I got into Elk Lake resort, I met Kyle, as well as EZ Rider, and another hiker whose name I forgot and got the rest of the story. Two days prior, there was a big storm. I got drizzled on coming into Shelter Cove, but there was lots of lightning. One day prior, EZ Rider ran across the fire. He had also been a fireman for a little while, and started to put out the fire, along with the other two guys that had come across later. The ground was so hot it was melting their shoes. They put about 15-20 gallons of water on it, got it under control, called 911 with the GPS coordinates. I came around the next morning, and put it out again. The fire crew came around in the afternoon, and hopefully put it out for good.
I don't know if it actually would have started a forest fire, but I can confidently state that in all likelihood I didn't make the problem worse.
Chief, next time I see you, I am expecting my merit badge.
- Junior Fire Fire Fighter Roger Dodger
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
High Points of the PCT
I couldn't believe it when Safety First told me she wasn't going to spend the day in Mazama Village but was going to hike on instead. "But, but, don't you want to see Crater Lake?" She told me that the PCT afforded very nice views of the lake. She had just recently told me how while hiking drunk earlier in the trip, she walked over a ten foot cliff. Any advice I got from her would clearly be suspect, so I was pretty smug in my decision to really see the lake.
After being slightly chided by a park employee for trying to hitchhike in the park (no way was I going to walk seven miles, that's far), I walked around a curve in the bend out of sight of the chider, and immediately got picked up by a different park employee. That only got me half way there. After walking on a very windy, almost non-shouldered road for a mile, I got a second ride to get me the rest of the way. It was an ordeal, but I made it.
To get back, I took the free shuttle that dropped me right back to the village I was staying at. Oops. I was feeling a bit less smug after that snafu, but still, I got to see one heck of a shade of blue.
The next day I started out by spending a couple of hours climbing up a steep hill only to end up in the parking lot at Crater Lake, in just the spot I was at the day before. Oops, again.
My smugness had all but faded until I consoled myself by saying that the prior day's blue was way prettier. And besides, I got to go to a ranger talk that taught me some interesting facts about the creation of the lake. For example, scientists are equally divided between thinking the lake was formed either by an asteroid or an alien spaceship. I swear, I am not making this up. But truth be told, I wasn't listening all that carefully.
After thoroughly examining the parking lot, I followed the trail along the rim of the lake for a couple of hours. This more than made up for the last hundred miles of forested walking. It was a high point of the trail.
Another high point of the trail came a day layer when I walked past a sign claiming I was standing at the highest point of the trail (as long as I ignore California). How sad, I thought, that this pimple off a hill in the Cascades needing something to be proud of, something to hold over its taller neighbors that aren't on the PCT, or smaller otherwise equally unnoteworthy hills.
I noted that Forrester Pass in the Sierras feels no need to brag. Perhaps it is too busy admiring its views. I also felt a bit sad for the poor Washington point that could claim its rightful position as tallest in its state (so long as you restrict yourself to a certain 500 mile by two foot swath of dirt), because Oregon has decided that it should be included in Washington's race to the sky.
Let's move on to other worthless statistics, shall we? I'm often asked how many miles I hike in an average day. The last time I was asked, I had hiked zero miles that day (and wasn't planning on hiking any more), had hiked 39 the day before, and 24 the day before that. To say that I averaged 21 miles per day doesn't tell you much about my trip.
There are, after all, no average days on the PCT. Yesterday, for example, I had for breakfast a peanut butter PopTart (completely inedible). Today, in contrast, I had an Oreo-like PopTart (almost inedible, but I was starving). What does this tell you? It's like my momma used to say, "life is like a hiker box of PopTarts. If it's free, smashed, and given away already, it's probably best worth staying away from."
What was I talking about now? Oh yes, averages. Just to nail home this point, there is an old statistics joke that the on average, humans have one breast and one testicle (can I say "testicle" on the Internet?). This should tell you something about averages. Without additional information, the mean is meaningless. This should also tell you something about statisticians. If this is their idea of humor, you best be staying away from their parties.
One last high point of the trip. This one may be tough to beat. My Kickstarter project has just been successfully funded. Thank you so much to everyone who pledged. It means the world to me. Not the cryptics, though I am very excited about that, but the support. I am very touched.
- I ordered grog to be mixed (5, 6)
After being slightly chided by a park employee for trying to hitchhike in the park (no way was I going to walk seven miles, that's far), I walked around a curve in the bend out of sight of the chider, and immediately got picked up by a different park employee. That only got me half way there. After walking on a very windy, almost non-shouldered road for a mile, I got a second ride to get me the rest of the way. It was an ordeal, but I made it.
To get back, I took the free shuttle that dropped me right back to the village I was staying at. Oops. I was feeling a bit less smug after that snafu, but still, I got to see one heck of a shade of blue.
The next day I started out by spending a couple of hours climbing up a steep hill only to end up in the parking lot at Crater Lake, in just the spot I was at the day before. Oops, again.
My smugness had all but faded until I consoled myself by saying that the prior day's blue was way prettier. And besides, I got to go to a ranger talk that taught me some interesting facts about the creation of the lake. For example, scientists are equally divided between thinking the lake was formed either by an asteroid or an alien spaceship. I swear, I am not making this up. But truth be told, I wasn't listening all that carefully.
After thoroughly examining the parking lot, I followed the trail along the rim of the lake for a couple of hours. This more than made up for the last hundred miles of forested walking. It was a high point of the trail.
