Pacific Crest Trail Blog Part 4
20th June 2010
This is the result of only 4 days hiking in the desert. Salt and minerals are lost at an alarming rate and end up staining your clothing like this. I have to replace these once every couple of days with a sachet mix of electrolytes and similar minerals. Just drinking water out here isn’t enough.
Salt from sweat on my top
This is the result of only 4 days hiking in the desert. Salt and minerals are lost at an alarming rate and end up staining your clothing like this. I have to replace these once every couple of days with a sachet mix of electrolytes and similar minerals. Just drinking water out here isn’t enough.
We should not judge a person by their limitations. What’s important is how they strive to overcome them.
-Fozzie
Video Update No. 7 – Food
Transition
Kennedy Meadows sits innocently enough in the middle of nowhere just doing it’s own thing. It marks the end of the desert and the beginning of the Sierra mountain range. A staging post if you like, a marker to tell you that you no longer have to endure the heat, dust and lack of water of southern California and can look forward to cooler temperatures, abundant water and views to die for.
I climbed steadily over an afternoon and the following morning. Cresting Deer Mountain Ridge I descended to Monache Meadow and was met with a panorama that had me in disbelief. Mountains to either side of me framed a scene that I shall remember for the rest of my life. The Kern River meandered through the middle of the picture without haste, beige sand sloped gently to it’s edge. Lush meadow carpeted the valley floor and tall Pines scattered the hills. The finale was provided by countless clouds streaming overhead, so perfect I dared to even breathe. My jaw dropped, my eyes opened wide and suddenly all the reasons why I had wanted to do this challenge in the first place became completely clear. The PCT had taken my emotional turmoil and weakness of the last week, picked them up and thrown them to one side. It had provided me with confirmation that I had made the right choice.
Monache Meadow – The Sierra Nevada (K. Foskett)
30th June 2010 – Guilty to be walking?
I struggled to stop in the desert. There was nothing to stop for save water and rest. Sure, there were fantastic views but towards the end I, and many others, had tired of it. I have only been in the Sierras for 3 days and already I feel guilty to be walking. Guilty because all the time I am walking I am not looking at the views.
Sometimes I walk along a ridge and the rocks to one side drop off to reveal a view stretching further and lower than I have ever experienced. Gaps in the forest tease me with little glimpses of what lies around and below me. The PCT keeps giving me little presents like a Christmas morning, one gift follows another until you think they can’t be any more. But, there are.
Gentle breezes steal the sweat off my arms, the path dips in and out of shade and every few miles a creek gurgles it’s way past. I scoop up a handful of water and splash it over my face. I fill my water bottle and drink the purest, sweetest water that is chilled to absolute perfection.
All this is the first three days only. I am reminded by others that this is nothing compared to what is coming up. This, apparently, is just the aperitif, the main course has yet to be tasted.
4th July 2010 – On top of the world
On top of the World – Mt. Whitney Summit – 14505ft (4420 mt). The highest point in the contiguous United States.
I left Crabtree Meadow on a beautiful morning which is not exactly unusual out here. I walked through pine forest gradually thinning to reveal tantalising glimpses of the rocks and peaks ahead and towering above me. Before long I was removing my shoes to cross creeks that were full with melt water. Cautiously I made my across, step by step as the sound of the gushing water assaulted my ears and the ice cold temperature numbed my legs. Five minutes later I was following the same procedure again.
The track scraped past crystal clear lakes fed by numerous streams tumbling over rocks from the mountains above. Marmots scampered about when they saw me coming. Curiosity always got the better of them as they peeked at me from over a rock as I walked past before scurrying into a hole. Vertical snow chutes striped the rocks like an artists brush.
The route suddenly became steeper and I picked my way across snow slopes gingerly with ice axe in one hand, trying not to look down. Controlled breathing became laboured as I gasped for each breath like it would be taken away from me before I could grab it.
I summited at 12.50pm on 4th July, Independence Day, after 4.1/2 hours of sustained effort. The panorama was magical, mountain range after mountain range stretched away, reminding me of what I still had to conquer.
Sometimes it’s hard seeing what I still have to overcome, so I only look a few days ahead, planning ‘baby steps’ that piece together the bigger picture.
Apologies.
Sorry for the lack of video at the moment. Several in the pipeline including Forester Pass (highest point on the PCT). Few issues uploading which I’m working on. Thanks to everyone for following the blog and for the messages spuring me on, it keeps me lifted.
I’ve always struggled with being told what to do. Almost as much as being told what I can’t do .
– Fozzie
The Wilderness thing . . .
