F.I.G: "Fill In the Gap" Hiking a skipped/missed section of trail to officially complete a thruhike.
Usually people say they will come back to finish a skipped section of trail but rarely do. Other things get in the way and officially completing a long trial falls by the wayside; logistics to finish a section can get complicated and expensive, and sometimes the thought of getting out of that oh-so-comfortable house and back on the trail is less than appealing. After all, once a hiker reaches their final destination it feels like they are done, no matter if they skipped a little bit here or there. Thus I was slightly surprised when my plan to FIG came through. I had skipped the northern-most 238 miles in CA due to heat, smoke, fires, and time constraints with plans to go back later and finish it up. I had decided to treat the section as just a nice week-long backpacking trip rather than something I had to do to finish the PCT. That way I would still feel the victory when I reached Canada (because technically I didn't finish there) and mentally be able to get back on the trail after a stressful finish (at one low point I had decided I didn't even care to FIG, that completing the trail wasn't even worth it). But all the struggles to reach Canada on time to get to work had paid off, and I had a fantastic time leading a backpack trip in Tuolemene Meadows, chefing it up in Yosemite Valley, and facilitating ropes courses at a beach. And to my surprise, I was excited to get back out there... to spend one final week on the PCT.
After an annoyingly long journey back North, I made my way up the back-roads of Seiad Valley to where the trail meets roadwalk at a campground. I found a spot tucked away in the trees for my car and cleaned up, packed my pack, and hid my valuables. I was leaving my car there for a week as I finished 156 miles in phase one of Operation FIG. The plan was to take the bus South and hike North back to my car and then drive back South to start phase two.
I left my car under the big dipper at 6am, making sure it was locked and secure. I had a bit over two hours to walk six miles on the longest stretch of PCT roadwalk. I was cutting it close to make it to the bus stop on time, but it was all downhill so I wasn't too worried.
My dim headlamp lit up the wide gravel path as I trudged along, doing the occasional sweep for lion eyes out of habit, though I was less paranoid on an open road. Even so, I jumped at a sudden noise before I realized it was an out-of-tune rooster. I started to pass lonely houses, pondering the fact that people were asleep inside, unaware of me as I silently slipped past. I watched the sky slowly grow lighter and the stars disappear.
I turned onto the main road and was met with an occasional speeding car, a stark contrast to my 3mph pace. I crossed the bridge over the wide river (the whole reason for the long road walk) and made my way to the grocery store. I signed the register, happy to see there were still a few hikers out there, then headed out to the bus stop. Well, what I was told was the bus stop; there wasn't a sign or anything to imply I was in the right spot. I waited, eyes fixed on the distant road for the bus. I'd had unfortunate experiences with buses and wouldn't have been too surprised if the bus would just zoom past or not even show up at all, but I could NOT miss this bus-- it only came 2x a week, so I diligently watched the road ahead.
I sat nervously on my pack and chewed on some bread. The bus was late, and I was getting a bit impatient, as my hands were going numb in the chilly morning air. Finally, I saw it round the curve in the road and was relieved to see it turn on its blinker. A gruff, grumpy man opened the door and grunted at me for taking too long as I fumbled for money with frozen fingers.
The driver was a maniac, swerving around curves at full speed as the road followed a winding river and I started to feel a bit sick. I looked out the window, noticing how pretty the land was when it wasn't disguised by smoke. It was so different since I had last seen it only a few months prior when I had made the jump up to Oregon. What had once been a dirty town and ugly countryside had transformed into a quaint and inviting area in the fresh air.
I made it to the bus transfer station and killed an hour before hopping on a second bus, this time with an incredibly nice lady driver. She talked my ear off, shouting over the noise of the bus and dropped me off as close as possible to the trial, sending my on my way with well-wishes. I walked down a quiet road for a mile before hitting the interstate. I hugged the treeline as cars screamed past and a half a mile later I was back on the trail.
