June 10-11
The next day's hike brought me down to Walker Pass. This pass, a road crosing with Highway 178, has a lot of meaning for me. For years, this was where I touched base with the PCT when not hiking it. It is low enough in elevation and far enough south that it clears of snow months before the next PCT access to the north, at Kennedy Meadows. It also, being the southernmost part of the Sierras, has enough big-mountain character to clear out my mind over a weekend. I used to get off work Saturday at 2 pm, get in my beater truck, and drive straight down to the trailhead, getting there around 10 pm. I would hike all day Saturday and Sunday, then drive home, getting in in the wee hours Monday. This little patch of this big trail has given me so much comfort, I count it among my friends.
There was quite the crowd when I got there. Long-time trail personality Meadow Ed was there -- faithful readers may remember his Quixotic crusade against using water caches for post-coital hygiene. He promised me a grilled cheese but forgot or decided not to. I think he never did like the looks of me. Yogi, who has written the most widely-used planning guides to the PCT and CDT, was also there, a real trail celebrity. We both started playing this long-distance hiking game in 1999, hiking the Appalachian Trail that year, so we vaguely know each other, and said vague hellos. ("Arno -- I know that name," she kept saying.) A dude named Coppertone made me a root beer float.
The next day's hike brought me down to Walker Pass. This pass, a road crosing with Highway 178, has a lot of meaning for me. For years, this was where I touched base with the PCT when not hiking it. It is low enough in elevation and far enough south that it clears of snow months before the next PCT access to the north, at Kennedy Meadows. It also, being the southernmost part of the Sierras, has enough big-mountain character to clear out my mind over a weekend. I used to get off work Saturday at 2 pm, get in my beater truck, and drive straight down to the trailhead, getting there around 10 pm. I would hike all day Saturday and Sunday, then drive home, getting in in the wee hours Monday. This little patch of this big trail has given me so much comfort, I count it among my friends.
There was quite the crowd when I got there. Long-time trail personality Meadow Ed was there -- faithful readers may remember his Quixotic crusade against using water caches for post-coital hygiene. He promised me a grilled cheese but forgot or decided not to. I think he never did like the looks of me. Yogi, who has written the most widely-used planning guides to the PCT and CDT, was also there, a real trail celebrity. We both started playing this long-distance hiking game in 1999, hiking the Appalachian Trail that year, so we vaguely know each other, and said vague hellos. ("Arno -- I know that name," she kept saying.) A dude named Coppertone made me a root beer float.
It was awesome.
But everything g comes at a cost, right? In this case, the price was that there were a lot of people talking at how to hike the trail, even if they'd never yet finished it themselves. (Yogi, being a really seasoned hiker, took a much quieter tone.) It culminated with Meadow Ed looking me in the eye and telling me to stay at Walker Pass and eat cookies, "because you can't make it to Kennedy Meadows in time for the Saturday night movie anyway."
Slight digression: Kennedy Meadows, my next town stop and the last stop before the high Sierra, once had a movie night on Saturday. The whole community would gather at the general store, which had an amphitheatre, eat popcorn and watch a movie. I saw the Muppet Movie there in 2002. It was awesome. The tradition was crushed when another local business called the intellectual property cops on the general store, which is about as cool as drowning baby rabbits. Back to the story:
"But Ed," I said, "the people at Grumpy Bear's ruined that movie night years ago."
Yogi, without looking up: "Grumpy Bears has new ownership."
So. It was Friday at 1 pm. Fifty miles to the store. Ed told me I couldn't make it, and Yogi told me there was a precious memory of youth to be recaptured.
"Later," I said, stuffing a couple donuts in my mouth as I left.
I"d love to say that the next 50 miles were filled with remarkable occurrences worth retelling, but it was more like an endurance challenge. The pines became more numerous, the joshua trees disappeared. I hiked with a young man named Alex who had a killer pace. I collected water from a spring some 150 yards off trail on a worn-down path through forest, and I slept peacefully beneath the stars. Mostly I hiked, fast and constant, and listened to The Three Musketeers on audiobook. Man, Dumas really likes his swordplay!