I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, high one minute, low the next. On top of the world in the morning, at the bottom in the afternoon. I’m not talking about my emotions (surprisingly), I’m referring to the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. Quite possibly the most majestic, awe inspiring, breath taking piece of landscape that was ever created. Apart from the Lake District, Wales and Scotland obviously.
This section of the PCT, roughly 250 miles in length, is regarded as the most scenic of the whole trail. It’s certainly one of the most demanding. I have spent the last eight days on trail with no town stops. Eight days in the wilderness, miles from anywhere. Some people would regard this as scary, intimidating. Dangerous? Possibly, if it all goes wrong out here then you’re in trouble. You don’t call the emergency services out here and get an ambulance in ten minutes. Out here, you don’t even get reception.
I was pondering this whilst coming down the north side of Muir Pass a few days ago. The wilderness thing that is. There are numerous reasons for being out here, the wilderness factor occupies one of the top few places. For me, to be miles from anywhere, miles from the nearest road even, is a huge draw. I offer one of my favourite quotes:
The whole point of (Desert) travel is solitude. As our ever multiplying human numbers crowd the globe, a few of us who can take it no longer break free and run for the mountains, the oceans, the deserts. I am enthralled by many of the attractions of metropolitan life, but in the corner of my heart I keep the image of a silent place. A space, perhaps like this…
– Grains of Sand by Martin Buckley.
What is it about wilderness? Don’t get me wrong, I love getting into town. The simple act of getting a shower and eating a proper breakfast does wonders for my morale. However, there is something about being out here that amazes me. We are meant to be out in the wild. Human beings have spent the vast proportion of their existence in the wild. The vast proportion. Towns and cities are a creation we invented only recently. Our bodies are still becoming used to them, we are not actually meant to be there. This is why myself, my friends I walk with, and most of the people I meet out here revel in the experience.
It’s the same for a solitary canoeist paddling around Newfoundland. The same for a climber setting foot on top of Everest. A person in a hand glider soaring over the Pyrenees experiences this feeling too, as does a sailor rounding Cape Horn. Yes, it’s about the adventure, the challenge. It is, however, primarily because our bodies realise this is where we were nurtured, where we spent our infancy, this is where we were raised.
We were meant to be out here, it’s is embedded in us, it is comforting, it is natural to be out here. This is why it feels so right.
Evolution Lake – The Sierra Nevada (K.Foskett)
16th July 2010 – Video Update No 8 – The Main Course
Forester Pass- The Highest Point on the PCT
This is Muir Pass. One of my favourite photos of the whole PCT. Flyboxer, Answerman, Indie and myself looking suitably filthy, knackered, hungry but having an absolute blast!
Farewell to Clack
Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention. Maybe my familiarity with river crossings had bred some contempt. It seemed innocent enough, the tributary was flowing fast but it wasn’t deep, a good assortment of stones and boulders meant it should have been an easy crossing. And it was, but there was an unfortunate casualty.
Click and Clack, my trekking poles, have been with me since my walk on El Camino de Santiago in 2001. Constant companions on my walks ever since, they have given me a feeling of security in each hand, have eased me up the ascents and provided me with stability on the descents. Out here they have assisted me over river crossings as well, one in each hand giving me balance. Walking without my trekking poles, Click and Clack, would just be unthinkable.
I leapt from one boulder to the next, water seeped into the splits on my worn out shoes making me shiver. Click came with me but Clack got stuck on the river bed. I had to let him go or I would have lost my balance, I knew I only had to turn around to retrieve him once I was safely on the rock. To my horror, as I looked behind me, the current was tearing at him. Like a boxer having just been delivered the final, fatal blow, Clack slowly started to lean to one side, his fall becoming faster as the force pulled him from his anchorage.
“No! Clack!” I screamed after him, but my cries were muffled by the water. I jumped back but it was too late. My hand reached him just as the pounding froth of the Toulumne River took him away.
I rushed along the river bank, trying to keep track of him and watch my step at the same time, hoping and praying that he may hit the side, come to rest in the calm areas, or get caught by an obstacle. It was not to be. I watched, despondent, as he bobbed away from me like a loved one leaving on a train. He swayed from side to side almost as though waving a farewell and I waved back. I swore I heard him:
“It’s been great. Don’t be sad. You still have Click. I’ll be fine, I’ll wash up somewhere down river and a hiker will find me. I will hike on . . . I will hike on”!
Click and I watched our companion bob further away, becoming smaller and more distant. Our hearts sank. We turned, paused for one last glimpse and began plodding on up the trail.
Goodbye old friend . . .
