Tag: PCT

Day 66: I-5 to Hyatt Reservoir

I left Ashland in an Uber, traveling south back to the PCT trailhead just off the interstate. My friend Jason (trail name Left Foot) had told me about a lesser known alternate route leading to the Green Springs Inn, where he had eaten “the best burger on the trail”. Despite having just spent a day stuffing my face with french toast and burritos, I couldn’t resist the lure of seeking out this fabled burger (the promise of a free root beer float didn’t hurt either).

Unfortunately the location of the Inn was not included on my GPS map. Following some vague written directions Jason had pointed me to, I turned off the main PCT onto an overgrown track which lead downhill past the rusty shell of an abandoned car to a reservoir. Small purple bunches of Oregon grape lined the path. I picked a couple of the edible berries and put them in my mouth. The juice that exploded onto my tongue was almost too tart to bear, and I quickly drank some water to wash the sour fruit down.

I then crossed a dam, walking past a disconcerting “No Trespassing” sign before starting off on a scrubby dirt road next to a small aqueduct. The directions instructed me to cross the aqueduct on a concrete slab when I reached a cairn, but as I continued to walk and walk and passed concrete slab after concrete slab I began to grow concerned. I had the sneaking suspicion that I had missed the turn-off and gone too far. I knew there was a road to the north where the Inn was supposed to be, and so trusting my instincts (and to luck) I took the next little bridge over the slow moving water and proceeded to bushwhack through the forest. Soon a row of wooden cabins appeared ahead, and walking parallel to the buildings I reached the grassy backyard of the Inn. Covered in sweat and extremely relieved to have found my destination, I walked inside and ordered a gigantic burger. In that moment it was indeed the best burger I had eaten on the PCT.

Day 65: Ashland

Having not taken a zero (no hiking) day since I stopped by my parents’ house in Lake Tahoe a month before, I decided the small town of Ashland would be the perfect place to kick up my heels and relax. Located just 10 miles from the PCT, the city is perhaps most famous for hosting the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. For long-distance hikers, of course, one of the highlights of spending a day in town is the simple availability of hot food. A big breakfast at the Morning Glory Cafe preceded a visit to the all-you-can-eat Taj Indian buffet where I filled my bottomless hiker stomach with steaming samosas and tandoori chicken (washed down with multiple glasses of mango lassi). Completely stuffed, I strolled over to the park and lay down in the sunny grass for an afternoon nap.

On my way back to the hotel where I was splitting a room with Radek the skies suddenly opened up in a torrent of pouring rain. Having gotten used to walking through all kinds of weather, I enjoyed feeling the cool drops of water fall on my face. When the rain let up a bright double rainbow appeared over the city, guiding me toward the evening’s event. I was excited to see the showing of Macbeth at the Elizabethan-style theater downtown. Curtain wasn’t until 8pm, however, and I made the tragic mistake of ordering a glass of wine while waiting for the play to begin. Accustomed to going to sleep around 9pm each night, the wine and my body’s natural rhythm soon worked their magic and put me under for most of the show. The sharp noise of the audience giving a standing ovation stirred me awake as the actors bowed on stage. I may have missed the play but I certainly had a restful zero day.

Day 64: Wrangle Gap to Ashland

In the morning the smell of smoke had disappeared and a light rain fell on the distant hills. I trekked across easy rolling terrain to a high point where a trail angel had placed two coolers under a fir tree. One was full of beer, while the other was filled with assorted soft drinks and even a whole watermelon! Luckily one of the hikers already there had a large knife and I cut myself a refreshing slice of the cool fruit. I lingered for a long while, enjoying the rejuvenating company after several days hiking alone even more than the trail magic. I felt ready for a break back in civilization.

Signs of human habitation grew as I walked closer to the interstate. The trail wound downhill next to a paved road heading to the Mount Ashland Ski Area, and I followed a cross-country ski track to a picnic table outside a house where three other hikers had just started eating lunch. I joined them and met a thru-hiker named Janis Joplin, who said he was attempting a speed run of the 450-mile Oregon section of the PCT which involved crossing the entire state in only eight days. The idea appalled me, but true to his word Janis wolfed down his food and immediately set off running toward Washington.

The other two hikers (one of whom, Radek, I had asked to check my paranoid self for ticks weeks previously near the Feather River) and I quickly fell into a rhythm, turning onto a side trail leading across a railroad track and under Interstate 5 to Callahan’s Lodge where we hoped to hitch a ride into Ashland. The interior looked straight out of the 1930s, complete with lacquered bar and roaring fireplace. We were welcomed warmly despite our scruffy appearance, and enjoyed a beer on the house before packing into a trail angel’s sedan for the short drive into town.