Another high point of the trail came a day layer when I walked past a sign claiming I was standing at the highest point of the trail (as long as I ignore California). How sad, I thought, that this pimple off a hill in the Cascades needing something to be proud of, something to hold over its taller neighbors that aren't on the PCT, or smaller otherwise equally unnoteworthy hills.
I noted that Forrester Pass in the Sierras feels no need to brag. Perhaps it is too busy admiring its views. I also felt a bit sad for the poor Washington point that could claim its rightful position as tallest in its state (so long as you restrict yourself to a certain 500 mile by two foot swath of dirt), because Oregon has decided that it should be included in Washington's race to the sky.
Let's move on to other worthless statistics, shall we? I'm often asked how many miles I hike in an average day. The last time I was asked, I had hiked zero miles that day (and wasn't planning on hiking any more), had hiked 39 the day before, and 24 the day before that. To say that I averaged 21 miles per day doesn't tell you much about my trip.
There are, after all, no average days on the PCT. Yesterday, for example, I had for breakfast a peanut butter PopTart (completely inedible). Today, in contrast, I had an Oreo-like PopTart (almost inedible, but I was starving). What does this tell you? It's like my momma used to say, "life is like a hiker box of PopTarts. If it's free, smashed, and given away already, it's probably best worth staying away from."
What was I talking about now? Oh yes, averages. Just to nail home this point, there is an old statistics joke that the on average, humans have one breast and one testicle (can I say "testicle" on the Internet?). This should tell you something about averages. Without additional information, the mean is meaningless. This should also tell you something about statisticians. If this is their idea of humor, you best be staying away from their parties.
One last high point of the trip. This one may be tough to beat. My Kickstarter project has just been successfully funded. Thank you so much to everyone who pledged. It means the world to me. Not the cryptics, though I am very excited about that, but the support. I am very touched.
- I ordered grog to be mixed (5, 6)
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Greetings from Crater Lake
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. But they don't know how poor a photographer I am. Surely fifty words will do for mine. Since I have neither the time nor the inclination to upload photos (after the trip, I promise), my descriptions will have to suffice. Imagine a long windy brown patch of dirt. That's the trail. Now imagine that everywhere you look are pine trees. But I'd you look closely, you might be able to make out some blue. That would be the sky. OK, that's it. Now you know exactly what hiking the last hundred miles was like.
This led me to think of anything to get my mind off the trail. And that usually means thinking about town. What should I do when I get to town? Since I was feeling a bit jealous that Mark was going to run 50 miles (congrats, Mark), while I was only going to hike 39, I decided that as soon as I got into town, I would go for an 11 mile run.
Then I remembered about the trail crew I had just met who told me about a 20 pound pizza challenge (four people, one hour), and thought, you know, instead of running 11 miles, I'll just get me one of those.
I liked that idea much better. But unable and/or unwilling to get a ride to Klamath Falls. I settled on the measly four pound pizza from crater lake. It did make me feel a bit better that the menu called it a "family size" pie.
The waitress seemed to be very impressed when I finished the whole enchilada. Why she served me an enchilada instead of the pizza I ordered, I'll never know. I did have a passing thought that it was a shame I am happily married, as I'm sure many successful relationships begin by the age old courting ritual of gorging oneself ("if he needs to eat that much, just imagine how much food he can provide to my offspring. I'll just have to remember to keep the little ones away from his piehole during mealtimes. *swoon*.")
As she was clearing the crumbs (just kidding, there were no crumbs left), still in a bit of shock, she jokingly asked if I could be possibly thinking about dessert. Quite possibly I was.
Perhaps I should have been embarrassed when I ordered a coffee milkshake, but the trail strips you raw enough that you don't become embarrassed about anything. So I ordered what may have been the best milkshake ever, prepared by the same waitress. I had another passing thought that it was a shame I am happily married, as that milkshake might have gotten a proposal out of me. I am certain that many successful relationships start out that way ("You know, if I had a wife like that I could have a milkshake every day *burp*").
You know something is true when it's been made into an aphorism. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." And "the way to a woman's heart is through a display of intense gluttony."
Caroline just emailed me something so fascinating that I feel the need to share. Apparently, we are attracted to people with complementary immune systems. You can smell it in their pheromones. And now they have discovered you can taste it in their saliva. They say that is perhaps why French kissing originated. I say that makes sense, as the French invented perfume to avoid having to take showers, thus masking their odors and foiling a vital part of the mating ritual.
This helps in answering the unanswerable question people ask of why am I hiking the trail. Now I can answer them with "if you don't know that you are married to your spouse because you enjoy the taste of your their saliva, why do you think I know why I'm hiking the trail?" Until now, my stock response was "How else am I going to find some decent maple syrup?"
Let's hope the next section of trail provides some interesting happenings. Because if I'm left alone to simply walk, I have nothing but my own musings to "entertain" you. Just be thankful that you have a delete button on your e-mail, and can turn me off whenever you like. I've got to listen to this yammering all day long.
I'd like to leave you with one final thought. This section has me missing Caroline more than ever. I know I don't say this often enough, and never in public, but sweetie, I love your immune system.
-Roger Dodger
This led me to think of anything to get my mind off the trail. And that usually means thinking about town. What should I do when I get to town? Since I was feeling a bit jealous that Mark was going to run 50 miles (congrats, Mark), while I was only going to hike 39, I decided that as soon as I got into town, I would go for an 11 mile run.