After a few weeks off trail and all the roadwalks, I was thankful to melt back into the woods and get back into the hiking rhythm. The trees had started to change to fall yellows and I marveled at the rock mountains. A hiker passed me from the other direction. She stopped mid-trail and started at me as if I were a ghost. I figured that is what I would be like after this stretch-- I didn't expect to see many people.
My glute/hip was giving me a hard time, as I had carried a heavy trashbag down the long roadwalk that morning to throw food away so it wouldn't rot in my car. It had swung back and forth on my pack the whole way, throwing off my stride and pulling muscles. I hadn't stopped to fix it because I didn't want to be late for the bus, but now I was paying for it. I knew it was time to stop when I started limping and decided to call it a day at 5:30. The sun had already dipped down behind the ridge. I camped alone, as expected, by a dry creek. It was comforting to see a house down in the valley below and hear planes flying overhead. Though they didn't know I was there, it was nice to know I wasn't the only human for miles.
I woke at 10:30pm to a strange noise. It was clearly a big animal, and it was coming closer. It sounded like a gruff goat with a deep man-like quality. I had no idea what it was. It never got too close, but I gripped my knife all the same. Eventually it turned around and walked away. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
I woke up multiple times after that, tracking the moonlight through my tent walls and listening to the crickets.
Since I was in a valley the sun came up late, and it was dim for quite some time as I made my way up the hill. My hip was more painful than before and I limped along, hoping it wouldn't get any worse. I pondered my options for getting off trail again if it got too bad. In the meantime I settled for taking some vitamin I for the pain. I watched the sun slowly brighten the sky and finally peak its head around a mountain. As I neared the top of the hill I looked out and saw a plume of smoke building, seemingly from where I had just come. It was south so I wasn't too worried, but why was fire always popping up around me? I couldn't escape it-- fire followed me. Throughout the day the smoke grew, settling into a sheet around the base of Mount Shasta. I met a few dayhikers as the trail neared a road crossing and got enough service to find out that the fire was a prescribed burn.
The sun set quickly, and soon I was hiking in the dusky light. I had promised myself I wouldn't have to night hike on this stretch, that the time for urgency was over, but I was close to my destination for the day so I continued into the growing darkness. With a half mile to go the moon was shedding more light than the sun but I managed to make it to a camp spot before pulling out my headlamp. I set up my tent near an empty gravel parking lot and enjoyed some beans and rice before tucking in for the night.
It was dead silent, eerie. I slept fine until 2:30am, when a bird confused the moon for the sun and started cooing loudly. I slept fitfully after that.
It was a lovely day and the trail was gentle, but with the perfect weather came the hoard of gnats. They swarmed in clouds over the trial and I had no choice but to walk through them, holding my breath and squinting my eyes. I had to keep blowing them out of my nose and blinking them out in tears. After emerging from the swarm I always discovered a few had found a delightful resting spot on my arms. They didn't sting or bite, but I quickly brushed them away.
By lunchtime I had covered 13 miles despite my severe limp in the morning (vitamin I had taken care of that right away). I was delighted at my good pace and had a quick but restful lunch. It looked like I could make it to camp early that day. But as I headed uphill I winced at some painfully steep steps-- the ibuprofen had worn off. My pace slowed.
The sun was setting on the other side of the ridge, casting a jagged shadow of the mountain across the valley. The tops of the distant mountains still glowed in the setting sun, and a lake reflected their wildness to near perfection. So incredibly beautiful. I was glad to be doing that section in the cool of the fall with fresh air. Had I pushed through earlier and not skipped ahead, I would have been wheezing in smoke under the hot summer sun with no rewarding views.
It had been an awesome day. I made it to a camp spot and exchanged greetings with a couple camping there. Though we kept to ourselves, it was nice to not be alone. I pitched my tent at one of the most beautiful spots all trail, overlooking a valley below backed by rough mountains. I fell asleep to the rush of wind.
It was a slow morning, despite the wonderful circumstances. My pack was now comfortably light, my hip had faded into a dull ache without the help of drugs, the weather was perfect and the terrain was mostly gentle. But my knees were acting up and slowed me down. I stopped a lot to dr. them, attempting to stick on some KT tape only to have it fall off minutes later. I gave up after a while and submitted to limping down the steep hills. After a nice lunch break I started to climb. My knees were happy, but my cardio was not.
