No problem!

June 15
It was a cold, dry landscape. Huge distances revealed themselves, snowy peaks in the distance. The trail took us through green meadows without surface water, but also without anything to distract us from the innate stark beauty. Landscapes like this prompt one to ponder deep, probably fruitless philosophical questions, like: what constitutes beauty? How is beauty related to the hostility or fertility of a landscape? Green fields are beautiful; moonscapes are beautiful. Are we drawn to extremes?

I'll leave it to the philosophy majors, I thought. 

Some things find their greatest beauty in death

The trail took me further and further up as the afternoon got deeper. As it leaked from afternoon into dusk, I approached Cottonwood Pass. In high snow years it can hold snow, making it the first test of what I'd see for the next few hundred miles. There was a wide, verdant meadow before the approach, and I paused to ponder whether I should just stay there. Hoops caught up to me, and I asked her what she planned on doing. We both pretended to consider the meadow, then hiked up to the pass. There's something so addictive about mileage; tacking on an extra three miles is hard to resist.

For some of us, anyway. In one of the switchbacks, I came on an odd couple. A young man with brightly colored glasses -- without lenses -- appeared to be comforting a young woman. On closer inspection, she was the woman who had driven the Ferrari back to Hikertown. 

"We're having a hard time," the young man explained. The woman looked defeated. 

Somehow, this inspired me to give a pep talk. A real classic/clichéd one, like something the Gene Hackman character in Hoosiers might have thought up. Lots of exhortations to never give up, and you've got this, and clapping my hands and saying "you've got this, all right, no problem!" (These are the phrases I use to regulate my own despair.)

I used to wish I could be a professional thru-hiker. Now I wish I could coach.

The pass had no snow, or just a few patches. My Groundhog Day was very auspicious. I tumbled down to Chicken Springs lake, where there were already a dozen tents. I cooked by starlight in the growing freeze of alpine night and tucked myself in bed.

Tiny bubbles

June 14
Lily and I hiked out the next morning in cool, crisp weather. The trail gently rolled its way between boulders and pine trees, me and my ungainly sack-of-potatoes pack rolling along with it. Ten days of food. Lily bade me farewell after a few miles, leaving me to contemplate the mountain range in front of me. I hoped there was still snow, because it is beautiful, but also knew full well that I's be cursing it if I ended up in it. The notion of the mountains' enormity was exciting, even as I hiked through another burn, this one I had actually seen on fire when I walked through in 2008. 

About five miles in, I stopped for some water at a spring that was being taken over for a campsite by a gang of Catholic seminarians from Indiana. Also present were one exceedingly harried horse packer and Sugar. He scrutinized me, smiles, and adressed me as "Crown." That's what I get for being such  a showboat with my T-Bomb.

The trail snook up over a little ridge and down into enormous Monache Meadows. These are a sagebrush sea, miles across, with little islands of trees on elevated pieces of land. They inspire awe and disquiet in me: there's something about their open emptiness that reminds me of salt flats or playas, something forbidding about their scale.

Tucked in along one shore of this sea is the Kern River, here just a creek, which the trail crosses by a handsome bridge. I love this spot, as hundreds of swallows nest underneath  the bridge, careening around you as you stand there. I am not alone in this love, as dozens of hikers were there, basking in the sun or yelling at one another. Someone had bathed using soap in the creek, a total pet peeve of mine. Bubbles collected in the eddies and clung to grassy shore. Putting soap into water you know others have to drink seems like the height of mannerlessness. Maybe they assume that it cannot matter, because the river can just flush it away. But there are now too many of us for that to work.

There were also other things in that creek, things that were caught and held my eye: trout. I tried for about an hour but without luck. Or that much skill, really. My angling was cut short by a naked long haired man in the water a bit downstream from me. He rose out in a big move of beard, hair, and 20-something hubris, pausing to glance at his girl on the bank to gauge efficacy. It looked like an overwrought scene from a PBS special about early man. The fish and I both left in disgust.

On my way out of the meadow, I saw Coppertone hiking south along the PCT. Remember him? He gave me a root beer float at Walker Pass. Anyway, he seemed to be in great spirits. He was also definitely very naked. One must assume the two are linked. Also, his name made a lot more sense now.

The air got a distinct alpine evening chill to it as I hiked up along Cow Creek, topping out at a spring. The cold forced me into the tent and bag as soon as the sun finally set.