Then I remembered about the trail crew I had just met who told me about a 20 pound pizza challenge (four people, one hour), and thought, you know, instead of running 11 miles, I'll just get me one of those.
I liked that idea much better. But unable and/or unwilling to get a ride to Klamath Falls. I settled on the measly four pound pizza from crater lake. It did make me feel a bit better that the menu called it a "family size" pie.
The waitress seemed to be very impressed when I finished the whole enchilada. Why she served me an enchilada instead of the pizza I ordered, I'll never know. I did have a passing thought that it was a shame I am happily married, as I'm sure many successful relationships begin by the age old courting ritual of gorging oneself ("if he needs to eat that much, just imagine how much food he can provide to my offspring. I'll just have to remember to keep the little ones away from his piehole during mealtimes. *swoon*.")
As she was clearing the crumbs (just kidding, there were no crumbs left), still in a bit of shock, she jokingly asked if I could be possibly thinking about dessert. Quite possibly I was.
Perhaps I should have been embarrassed when I ordered a coffee milkshake, but the trail strips you raw enough that you don't become embarrassed about anything. So I ordered what may have been the best milkshake ever, prepared by the same waitress. I had another passing thought that it was a shame I am happily married, as that milkshake might have gotten a proposal out of me. I am certain that many successful relationships start out that way ("You know, if I had a wife like that I could have a milkshake every day *burp*").
You know something is true when it's been made into an aphorism. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." And "the way to a woman's heart is through a display of intense gluttony."
Caroline just emailed me something so fascinating that I feel the need to share. Apparently, we are attracted to people with complementary immune systems. You can smell it in their pheromones. And now they have discovered you can taste it in their saliva. They say that is perhaps why French kissing originated. I say that makes sense, as the French invented perfume to avoid having to take showers, thus masking their odors and foiling a vital part of the mating ritual.
This helps in answering the unanswerable question people ask of why am I hiking the trail. Now I can answer them with "if you don't know that you are married to your spouse because you enjoy the taste of your their saliva, why do you think I know why I'm hiking the trail?" Until now, my stock response was "How else am I going to find some decent maple syrup?"
Let's hope the next section of trail provides some interesting happenings. Because if I'm left alone to simply walk, I have nothing but my own musings to "entertain" you. Just be thankful that you have a delete button on your e-mail, and can turn me off whenever you like. I've got to listen to this yammering all day long.
I'd like to leave you with one final thought. This section has me missing Caroline more than ever. I know I don't say this often enough, and never in public, but sweetie, I love your immune system.
-Roger Dodger
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Goodbye, California
Finally, after almost three long months, I left California behind and entered into the great state of... Jefferson. To those of you who don't know, the people of northern California refuse to accept that they are not a recognized state.
In Saeid Valley, Jefferson, there exists a post office, general store, restaurant, RV park, and nothing else. The first three exist in one building. The RV park is next door.
Happy (trail name off a very happy hiker) was smart, and left Saeid Valley at 3 in the morning to avoid the heat (105 in the valley) while hiking up the four thousand foot exposed climb. I was smarter and waited for the restaurant to open at 7a, where I had an excellent omelet, and followed that with an even more excellent milkshake.
After another two days, I finally left the great state of Jefferson, and into the more greater state of Oregon. I didn't realize just how good (I could use some help on my adjectives...) that it would feel (..and my emotional awareness).
I've been in Oregon for about a day now, and it's been absolutely (oh no, another adjective) awesome so far. Just when my spirit was flagging I ran into a cooler full of soda. That definitely helped put PEPS In my steps. In the cooler was a phone number for a trail angel that might (fingers crossed) take me from the trail into town.
I called Mark as soon as I got cell reception, and asked if there was any chance he'd want to give me a ride. He politely said that he wasn't planning on coming back up to the trail, but for some reason changed his mind over the next 30 seconds, and ended up driving an hour round trip with Arlene to pick me up after 9p, give me a quick tour of Ashland, and deliver me to a hostel he had called to make sure there was room at.
And if that weren't enough, he invited me for a beer the next evening, and cooked me an unbelievable salmon dinner.
And if that weren't enough, he is driving me back to the trail tomorrow.
I kept trying to repay him for his generosity (gas money? Pay for the beer?), but he very stubbornly refused.
Maybe you all could help me out by wishing him good luck on his 50 mile ultra this weekend. His email address is melowmark_1959@yahoo.com. Apparently he is mellow enough not to need the second L.
And one last welcome to Oregon story. My eighteen(?) month niece called me Uncle Roger for the first time. Or, more precisely, Uncle Woger.
Can the rest of Oregon be anything but a letdown from here? We'll just have to find out.
-Uncle Woger
In Saeid Valley, Jefferson, there exists a post office, general store, restaurant, RV park, and nothing else. The first three exist in one building. The RV park is next door.
Happy (trail name off a very happy hiker) was smart, and left Saeid Valley at 3 in the morning to avoid the heat (105 in the valley) while hiking up the four thousand foot exposed climb. I was smarter and waited for the restaurant to open at 7a, where I had an excellent omelet, and followed that with an even more excellent milkshake.
After another two days, I finally left the great state of Jefferson, and into the more greater state of Oregon. I didn't realize just how good (I could use some help on my adjectives...) that it would feel (..and my emotional awareness).
I've been in Oregon for about a day now, and it's been absolutely (oh no, another adjective) awesome so far. Just when my spirit was flagging I ran into a cooler full of soda. That definitely helped put PEPS In my steps. In the cooler was a phone number for a trail angel that might (fingers crossed) take me from the trail into town.
