First blood

June 16

I was up at 5:30 but still one of the later hikers to leave camp. People wake very early out here, and they seem to attach the same air of luxury to going to bed early as people at home attach to waking up late. Ben Franklin would be delighted.

The trail traversed, climbed, descended, just did its PCT thing. Open forests around sandy tread. I stopped to take off some layers about five miles in, and while I was bent over my pack, a nudge from behind sent me forward onto my hands. It was a hiker who had pushed me out of the trail to get past.

He hadn't said a word. Getting passed on the trail is always a touch fraught for me -- I know I am not the fastest, but I am pretty damn fast, and yeah, I am proud of that. It's like running a marathon; you are not really racing those around you, but it feels much better to be moving up through the pack than it does to be passed, regardless of what your final time is. But you know, getting passed happens. Usually I forget the ego sting before the next podcast comes up on my iPod. 

To be brushed aside, however, felt like a real insult. I was gonna hike that dumbass into the ground. 

I put on my pack, the phrase "suiting up for battle" flashing absurdly on me as I did, and set off at a very brisk clip.

He was easy to catch. Wasn't even hiking that fast. This turned out to present a new problem, though, because the dude was so plugged into his earbuds that he could not hear me ask, then yell, that I wanted to get past. Finally I ran in beside him, waving my poles frantically. 

He let me past. He did, however, do so without trying to lay some blame on me. 

"Next time," he said with a scholarly air, "just tap me on the shoulder." I imagined hauling off and smacking him on the shoulder with my pole. He plugged back in to his buds before I could answer. 

The further away I got, the more peace I found. An hour later I met two hiker dudes by a stream where I stopped for some water. The whole Triple Crown thing came up, and we talked about the CDT for a bit. They were cool. Then Mr. Earbuds showed up and joined them. I suddenly got it: His hiking mania sprang from his need to be with his herd! He was extremely nonplussed to find that his bros had accepted me as cool, and resorted to the primary tactic of most assholes: silent glowering.

Trail drama, who needs it. I moved on. 
After a long ascent, the trail topped out on a high, windy notch with sweeping views east into the dry Owens Valley. There was a tiny little wildfire going on one of the eastern slopes. I knew from other hikers that it had been reported, but there was no attempt underway to stop it. No reason to; the vegetation was so sparse, it seemed unlikely that it would spread. My goodness, O thought, I am seeing an actual healthy wildfire. After all the catastrophic ones, it looked like a wonder of nature.

Then it was down to Rock Creek. From there, I'd climb up to Crabtree Meadows, the base camp for climbing Mt. Whitney (thru-hikers do Whitney as a day hike). But while crossing the creek, I saw the darting shadows of trout, and my hike was delayed while I succumbed to my obsession.

My rubber worms were scoffed at. In fact, all manner of metal and plastic doo-dads were treated with the derision of a picky child surveying a salad of Lima beans and raw kale. So I tried some Powerbait. For the uninitiated, these are little neon green marshmallows that smell like rubber boots and old meat. (Actually, they come in many gross flavors and weird colors; garlic flavor is very popular.) It seemed like an insult to the trouts' dignity to serve them such stuff; they are as beautiful as unicorns, and you would not feed a unicorn a bluerazzleberry corn dog. 

Or maybe one would, as the trout were curious about the surreal pellets. Several ingested the bait, but then spit it out. Finally, over an hour in, one bit and held. I pulled a transcendentally beautiful sliver of fighting muscle out of the creek, held it in my hand, removed the hook and released it.

I had drawn first blood, as Dan and I would say. No matter what else happened, I had not been skunked.

Flush with glorious victory, I strutted up to Crabtree meadow. Watched by a curious doe, I set up my tent, made dinner, and lay down to the sleep of Ceasar, Alexander, and Rollo.