Day 63: Piped Spring to Wrangle Gap

This was it. My final day in California. The Oregon border lay tantalizingly close, and after two months of trekking across the Golden State I was definitely ready for a new state (although the landscape would not change significantly until I reached the volcanoes of central Oregon). In all of my travels I have discovered that walking is the best way to get to know a place and this trip was no different. My journey this far had shown me exactly how big California really is, and I had not even hiked the 650 miles of southern desert! I crossed the border denoted by a signpost and trail register in the warm afternoon, signing my trail name in an excited hand. Less than 1,000 miles to Canada.

That evening was thankfully the first and only time I experienced wildfire smoke on the PCT. As the sun descended and I began to search for a good spot to pitch my tent I smelled an acrid scent lingering in the air. A light haze covered the rolling hills to the northwest, blurring the red and orange hues of the sunset while I watched night fall from my tent door. I had heard stories of hikers struggling through days of dense smoke and even entire sections of trail closing due to wildfires, and fervently hoped my path north would remain open and clear as I drifted to sleep.

Day 62: Grider Creek Campground to Piped Spring

A six and a half mile walk down a paved road led from the campground to the tiny community of Seiad Valley, the final stop before entering Oregon. The road loops around a large bend in the Klamath River to get to a bridge, so I could see the town long before I entered (it is tempting to ford the shallow river to skip the last three miles of road walking, but this involves illegally cutting through private property). Several dogs barked menacingly at me as I walked past small houses with large “State of Jefferson” signs posted outside. This remote region of northern California has long felt that its interests are not served by the state government in Sacramento. Since the 1940’s there has been an on-and-off movement by some residents to secede from California and (along with a few counties in southern Oregon) form a new state named after Thomas Jefferson. The effort has not led far and whatever its politics, I was welcomed into town with a smile.

It was a brief visit. A big pancake breakfast at the local diner, a quick resupply run at Seiad Valley’s general store (both contained in the same squat building sporting the two Xs of the State of Jefferson flag on its sign) and I was off. Unfortunately I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the searing heat on the steep, exposed climb out of the valley, and had soon gulped down most of my water. Halfway up the mountain a weathered wooden sign atop a rock pile pointed to a tiny trickling spring swarming with yellow jackets. It took what seemed like an eternity to fill my bottles under the low flow and I did my best to remain calm while the insects buzzed alarmingly close to my hand. Luckily they were more interested in the water and allowed me to continue up the rocky, scrub-filled slopes in peace.

Day 61: Marble Mountain Lookout to Grider Creek Campground

Today marked the first day I saw horses on the trail. Technically the entire PCT is open to horse travel as well as hiking, though I am skeptical that horses could make it over some of the treacherous mountain passes in the High Sierra (I’m looking at you, Forester Pass). They appeared as I came around the bend on a scrub-covered hillside, slowly striding toward me as I stepped off to the side. The riders in blue denim jackets nodded politely as they paraded past, their giant mounts clomping along the narrow, dusty path. One horse chose that moment to drop a large pile of scat directly onto the trail, portending what lay ahead on the day’s trek.

Perhaps attracted to (or brought by?) the horses, almost as soon as I started to hike again I walked straight into a cloud of tiny flying ants. I had spotted the shifting black mass hovering over the trail ahead, but assumed that the insects would disperse as I passed through them. But they wouldn’t let me go that easily. As soon as my face touched the swarm, a hundred tiny ants had attached themselves to my clothes and skin. I tried to brush them off but the bugs stubbornly clung on, forcing me to pick off each little ant one by one. The sensation of all the black bugs crawling over my head was like feeling a hundred separate itches that you can’t quite scratch. Two more ant clouds blocked my path as I continued, but I had learned my lesson and gave them a wide berth.

Some time later, my face covered in dust and tiny ant pieces, I came to a rushing creek running over slick rocks into a large pool next to the trail. The water was ice cold but I gratefully splashed my face in the small waterfall and took off my shoes to soak my feet in the pool. I had discovered a true oasis in the midst of the dusty mountains, and spent a long time entranced by the beautiful scene, the water refreshing all of my tired senses.

Day 60: Etna to Marble Mountain Lookout

Despite the prodigious amount of food I had stuffed in my face the previous afternoon and evening, the hiker hunger was back in full force when I awoke at the hostel in the early morning. I zeroed in on Bob’s Ranch House, a classic diner-style restaurant which I had heard made delicious cinnamon rolls (a personal favorite). Taking a seat at the counter, I was ecstatic when the waitress brought out a gooey hot roll the size of my head. I ordered a full omelette to go with it and ate it all, surprising the waitress with my seemingly bottomless stomach. Once again a small group of locals sitting nearby struck up a conversation and wished me well on my trek, further supporting Etna’s claim to be the friendliest town on the PCT.

