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

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

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]

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