And then, at 6 pm on Saturday the 11th, I walked into Kennedy Meadows. The beer-drunk hikers on the porch applauded my approach. My triumph was complete, except for the fact that there
A) was no movie, "we haven't done that in like 15 years, what are you thinking, young man," and
B) the store was closed, so no fresh food and no beer.
Oh well. I did it, so screw you, naysayers.
The scene was kinda wacky. I dined on noodles from my pack next to a very young woman who said she had driven the Hikertown Ferrari. I hung out with a good-natured crew that had all eaten psychedelic mushrooms that day and were just calming down. I finally spent ten minutes in a teepee they have set up. Some crazy man had built a giant bonfire in the middle of the teepee, making it uncomfortably hot; a Brit was talking to an Australian woman who was talking to a Russian emigre. When a fever-eyed man carrying a can of pork and beans, two unfinished beers, and a 70s pulp novel about a grizzly bear gone wrong came in and declared "I AM CROATIAN," I tapped out. Maybe after three days above thirty miles, I could skip the international sweatlodge party. I crawled into bed and let the sleep come.
But everything g comes at a cost, right? In this case, the price was that there were a lot of people talking at how to hike the trail, even if they'd never yet finished it themselves. (Yogi, being a really seasoned hiker, took a much quieter tone.) It culminated with Meadow Ed looking me in the eye and telling me to stay at Walker Pass and eat cookies, "because you can't make it to Kennedy Meadows in time for the Saturday night movie anyway."
Slight digression: Kennedy Meadows, my next town stop and the last stop before the high Sierra, once had a movie night on Saturday. The whole community would gather at the general store, which had an amphitheatre, eat popcorn and watch a movie. I saw the Muppet Movie there in 2002. It was awesome. The tradition was crushed when another local business called the intellectual property cops on the general store, which is about as cool as drowning baby rabbits. Back to the story:
"But Ed," I said, "the people at Grumpy Bear's ruined that movie night years ago."
Yogi, without looking up: "Grumpy Bears has new ownership."
So. It was Friday at 1 pm. Fifty miles to the store. Ed told me I couldn't make it, and Yogi told me there was a precious memory of youth to be recaptured.
"Later," I said, stuffing a couple donuts in my mouth as I left.
I"d love to say that the next 50 miles were filled with remarkable occurrences worth retelling, but it was more like an endurance challenge. The pines became more numerous, the joshua trees disappeared. I hiked with a young man named Alex who had a killer pace. I collected water from a spring some 150 yards off trail on a worn-down path through forest, and I slept peacefully beneath the stars. Mostly I hiked, fast and constant, and listened to The Three Musketeers on audiobook. Man, Dumas really likes his swordplay!
And then, at 6 pm on Saturday the 11th, I walked into Kennedy Meadows. The beer-drunk hikers on the porch applauded my approach. My triumph was complete, except for the fact that there
A) was no movie, "we haven't done that in like 15 years, what are you thinking, young man," and
B) the store was closed, so no fresh food and no beer.
Oh well. I did it, so screw you, naysayers.
The scene was kinda wacky. I dined on noodles from my pack next to a very young woman who said she had driven the Hikertown Ferrari. I hung out with a good-natured crew that had all eaten psychedelic mushrooms that day and were just calming down. I finally spent ten minutes in a teepee they have set up. Some crazy man had built a giant bonfire in the middle of the teepee, making it uncomfortably hot; a Brit was talking to an Australian woman who was talking to a Russian emigre. When a fever-eyed man carrying a can of pork and beans, two unfinished beers, and a 70s pulp novel about a grizzly bear gone wrong came in and declared "I AM CROATIAN," I tapped out. Maybe after three days above thirty miles, I could skip the international sweatlodge party. I crawled into bed and let the sleep come.
Hehe
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