The hostel had an arrangement with a local woman who would drive people up to the trailhead for $10, so I duly paid the fee and joined a couple other hikers for the twisting ride up the mountainside. Feeling refreshed and happy after my brief sojourn in town, neither the rocky trail sharply piercing through the thin soles of my trail running shoes nor the intense heat beating down through the burned out forest could dampen my spirits. I soon emerged from the burn zone and hiked past several small lakes to a bluff overlooking the distinctively white (and aptly named) Marble Mountain, where I set up camp amidst the rocks and yellow brush flowers.

Day 59: Saddle to Etna

Eager to get to the trail town of Etna (originally named “Rough and Ready”) in time for a hot lunch, I broke camp at dawn and hiked the 13 miles to the road at a quick pace. My stomach was rumbling by the time I caught up to Vick and Ronan at the trailhead. I had barely caught my breath before a truck drove by and I waved it down for a hitch, yelling goodbye to my friends as I ran after it.

The driver was a retired local firefighter heading back to Etna after visiting family on the other side of the ridge. His toddler grandson sat in the backseat, occasionally adding nonsensical comments to the conversation. He dropped me off in town at the Etna Hiker Hostel, where I booked a bed and enjoyed some care package brownies from a nice sobo couple (short for southbound, meaning hikers who start at the Canadian border and trek down to Mexico).

I made the short walk into the small downtown and got an extremely satisfying smoothie and giant burrito at the local coffeehouse, before proceeding to what appeared to be the local tavern for a drink. Once inside I felt like I had been instantly transported to a fancy cocktail bar in San Francisco, complete with house-distilled gin tasting room and a gourmet menu. Feeling very out of place with my ragged hiking clothes and unkempt facial hair, I was nonetheless welcomed by the friendly staff. I sampled a flight of the various types of gin which quickly made my head swim. I then ordered two large plates of food, eventually shambling back to the hostel full and content.

Day 58: Scott Mountain Campground to Saddle

When I awoke in the morning the floor of my tent was covered in rainwater. The clouds continued to spit mist as we started to hike, but soon gave way to the strong California sun. After crossing over the location of an old stage road and way station from the 1860s we entered the Trinity Alps Wilderness. I had long wanted to visit the Trinity Alps after hearing friends in the Bay Area praise its remote beauty. It did not disappoint, and the dark sharp line of peaks in the distance soon had me in a rapturous trance. Pretty little streams danced down the mountainside and across the trail to flow into the pristine alpine lakes below. The feelings of pain and toil that sometimes dominate the trail experience vanished, and I walked on with a big smile on my face.

During our lunch break on a rocky ridge I laid my tent and sleeping pad out in the sun which quickly dried the light fabric. The PCT only cuts through a tiny corner of the Trinity Alps, but I knew it would draw me back one day. Vick and Ronan were rushing to get to Seiad Valley near the Oregon border but decided to camp with me one final night, and we found a wonderful open spot on a forested ridge with Mount Shasta peaking through the trees to the east. We celebrated a last gourmet dinner of (you guessed it) ramen and instant potatoes while day faded into the starry night.

Day 57: Shasta Viewpoint to Scott Mountain Campground

I awoke to watch the sun rise behind Mount Shasta through the door of my tent, still wrapped in my sleeping bag against the cold mountain air. Soon after I began my hike for the day I was surprised to see Vick nonchalantly sitting on a rock on the side of the trail. Instead of being ahead of me as I had thought, he and Ronan had actually been following behind me for the entire previous day, trying to catch up with me while I was (mistakenly, as it turned out) rushing to try to catch them! I was glad to see him again, and when Ronan appeared a few minutes later we happily set off again together toward the north.

In the mid-afternoon we ran into a hiker that Vick and Ronan knew from their time in the desert section. He had skipped ahead by car from Kennedy Meadows back in June to avoid the snow in the Sierras, and was now heading back south to complete the sections he had missed. Flip flopping, as this practice is known among thru-hikers, was very common in 2019 due to the very high snow levels that year (although it is technically not allowed by the rules of the PCT permit, especially in the popular High Sierra). Some day hikers had given him a giant bag of peanut butter M&Ms and he graciously shared them with us while we chatted.

It began to sprinkle rain as we descended toward the remote Highway 3 in the Trinity Mountains. An eerily deserted campground lay just off the road, and we had our choice of sites to set up for the night. The rain fell harder as we cooked dinner at a picnic table under a fir tree. I soon crawled into my tent to escape the deluge, but unfortunately my tent’s design had a major flaw which led water to seep in near the head. Exhausted from the day’s hike I quickly fell asleep anyway, too tired to worry about the wetness until the morning.