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

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)

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

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

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

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

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