24th July 2010 – Video Update No. 9
3rd August 2010 – The Trail will always provide
Texas Walker Ranger and Dozer had both been taking a nap by the trail side and were startled when I rounded the corner. To be honest, I had forgotten Dozer’s name which is no reflection on him, just a reflection on my failing memory. Walker I didn’t recognise as he was horizontal and his beard had sprouted alarmingly since we last saw each other at Kennedy Meadows.
“Hey Fozzie, it’s Dozer.” I think he saw my screwed up face trying to recall his trail name, as he stood up to shake my hand.
“Good to see you again,” I said, “Sorry, not good with names.”
“Fozzie, it’s Walker!”
“Oh shit! I’m sorry mate, I didn’t recognise you.” I said apologetically as I offered my hand. He refused it which immediately made me think I had done something wrong, before he offered an explanation.
“Dude, I think I got Giardia,” he said with a resigned look on his face suggesting it was bound to happen at some point. The refusal to accept my hand was to prevent infection spread, which I realised immediately as I drew my palm back quicker than England’s exit from the World Cup.
Giardiasis is an infection of the small intestine caused by a microscopic organism (protozoa), Giardia lamblia. It really is the one thing a hiker dreads. Although not particularly serious, it requires treatment as soon as possible and can lay someone out for a week. I can’t even type the symptoms without holding my stomach and wincing but they mainly consist of abnormal amounts of gas, both from the rectum and the mouth. Fatigue, nauseousness and the ability to relinquish large amounts of fluid from both ends of the body are also included. It is contracted by drinking from an infected water source. If you do not treat your water then you are at risk. Walker readily admitted he had consumed water from creeks high in the Sierra because he thought they would be ok.
We all walked together for maybe ten minutes before Walker stopped, opened his mouth and emptied most of his stomach contents. I have not seen as much sick since Margaret Holloway threw up on the school canteen table when I was five years old.
“Dude, I think I just purged a demon,” he said.
Dozer and I could not hold our laughs back and tried, unconvincingly, not to smile.
“No, I’m serious,” he continued. “I just performed an exorcism.” He smiled as he wiped his beard and tried to clear his nose as well.
“If you got a sense of humour Walker, you’re half way through it.” I offered.
We camped together and somehow he managed some sleep. I left them in the morning to walk the one mile or so back to the road to get a ride to Lake Tahoe and medical attention. I carried on walking the 24 miles or so to the same destination where we had all agreed to share a motel room.
The morning was cold, I pulled up the zip around my neck, shivered and walked quicker to try and warm up. The meagre 400 feet ascent over a ridge known as the Nipple soon had me sweating. I usually time my sections during the day so I can see progress and more importantly keep tabs on my position but I let things go. I knew it would be a long day to get to Highway 50 and hopefully a ride into town and I didn’t want to be reminded of it. The days pass quicker when you don’t know where you are.
I stopped for a break mid morning and realised I had only a snack bar. I then realised I couldn’t even cook up some rice as my fuel had run out the previous evening. A walker travelling south, on hearing this, tried to reassure me that I may at least get some water from the Carson Pass Visitor Centre at the next road crossing.
“They don’t have any food though.” He added with a resigned look and outstretched palms.
I practiced my best hungry and thirsty look as I entered the parking area hoping that maybe someone would hand me a cold coke or something, but there were only cars, no people. I dejectedly slumped on a chair outside the centre and started to rummage through my pack in the hope of finding some long forgotten morsel of peppered jerky cowering in the bottom. It was not to be.
“PCT Hiker?”
I looked up to see a kind face belonging, I was to learn later, to a lady called Peggy Geelhaar, a volunteer at the centre.
“I am yes.” I said, smiling.
“You want a soda, Maybe something to eat?”
Before I could answer, or perhaps my wide open eyes coupled with my tongue hanging out and a look on my face akin to someone waving a burger in front of my nose had already provided her with confirmation, she disappeared and came back with grapes and 2 apples. She told me to help myself to a soda from the cool box and then gave me some cheese. Her compatriot, Dan Quayle, sauntered down to the car and came pack with a bear sized pack of crisps, apologising because the bag was swollen with the altitude difference from where he had purchased it down the pass. As if I needed an apology.
“Don’t forget to sign the visitor’s book,” she said.
The trail will always provide – Stumbling Norwegian (and a few others).
Upper Blue Lake from ‘The Nipple’ (K. Foskett)
12th August 2010 – Exciting news
One of the most popular walking magazines in the UK have kindly agreed to run an article on my PCT adventure. I will let you all know with a post on the blog when I have news about a publication date but it will be sometime in the Spring of 2011. Thanks to Jenny Walters and all those concerned at Country Walking for supporting me.