I called Mark as soon as I got cell reception, and asked if there was any chance he'd want to give me a ride. He politely said that he wasn't planning on coming back up to the trail, but for some reason changed his mind over the next 30 seconds, and ended up driving an hour round trip with Arlene to pick me up after 9p, give me a quick tour of Ashland, and deliver me to a hostel he had called to make sure there was room at.
And if that weren't enough, he invited me for a beer the next evening, and cooked me an unbelievable salmon dinner.
And if that weren't enough, he is driving me back to the trail tomorrow.
I kept trying to repay him for his generosity (gas money? Pay for the beer?), but he very stubbornly refused.
Maybe you all could help me out by wishing him good luck on his 50 mile ultra this weekend. His email address is melowmark_1959@yahoo.com. Apparently he is mellow enough not to need the second L.
And one last welcome to Oregon story. My eighteen(?) month niece called me Uncle Roger for the first time. Or, more precisely, Uncle Woger.
Can the rest of Oregon be anything but a letdown from here? We'll just have to find out.
-Uncle Woger
Thursday, July 18, 2013
I Believe I Can Fly
Just checking in from mile 1600 at Etna, CA.
Were any of curious last week as to how it is so hard for me to keep a schedule? On July Fourth, for example, I had planned on trying to hike a whopping 37 miles. I ended up coming up short by about 25 . Late morning, I found a big sign on the trail telling me about trail angels with laundry, Internet, showers. They didn't tell me about the bed, shower, shave, soda, ping pong, whiffle ball, 3 meals better than the last, a campfire with s'mores, or the family gathering that I (and Whistler) got to participate in. It was one of the best times off trail I've had. This is how you slow down your schedule.
On the other hand, there are ways to speed up your schedule. For example, there was this time (two days ago), where I was crossing a road and met Tish, who handed me a Gatorade, insisting that she wasn't a trail angel. I on the other hand, insisted that giving me a Gatorade made her an angel. She was being funded by a wealthy CEO to support ZenMaster in an attempt to break the PCT speed record. Most hikers take between 120-150 days to complete the 2600 mile trail. An occasional few decide they want a real challenge and try to make it in 90. And then there are the ones that try to walk into the Hall of Fame for long distance hiking (note: there is no Hall of Fame. There are no rewards. There is almost no recognition.), and will attempt to complete the trail faster than anyone else before them. They aim for about 60 days. That's roughly 45 miles a day. Every day. No rest days. And that is a lot.
About a week prior, ZenMaster met Victuals, a hiker mentally struggling with the trail. But he got excited about the idea of helping out ZenMaster, and has been hiking with him ever since. That was interesting enough that I decided that I should stick around to meet them. An hour later, we left the rest stop together. I had hiked almost 30 miles already, and was getting ready to call it a night. An hour of hiking, and I would say good-bye, wish them well, and never see them again. About 30 hours later and 60 miles later, I was finally able to say that good-bye.
Why would anyone in their right mind (that I am in my right mind is a questionable assumption, I agree) stick with them for 30 hours, you might ask? Only for you, dear readers. I couldn't think of anything that I would write about when I got to Etna, and hiking with them would surely give me a story.
The first night we hiked until just past midnight. We got about 4 hours of sleep, and hiked to Tish for breakfast. She was surprised to see me again, but very nicely accepted me into the club. Twenty miles and six hours later, we met her for lunch. This time, she was ready, and handed me a frappacinno (or some other highly caloric coffee drink), a veggie burger, a veggie burrito, a bag of chips, a box of Cracker Jacks, a soda, and kept asking if there was anything else I needed. Twenty miles and six hours later, we repeated the process with Pad Thai and spring rolls.
During the interim hours, we hiked through the Trinity Alps. They are absolutely spectular. Or so I hear. I really wasn't able to look up very often. Every time I took my eyes off the trail (take in the view, take a photo, etc...) I found myself being left in the dust and had to book it like I've never booked it before just to catch back up with them. But I enjoyed myself immensely. And the last mile and a half, Victuals and I started "sprinting" (ok, it was more like "running" (ok, let's say "jogging")) down the trail, as darkness came, jumping around to avoid rocks, and having one heck of a time.
There were plenty of times during the day that I wished I had more time to hike with them. However, those times happened to be short in duration, and very far between. I got my first blister since day one of the hike. I started chafing for the first time in over 1000 miles. Ditto for the "hiker hobble" I woke up this morning with.
Overall, I am very glad I did this. I actually enjoyed myself enough that I have decided next summer that I am going to attempt to do anything except try to break the speed record for the PCT. Both hikers were staunchly vegan, and thus I was a vegan for the day. I enjoyed myself with that so much as well that I have decided to become a vegan permanently. At least in between meals.
So I made it the last 87 miles in two days. Apparently, I can fly if I choose. Unfortunately, I don't have anything but crash landings to get me back on the ground. Today is a zero day of sleeping and recovering.
-Roger Dodger
Monday, July 15, 2013
I'm Gonna Be (1500 Miles)
I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk a thousand more
Just to be the man who walked fifteen hundred miles
To fall down at Ben Cronin's door.
Who is Ben Cronin, you may ask? He is my doppelgänger, apparently. A computer science major graduate of Princeton University who runs ultramarathons, and quit their programming job at a major international software company to end up in the tiny town of Dunsmuir, CA (in one of our cases, only for a weekend)-- a town with a population of about 1600 people and "Home of the best water on earth", if their city slogan is to be believed. Within an hour of meeting him, I asked if I could borrow some clothes. After I changed, he must have felt like he was looking into a mirror. We even use the same belt notch. How crazy is that?!?!