Double O Kennedy

June 12-13

Kennedy Meadows, and in particular the General Store during hiking season, is a social biotope all its own. There is a spacious wooden deck, a harried snack bar, a giant hiker box consisting of a slouching table of unlabeled, half-filled ziploc bags. There are locals praising Trump in loud voices over their pancake breakfasts, trolling for liberals. There are dirt-bikers stopping for a bit of gas or beer. And then there are the hikers.
Hundreds of us, all over the place. Hikers who have been there for days, hikers who just stop in for a candy bar before launching themselves into the High Sierra. Lots of self-important hikers declaring that they had figured out how to beat the system and life-hack their way through the snow. Many packs of young men laughing too loud and looking a bit concerned, using each others' company to gloss over the fact that they did not know how to use any of the ice gear they had strapped to their pack.
It's a hiker scene, as Chancey would say. And I am a hiker, no doubt about it. It isn't, however, really my scene. I mean, I love drinking a can of beer in the afternoon, but I hate false bravado. And the population growth on the trail has led to social innovations that remind me of the worst facets of American high school: Jealously maintained cliques and rampant rumor-based fear mongering. Tables would eye me as i walked past, and then return to their discussion of how impossible the crevasses on such and such pass were.
But man oh man am I a curmudgeon, I thought to myself. So I finally just picked a table, sat down, and started talking to the people there. I did a puzzle, or as much of it as its remaining pieces would support. And I did find some pretty cool people. Maybe they were all really cool; maybe I just function poorly in this kind of setting. Given my disastrous social career in high school, this theory totally checks out.
As evening approached, Lily drove up. I gave her a big, beery hug, introduced her arond. Her glazed eyes confirmed for me that she was overwhelmed by the crowd, just like me. We pretty much immediately left for a nearby campground, where we cooked salmon and veggies. Zero miles, but a very good end to the day.
The next day was spent in the serious and heavily neurotic pursuit of packing my pack for the upcoming stretch. I had set my eyes on a big stretch, from Kennedy Meadows a full 178 miles to Vermillion Valley Resort. That means 12 days of food -- or after trying to fit that into my pack, I decided that 10 days would be all I would need -- as well as fishing rod, ice axe, bear can, warmer clothes. I shoved and squeezed and fretted while a very patient Lily waited. Finally, I had a backpack that was filled with everything necessary, but looked like a Jenga tower with a yard sale strapped to the outside. Probably weighed 50 pounds, made me as graceful as an ox, but it would keep me sage and fed for 10 days.
This monumental labor done, Lily and I repaired to the store, where I caight back up with Killer, Hoops, Carolyn, and Alex, the closest things I have to a social group right now. Then we headed back to camp for steak. We met an eccentric but very friendly Japanese man named Sugar, who sang us a farewell song and made us an origami crane; we gave him Budweiser and steak. "American beer very good," he exclaimed. My goodness, the Japanese are a considerate and polite nation.
I was scared of the upcoming section. What would the snow be like? Was I too old for this? Would my backpack break? But I had given myself all the advantages I knew how to: I was rested after double zero days, packed and ready. OK, Sierras. Let's go.

You'll never make it

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. 

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.

Cache money, bro

The desert is, by definition, dry. But the drought in California, most definitely not ended by El Nino, is more than just dry. It is killing off once-reliable springs along the route. This means, in theory, carrying water for insanely long stretches. Carrying water for 30 miles means carrying enough extra to camp with; carrying water for 40 means two gallons or more,16 extra pounds.
But, like, the PCT provides, bro. Or to be more precise, trail angels are stepping up and stocking caches of water along these waterless stretches. Caches make me conflicted. They are only as good as the people who stock them, and good intentions do not suffice. The angles involved also need to foresee giant groups of hikers arriving without warning and using up all the water, a logistical nightmare.
Still, somehow, it all works out. In this case, someone, a very cool someone, is stocking a cache at Bird Spring Pass, which replaces Yellow Jacket Spring, Willow Spring, and McIvers Spring, all once good springs now dry. I hiked into Bird Springs Pass on empty on another big 30 mile day. There was the usual hiker clump reclining around rocks and trees in the shade. I am aware of how solitary this trip has become for me, so I at least made small talk before filling my water bladders and hiking on.
Whatever I think about these hikers being soft, and how this trail should be at least in part about independence from our post-industrial world, caches keep me honest. I like water too. Thanks, Mr. Trail Angel named Devilfish, you are keeping me alive and my pack light. I hiked on up into the hills and slept the sleep of the 30-miler. Not quite the sleep of the just, but it works. 