The article, as well as my PCT book will be accompanied by photos by Josh ‘Pockets’ Myers who I am walking with and whose credentials speak for themselves. He is currently on assignment for Backpacker magazine and his work has been published in National Geographic. He is also renowned for bearing some resemblance to a Black Bear, with an appetite to match. Thanks Pockets.
3rd August 2010 – Video Update No. 10 – A quick look at my gear
Latest Statistics.
Current Location: The Red Moose Cafe in Sierra City.
Miles walked: 1189.2
Miles remaining:1460.8
Next stop & update: Probably Quincy / Around 16 or 17th August
Exciting news: Dinner at the Red Moose Cafe is all you can eat!
Casualties: 4 pairs sunglasses (up one point). 3 pairs of shoes (up one point). 2 pairs socks. 1 beard. 2 water treatment devices. 1 fuel storage can. 1 pair trousers (pants of you’re American). 2 toenails.
The snake strikes
I peered cautiously over the iron handrail at the Feather River some 300 feet below me. A quick look was enough as my vertigo kicked in and reminded me that a brief linger was all that was required. I knew Hawkeye would be setting up camp somewhere near the river bank so I walked a little further along the trail until I saw what could be a way through the undergrowth. Sure enough, after pushing various species of plant life away from me and ducking under branches, I emerged into a small, sandy clearing.
“Fozzie, hey,” Hawkeye said with a welcome hand shake. “Where are the others?”
“Brains should be just behind me and Pockets will roll in at some point,” I replied.
Brains and I had been relishing the prospect of a swim in the river all day. More to the point it meant washing away five days of grime from my body. The trail in this section of the PCT is covered in a layer of very fine dirt. As we hike it sends up clouds of dust like blowing flour of your hands, especially if you are walking behind someone. During the day you squint so as not to get it into your eyes, at night your head torch illuminates millions of fine particles like swirling, glistening stars. It sticks to your clothes, turns the sweat on your arms into a sticky, chocolate mixture that gets into your mouth and nose. All we wished for was the gratification of washing it off.
I pitched tent first as I always do and made my way down to the clear water, flowing fast in the middle but with a few welcome calm areas at the side. I lowered myself in expecting to shiver but the sun during the day had warmed the pools and I felt myself release a satisfying sigh.
“How is it?” enquired Brains as he walked past in a hurry, knowing my answer would have no bearing on his desire to get in anyway.
“Perfect,” I replied. “Absolutely, bloody perfect.”
I soaked for at least half an hour. At one point I looked over at Brains who looked back with a cheeky grin that summed up his relief of finally being clean. As I dunked my filthy clothing it leached out a brown cloud as I squeezed it clean.
“Hey Guys!” The silence was shattered by Pockets hopping over the rocks to meet us. “Look what I got!”
I glanced round to see my other hiking companion making his way quickly towards me with a rattlesnake wrapped around his hand and wrist. The mischievous look on his face was similar to a kid in a toy shop after being told by his Father to ‘Have whatever you want’.
All my brain registered at this point was something along the lines of ‘Snake! Do whatever required to get the hell out of the way’!
I shot up and was just about to jump in the river when Pockets realised by the look of sheer horror on my face that I was about to soil my underwear.
“No! Fozzie! It’s dead! I killed it, look see, no head!” He pointed to the bloody stump and then flicked the rattle. I watched as it swayed limply from side to side.
Pockets had stepped over a log earlier. As he heard the snake’s familiar warning rattle it was too late and the reptile had lunged and struck the sole of his shoe. Luckily the teeth had not penetrated. Pockets had taken exception to this, as he tends to do, and had promptly diverted the snakes attention by waving one hand, then punched it on the head with his other fist. Now stunned, he grabbed it by the head and swiftly cut away the body a couple of inches behind the venom sack. The nerves were still buzzing though and I cringed as the body twitched, writhed and coiled around on his arm.
Hawkeye and Brains joined the spectacle as Pockets neatly and expertly dissected the body, slicing down the body, leaving the entrails intact. He peeled off the skin and removed the non edible innards and we returned to camp. After ten minutes spitting and roasting on the embers the meat was ready. We each tentatively sampled our entree and all agreed unanimously that Pockets should resume his outdoor hunting escapades as soon as possible.
I still have the skin which has been drying and curing on the back of my pack for some days now. If you’re going to kill something living, make sure you respect it by using every part possible is the advice we are given by the likes of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls. I agree with this wholeheartedly but it was more of a case of having a Rambo style headband as well.
What is the trail doing to me!?