To back up a bit, Ben is my brother-in-law's college roommate of ten years ago. At reunions a couple of months ago, they reconnected, Ben had recently moved to a PCT trail town. And I love PCT towns. We have been communicating over e-mail since then to figure out how to get together. The e-mail exchange went something like this:
Ben: Looking forward to meeting you, let me know when you will be in town
Roger: Same here, I should be there on July 12th.
Ben: Great, see you then.
...one week later...
Roger: I'm a bit ahead of schedule, I might get there as early as the 10th.
Ben: Great, see you then.
...one week later...
Roger: Actually, I'm a bit behind schedule now. It looks like I'll be there on the 14th.
Ben: Great, see you then.
...one week later...
Roger: Hey Ben, I'm in Dunsmuir now at the pizza place. Surprise, I'm here a day early (it was the 13th).
Ben: I'll be there in five minutes.
After getting some calories into me, we went back to his place. My next order of business was to take a shower, and since I didn't want to get back into my filthy hiking clothes, I asked him for something I could wear. It's been long enough on the trail that I don't even know if this is an inappropriate request or not.
Besides being an all-around great guy, Ben also has some wonderful friends, Nathan and Nora, which we hung out with for a couple of days. After dinner, they asked if I wanted to go on a short walk with them, and their 130 pound dog. I figured, sure why not. I only went for a short twenty-two mile walk this morning to get into town. I was very happy when I found out that our definitions of 'short' were decidedly not the same.
I was also very happy to find out, as far as trail angels are concerned, I had hit the proverbial mother lode. Nora is aspiring to start an ice cream company. And I love ice cream. She also makes her own waffle cones. I've never used this acronym before, but I think now is the time. OMG. I think I am going to just move into their freezer.
I'd talk a bit about the actual trail, but frankly, there isn't much to say for this section. It was almost all forested. The only indication I got that I was making any progress was that every hour or two I would get to peak through the trees to see the 14,000+ foot Mt. Shasta grow little by little until it eventually was looming so large you couldn't notice anything else.
I took my first zero day in a while. And I actually got a bit of time to relax, just sitting down by the river bank, picking blackberries, reading, staring off into space. You know, just relaxing.
Of course, that means I'm now still up at 2a trying to get all my e-mailing done before getting back on the trail.
Aunt Kathie gave me a great idea. Next blog entry will be answering any questions you have. I'll try to answer those questions about quantum physics the best I can, but your safest bet is probably just to stick with asking me about the trail. Let's hear those questions.
My next mail stop will be Aug. 17th at Cascade Locks if you'd like to reach me.
Roger Wolff
c/o General Delivery
Cascade Locks, OR 97014
-Roger Dodger
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Halfway Home!
I just passed the official halfway point. But since I've done the desert half and the Sierra half, and have transformed from a couch potato into a hiking machine, I would say it is most definitely the easy half. Twenty mile days used to be long and difficult. Now twenty miles are done by lunchtime.
Last update I told you of the coincidental meeting of Caroline's uncles. Not nearly as coincidental, but still exciting is meeting up with fellow hikers that I haven't seen for a while, sometimes as long as 700 miles. But it is still fun nonetheless.
Finally, I got to meet Chief, a retired fire chief from Santa Barbara. I had heard stories of him about how he helped to rescue Purple from the trail when she suffered from a hike-ending foot injury. And I had been treated to several trail angel treats by his wife from as long as 900 miles ago (apple sauce). He popped into the Red Moose Cafe in Sierra City to drop off a couple of loads of freshly baked goodies from his wife.
The next day on my way out to hike, I used my magic thumb to get a lift. Who should it be from but Chief's wife. Finally, I got to thank her for the apple sauce so many miles back. She introduced herself as Maureen, and introduced me to their dog, Bodie. Bodie and I got to know one another in the back seat during the mile and a half ride to the trail.
That night I camped early with Chief while waiting to see whether the nearby storm would hit. It didn't, but once we set up our tents, we were there to stay. The next day, who should I see but Bodie, coming at me at a dead sprint, leaping over a downed tree to pull up shy as if to say "Who the heck are you, and where is my Chief?"
Not disappointed in the least, I gave Bodie a couple of quick pats, told Maureen that Chief was surely on his way, and continued my hike.
A couple of days later (today), as I was trying to hitchhike to Chester, I was thinking about my lucky thumb. I have never had to wait more than five minutes for a ride before. Usually, I don't even need to stick out my thumb. In Wrightwood, I pulled up to a group of eight hikers at the trailhead. Since eight hikers never are hiking together, it was clear to me that at least some of them had been waiting for a long time. And since nine hikers cannot fit into a car no matter how hard they try, it was also clear to me that I would be there for a while. Not three minutes later, one big van, and one pickup truck pulled into the trailhead, and took all of us down to town. Another time, at Big Bear City, as I was stepping off of the trail, a driving was pulling into the parking lot. Before my foot even had time to hit the ground, I was offered a ride. These two are my best stories, but by no means my only ultra-successful ones.
So back to today, after I had waited a half hour with lots of passing cars, but none who wanted to pick me up, I figured my luck had finally turned. Not so fast. A camper going the opposite direction pulls into the trailhead and shouts out "Need a ride?" It was none other than Maureen and Bodie. She drove me to the supermarket to resupply, while Chief made it and was waiting at the trailhead. We then grabbed some lunch to go, along with milkshakes, for us and Chief, and drove back to the trailhead.