The innskeeper gets spooked

June 8
I woke up early, but the Angry Tent was already down. The incident remained much on my mind as I hiked that morning, trying to make my way to Golden Oaks Spring. Water sources determine your hiking schedule in the desert, and I needed to get there pretty quick --the water I'd lugged up the hillside was running low. I passed a seep that oozed muddy water across the trail, thought that was the spring and freaked out; someone using a GPS-driven hiking app came by and corrected me. I hate the idea of an app that negates the need to learn map and compass, and I really hate that unmediated wilderness experiences are now replaced with yet more staring at your damn phone. But on the other hand, I was the dumbass trying to strain mud through a bandana to stave off dehydration when there was a cold clear spring .3 miles ahead.
It was beautiful indeed, a shady glen and a trickle of water coming out a pipe set into the hillside. True, the line one had to wait in to get water was yet another reminder of the Too Many People Problem. Maybe the DMV will now remind me of a desert oasis, I thought. But my mind was mainly on other things.
Like, for instance, which of the 20 hikers here was the dude who yelled at me last night? He knew what I looked like, having seen me when he woke up that morning. I was at a disadvantage.
Not for long, however! There was a man glaring at me with poorly-disguised hate from under his sensible sunhat. OK, I said to myself, time to take care of business, wild 'n' mild style.
"Hey," I said, "do you use a Z-Packs Hexamid?"
"Yeah," he responded slowly. He knew the game was up.
"About last night," I said. "I just wanted to apologize." That's how I squash my beefs: I apologize. Way easier than arguing. And hell, it must have woken him up, which must have sucked, I cede the point.
"Oh," he said. Not what he'd expected. "Yeah, sorry if I said anything last night."
"No problem," I responded. "All good."
Which should have been the end of it, except it wasn't, because some people cannot let it be.
"The thing is," he dug in, "you shouldn't shine your light in camp when people are trying to sleep."
"Right," I replied.
"Just so you know."
"Yes," my teeth in full death-clench. Do not seek conflict, I'm telling myself, there is no benefit in it...
"Ok," he said, picking up his vaguely kung-fu staff and his restored mantle of manly pride. "Be well."
I saw him on trail on hour later when I passed him. He was deep in thought, and I did not want to startle him. He and I had had enough conflict, I thought.
"Hello," I called softly when I was ten feet away.
"GAHHHHH," he replied, shocked, lurching off the trail and brandishing his staff. Maybe he doesn't get passed much. My last (and lasting) image of him is a face contorted by fear and surprise as I excused myself and jumped by.
I felt bad. I mean, he was a dick, but neither he nor I really wished each other ill. Some people you should just avoid, I guess.
The rest of the day was passed along jeep roads that made me miss my truck, and a gradual shift in landscape toward big, majestic mountains. I saw a lot of regrettable graffiti by a hiker named Cyborg -- kick him in the shins if you see him. I could feel the Sierras coming on, and I was delighted, as I was with my progress -- another 30 on the books. Man, sometimes it feels good to be fast.

Hey Cyborg! YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!

No room at the inn

June 7
After picking up mail and some shopping necessaries, Lily helped me by driving my pack around an eight-mike piece of trail between two highways while I hiked the same section, light as a feather. Some people seem to judge slackpacking, as this is called, but if so, fine: I have been judgemental myself about others hitching, so I probably have the approbation coming to me. I can dish it out and take it. Anyway, my good mood was immediately spoiled by the wind again. It could feel it drawing the moisture out of me like a dehydrator, making the map hard to hold.
On the other side of the hill, I packed my bag, collected myself, and said goodbye to Lily. The next section started with a brutal ascent, like 2000 feet or something up over bare, rocky, and -- you know it -- very windy hillsides to a pocket of forest above.
I plugged in a new audiobook and went for it. Aimless dirt and dust finally resolved into trail a mile in, then the switchbacks began. Sun down, stars up, still hiking. I hiked more than an hour after dark, sometimes having to crabwalk sideways facing the crosswind just to avoid being blown over. I was pretty mentally torn down by the whole thing, but the map showed a campsite ahead, so I plugged on. Couldn't camp on a steep rock wall anyway.
It, the campsite, finally appeared. It was just a clump of trees providing wind shelter to a patch of dirt, but it was like finding a Four Seasons on the moon, as far as I was concerned. I stumbled in, murmured greetings to the two tents set up, just in case they were awake.
"TURN YOUR LIGHT OFF. SOME OF US HAVE ALREADY DECIDED TO TRY TO SLEEP " spoke one of the tents. It was, and I don't want to overplay this, but the voice was really aggressive. I responded that, yes sir, I would, and then I did.
"YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO STAY HERE," the tent continued, "BUT WE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP. YOU SHOULD ALWAYS KEEP YOUR LIGHT DOWN."
"Yeah," I said, just wanting this to end so I could sleep. "Yes."
"JUST SO YOU UNDERSTAND." I don't know if he was hoping for an apology or what, but it was only 9:15 pm. Not really inexcusable, even for hikers. He would have to be satisfied with the noises of instant potatoes being rehydrated and wolfed down.
It made for a weird night's sleep. He didn't own that land, but I still felt very unwelcome. Too many people, I thought. In previous years, he could have counted on solitude. Well shit, I thought. Welcome to 2016, dude. We all are in the same boat, even if we're not happy about it. Guess we better learn manners.