I am now sitting at a campground on their computer after eating an unbelievably good meal of chicken enchiladas, with freshly laundered clothes (and a humbling defeat in horseshoes -- happy Maureen?), and otherwise very satisfied with life.
So satisfied that I'm not even lamented the loss of my cell phone. I would think that after Caroline and I had collectively "washed" three phones over the years, I would have learned that swimming with your phone is not a good idea. Okay, it wasn't actually swimming, it was foolishly trying to ford a river that didn't need to be forded. But the net result is the same. Another broken phone, and another jackpot for T-Mobile.
I could also tell you about the time I followed a deer for a half-mile down the trail. Or about the best Fourth of July celebration I've ever had with complete strangers. Or about the horse I saw rolling on his back and scratching like a dog. But I've talked long enough.
Hope all is well,
-Roger Dodger
Monday, July 1, 2013
Hello from Sierra "City"
Someone asked me if I had a relaxing time in South Lake Tahoe. My answer was an unequivocal "no". Town stops are hectic as anything. Find lodging. Find food. Find a computer. Find a supermarket. Find a post office. Eat. Shop. Resupply. E-mail. Call. Blog. Sleep. Before you know it, the day is gone and half the things you wanted to do weren't done.
Don't get me wrong. Town stops are great. My favorite part of town is getting to talk to Caroline. But it's not relaxing. The trail, on the other hand, is relaxing. You've got all the time in the world to relax.
I was wearing a short sleeve shirt as I was relaxing on my hike out of South Lake Tahoe. (Now, that's a segue, Margaret!) I forgot that my long sleeves keep them from getting sunburned. Although the new sunburn was quite painful, luckily I was distracted from it by the swarms of mosquitoes that were attacking my arms. So I decided to make a game out of it. A successful mosquito bite and they scored a point. A dead mosquito and I scored a point. End of the day score: Mosquitoes -- a lot. Roger -- a lot more. Somehow I think I still came out the loser. I wore the short sleeve shirt because my long sleeve shirt didn't have "Roger Dodger" written on the back. That being said, I think I'm going to have to relegate the shirt to town stops for now. But it will make it's hiking reappearance to celebrate when I cross the Canadian border.
The day coming into Sierra City was a peculiar one. I passed a couple of sixty-something day hikers on the way up a hill. Most of the time when I pass some hikers we engage in an awkward twelve second conversation. "Hi." "Hello, how are you?" "Fine, and yourself?" "Excellent. Have a nice hike." "You, too." And this conversation was no different. About a mile later I climbed up the hill off the trail a little ways to get out of the sun. The two guys I passed were a bit smarter than me. They climbed a little higher to the ridge top. They were rewarded with broader views, and although I didn't ask, surely less of the vicious black flies that were circling me (if you think mosquito bites are bad, you should try sitting in a swarm of these killers). Anyway, I got fed up being fly bait, and resumed my hike just after the guys above me.
When I passed them a second time, I prepped for my next twelve second conversation. One of them was looking through binoculars, so I found my opening. "See any good birds, today?" Somehow twelve seconds turned into forty minutes which entailed exchanging contact information, and ended with a promise to keep in touch and visit next time Caroline and I were in the area, which will be when she joins me for the finale of my hike in Washington.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Somewhere in those forty minutes we discovered that the two guys were Caroline's uncles, who she hadn't seen in almost 25 years. And if that weren't coincidence enough, I also met Margaret and Jon's uncles on the same ridge.
This got me to thinking, how many other long lost relatives have I passed on the trail without giving them a second thought. From now on, I think my new twelve second conversations will go something like this: "Hi." "Hello, how are you." "Excellent. By the way, is there any chance that we are related?"
My next mail stop, if you are interested will be about July 23rd
Roger Wolff
c/o General Delivery
Ashland, OR 97520
-Roger Dodger
Goodbye Central California
According to the guidebooks, I am just about done with central California (15 more miles). Along the way, I passed the 1000 mile mark. I also passed the 1007 mile mark (some wise guy decided that it was funny to make a 1007 marker -- I agreed). I also passed the 1041 mile mark. But it was oddly at mile 1025. So I fixed it. Back to binary, it was mile 1000000001 which is much more interesting. Not only is it a palindrome (reads the same right to left), but it is also an ambigram (reads the same upside down). Only afterwards did we realize that we probably disappointed boy scout troup number 1041 if they decide to come back the way they came.
Want to know what's better than getting cookies in the mail? Getting a t-shirt that says "Roger Dodger" on the back and is signed by your college roommates. Thank you so much, Darren, Will, and Dan.
About a week and a half ago, I met up again with Tower, a hiker that I've seen on and off for about 800 miles. He told me about his kid's trail magic (hamburgers and soda) that I missed (by ONE HOUR!) He told me about his upcoming kid's trail magic in 3 days. So I didn't let him out of my sight. When we got to where the trail magic was supposed to be, his son brought a couple of cookies and some soda. I didn't show my disappointment, but I was hoping for some more. And more did I ever get. His son asked if I wanted a ride down to the local restaurant (with a promise of a ride back up to the trail). After Tower and I ate our fill, his son asked if I wanted the sandwich he got for his dad, who didn't need it now that he ate lunch and was going home to a barbecue in a couple of hours. So I ate that, too. But when I was done, he asked if I wanted to come home with them, where he plied me with steak, hot dogs, salads, and blueberry muffins for dessert. After a night of not sleeping much (the bed was too comfortable), he fed me more: bacon, blueberry pancakes, strawberries, an egg scramble. He then gave me a book he wrote about his time as the world's 13th best freestyle skier before his brother took us back to the trail where we tried to make a dent burning off the calories we just ate.
A couple of days later we got caught in a storm. We fought very high winds on a ridgetop. I then proceded to get lost. After I descended for an hour, I figured out that I wasn't on the PCT. I knew where I went wrong, but couldn't brave the weather and the hill. So I set up camp, and crawled into my sleeping bag for about 20 hours. When I couldn't take it anymore, I took all my soggy gear up the hill and was back on my way.
I'm all dry now. I'm well fed. And I'm ready to get back on the trail tomorrow.
If you'd like to get rid of any cookies (or t-shirts), at July 12th, I'll be at
Roger Wolff
c/o General Delivery
Dunsmuir, CA 96025
-Roger Dodger
Mammoth Lakes
Just passed the 900 mile mark. For some reason, people seem to like numbers with lots of zeros at the end, and often arrange rocks, sticks, or pinecones to commemorate those milestones. To that effect, I got my geek on a ways back at mile 512 and made a 1,000,000,000 marker. And if I can remember, I will make the 10,000,000,000 marker at mile 1024.
A couple of days ago I was composing this e-mail update in my head, and was going to tell you how absolutely lucky I have been on this trip so far. Pleasant weather in the desert, lots of trail angels, no feet problems, in fact no problems of any kind worth even mentioning. I'm not sure if I should have been thinking so loudly, because the very next day.....I lost my hat. Subsequently, I got sunburnt. I broke my hiking pole. When playing around with it, a scraped my leg up. Nothing major, but the first time I've drawn blood on the trip. When I got to camp, the mosquitoes were horrendous. After giving them way more blood that I lost to the hiking pole, I jumped into the tent and forewent dinner. I took out my journal, thought about the day, and all I could think was that I was walking through one of the most beautiful places on earth, how great of a time I had, and how lucky I was. Suck it, Karma.
Perhaps I shouldn't have written so loudly. Two days later, I got caught in a storm for four hours. It rained. It snowed. And it hailed. The hail was big enough to hurt. The sky was all gray, I could hardly see a thing. Throughout those miles, all I could think was that Caroline was coming to Mammoth, and I was going to see her for the first time in six weeks. How lucky was I? Suck it again, Karma.
It turns out that Caroline's plane malfunctioned, and had to make an emergency landing, accompanied by ambulances and fire trucks, just in case of an explosion. She missed her connecting flights, and had to stay in Pittsburgh for another day. But she is coming today. I hope. Be nice, Karma, I didn't mean any of that.
I said I lost my hat. In fact, it was stolen. I went to sleep one night with it resting on a log, with my sunglasses on top of it. In the morning the glasses were a couple of feet away, but the hat was nowhere to be found. At first, I thought it might be a Sasquatch. That didn't make any sense, the hat would never fit him. Then, I figured it might be a bear. No, they don't actually exist. My leading contender is now a deer. They like the salt from my sweat, and I've seen lots of them in the woods recently.
I liked that hat. My siblings-in-law gave it to me. It served me well for 850 miles. For the rest of the trip, I will just have to live with a hat that does not say "What should I have for dinner in town?" If it's any consolation, Margaret and Eric, the hat will be on the PCT for way longer than it would have otherwise.
For those of you who haven't funded the most amazing cryptic crosswords project yet,
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1747436254/cryptic-all-stars
there is no better day to do it than today. Or tomorrow. Or any of the next 47 days. In fact, they are all pretty much equally good. For those of you that have helped to fund this, thank you so very much. Over a quarter of the way there.
-Roger Dodger
Kennedy Meadows
Wow, 700 miles really flies by. I just spent the last 150 miles in the Sierra, but it has been way more desertlike than the desert. Go figure. North of Kennedy Meadows is where the "real" Sierra comes though. I've been there a couple of times before, but it's one place that you can never get sick of. I'll be spending the next 200+ miles without running into so much as a jeep road.
I've talked a bit about how much trail angels have given to me. This section, I was able to give back. Before leaving HikerTown, I was somehow conned into helping lay down flooring for the owner. After I woke up, he asked if I wanted coffee. Then if I wanted toast. Then if I wanted to see the ranch next door that he bought and was renovating to rent in the off-season, and let hikers use during the summer. Then he said to the guy laying the floor, "and by the way, this guy offered to help." He stopped short of pushing me into the room before running away. My head was still spinning a bit as to how it all happened, but I had fun laying the floor, and felt good to help the trail angel, not to mention the hikers following me that are going to have some nice linoleum to walk on.
I got to Tehachapi, and was in Starbucks when an older guy who saw I was a hiker came up and started talking to me. Turns out, he was a trail angel that left much needed water, and much appreciate apples eight miles before town. I asked him if I could buy him lunch. He told me how he has been out of work as a carpenter for 4 months due to kidney stones (unfortunately, I now know A LOT about his kidney stones), and that he hasn't been able to afford to go out and eat at his favorite Thai restaurant since then. He couldn't seem to believe his fortune that someone would treat him to lunch. And he even had some leftovers to give to his grandkid.
Last e-mail I tried to tell you a bit about what the PCT looks like. This time I'll try to tell you what it sounds like. Imagine New York City during rush hour. It's entirely unlike that. You walk along and hear the clicking of your trekking poles, and crunching under your feet. You stop walking, and all that's left is that godforsaken whistling. You realize you've been whistling again and cut that out. Now there is nothing left but your breathing. And the occasional gust of wind. Or the hoot of an owl. Or the scampering of a lizard. And then you look around you and realize that the only sign of civilization apart from you is the trail in front of you, and the trail behind you. And you become humbled. And then you hear the grumbling. So you tell your stomach to keep quiet, and book it 3 more hours to Kennedy Meadows where someone sees the glazed look in your eyes saying "my whole life for the past 5 days has been mostly walking alone on the trail (I finally got to spend 24 hours without seeing another person), and now there are people, a store, a restaurant and showers, I'm not sure what I am supposed to do," and does the only thing they can -- offer you a beer.
Life is good on the PCT.
My next mail stop will be at June 24th. I can be reached at the following address:
Roger Wolff
c/o General Delivery
South Lake Tahoe, CA 96150
While I'm not hiking, I have been busy pressing a green "Launch" button on a Kickstarter project of mine. Please check it out.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1747436254/cryptic-all-stars
Make sure to watch the video, and then send Ahing (ahinghuang@gmail.com) an e-mail saying something along the lines of "Holy cow! That was the best cryptic crossword related video I've ever seen!"
Please don't feel obligated, but I would love it if you pledged.
Goodbye SoCal
I am now in Tehachapi, and officially done with southern California. In a couple of hours, I will be headed out into the southernmost of the Sierras.
I want to apologize for my lack of detail in providing information about when I will get to town to receive any packages. Mom and aunt Kathie both sent me cookies to Agua Dulce which arrived after I already left. Just so you know, they were not wasted. The trail angels and other hikers thoroughly enjoyed them. It was my own fault that I didn't.
My next mail stop will be mammoth lakes, where I will be spending a couple of days with Caroline.I can't wait. If you'd like to send me anything, please make sure that it will arrive by June 14th at the latest. You can send it to
Roger Wolff
c/o general delivery
Mammoth lakes, CA 93546
Now for what I've been up to. I cooked dinner for the first time in a week. Trail angels have been too nice. I get to partially repay their generosity by taking a guy I met in Starbucks out to lunch. He introduced himself as the guy who leaves water and apples for the hikers about 10 miles south of town.
A couple of nights ago, eighteen of us set off after dark wearing glowsticks. Someone organized this as a tribute to Glow in the Dark, a hiker undergoing chemo for breast cancer hiking the trail in pieces when she can.
My mother asked for a description of the scenery, as I am not attaching any pictures in these updates. I'll try. Imagine if you will, "Lawrence of Arabia", walking through the sun-drenched desert with nothing but sand for as far as the eye can see. Well, the southern California desert is nothing like that. mountains full of green, save for the hillsides of colorful flowers, filled with animals. It has been beautiful. Unfortunately, neither words nor photos could do it justice. If you would like to know what it looks like, you will just have to come out and experience it yourself.
-Roger Dodger
Hello from Agua Dulce
After 450 miles, I made it to "Hiker Heaven." And heaven it is. After some slight miscalculation, I ended up hiking 65 miles over 2 days through the heat and trails overgrown with poodle-dog bush (related to poison oak, but worse) to make it to this makeshift hostel in the middle of nowhere.
About 15 years ago, the owners picked up a hiker from the local pizza place and offered them a place to stay. Today, they have rented tents filled with cots, a rented 15 person van to shuttle people to REI, or anyplace else they need to go. They have a small team of volunteers to do everyone's laundry, and let hikers use their bicycles to ride to town (who wants to walk the off-trail mile?)
Now that I'm showered and fed, I'm spending the day just relaxing while I wait to reuinte with my college roommate. Just happenstance I received an e-mail from another roommate asking if I would be going to our 15th college reunion. After I got a response from a second roommate with a signature from Southern California, I thought "Hey, I'm in Southern California!" Anyway, should be a lot of fun reminiscing tonight. And this is on the heels of reconnecting with my best friend from high school just a week before the trip.
This sentence is an example of a terrible segue.
I'm not sure why, but hikers assume trail names. My best guess is that a long-distance hike is so removed from "normal life", that to make the transformation complete, we adopt new names. Usually they come from an attribute of that person ("Hiking Pole" is a Polish hiker) or some quirky thing they did ("Sour Cream" ate sour cream on his granola because he thought it was (funny-tasting) yogurt). I have been happy to help name a couple of fellow hikers. A girl who told me she cries whenever someone is nice to her is now known as "Tears for Beers." And a Japanese hiker who carries a big DSLR camera is now "Shashingka" (Japanese for photographer).
I've done a pretty good job of avoiding a trail name like "The Plague". I've been pretty good at avoiding the more innocuous ones as well ("Speedy Gonzolez", "Mr. Rogers", "The Clapper" (or "The Clap" for short), and "Pathfinder". Because of this, I have been christened "Roger Dodger," which I humbly accept. Until I don't any, at which point I may be named "Roger Dodger Dodger."
I should be arriving at Kennedy Meadows by June 1, so if you'd like to send me some hiker love, please send it to the following address (and let me know to expect it).
ROGER WOLFF
c/o KENNEDY MEADOWS GENERAL STORE
96740 BEACH MEADOW RD
INYOKERN CA 93527
Hope all is well
-Roger Dodger
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