White jagged rocks closed in on a valley as I entered the Russian Wilderness. The trail ran over loose granite scree high above the trees on the ridge, delicately balanced on the mountain with cliff running straight up to the right and a valley shooting straight down to the left. I met another SOBO who stopped for a long chat. I was itching to keep going to make it to camp early but he proceeded to tell me all about his triple triple crown (impressive) and show me pictures of Canada and the PCT in the 80s. I listened politely until another SOBO relieved me and I was able to continue on my way. I arrived at a deserted campsite shortly before sunset and explored the colorful fall lake before settling on a spot by the water and cooking some dinner.
Camping by a colorful fall lake
The only sound was the occasional fish jumping out of the water and a couple of owls hooting as darkness faded to night.
I knew it would be a long day so I hustled out of camp and watched the sun rise through the trees, the first shafts of lights softly illuminating the forest. I met a record of 2 SOBO hikers before 8:30am. I had gotten into the habit of trying to read the footprints to discover who was ahead of me and how far, but according to a logbook there were no other NOBOs for days (at least, none that signed the register).
It was an unexpected roller coaster of ups and downs all day. The path was rocky and my feet hurt slightly from navigating the loose rock. And the trail was going rogue. No longer content to follow its usual sensible way up mountains and around obstacles, it ping-ponged me back and forth over the same ridge-line several pointless times. Each time it sent me further down the hill before shooting me back up to the elevation and ridge I had just come from. It was incredibly steep. Tired, I stopped and stared at the 50 foot section of trial in a vertical wall before me. "Im not going up that." I said aloud. "Oh yes you are," the trail replied. And I did. It was short, but the steepest I had ever seen the PCT.
The sun set over the beautiful blue mountains, layering into the distance reminding me of the Appalachians. A plume of smoke rose up in the distant south. Another fire? I had to talk aloud to myself the last mile, as it was too dark to see far with my dying headlamp and I wanted animals to be aware of my presence.
Lively chatter and the flicker of a campfire welcomed me to the camping area. I set up at a respectful distance to cook dinner and go to bed, warily eyeing the fire as it grew bigger and popped and sent sparks flying away on the wind. I started to get nervous. Were these guys ignorant to the fact that the fire danger was incredibly high? I had seen two pillars of smoke in the last few days and not a week ago the electric company was declaring they would shut off the electricity to take precautions. It was small comfort that it was cold, which in theory would slow the spread of fire. I watched the four campers intently for some time, hoping they would let it die down. Rather, they threw more fuel on it, and the flames blazed higher. I considered going over to politely talk to them about it before sleep pulled me under. When I woke a few hours later it was out.
It was a cold morning as I trekked up and down some decent hills, lost in thought. A coyote shared me water source, and trotted away as I approached to refill.
I ate lunch under a beautiful mossy triple-tree guarding a meadow on top of a mountain. As I shoveled cereal into my mouth I saw an old SOBO approach, drop his pack, and head to the nearby spring. He was talking to himself, a sure sign of being alone far too long. I wasn't sure how long he would take to get water, but I didn't want to get caught in a conversation when I was so close to my car so I quickly finished up. I still had to fill my bottles and he had been down there for a while, so I left my pack and headed down to briefly join him. As I approached him from behind, I heard him muttering to his almond trial mix. "Hello," I said gently, so as not to startle him. He turned his weathered face toward me, long beard swinging. "A human..." he stammered, eyes wide." I thought the only thing I'd meet today was the baby deer I saw earlier." I learned he was FIGing, and had hiked South from Cascade Locks through Oregon, which would mean he would have been largely alone. Although I had seen a few SOBOs every day, most people do the same mileage so no one runs into each other unless they were going opposite directions. That is why I hadn't met another NOBO on this section. I got some water and headed out before we could get too deep into a conversation.
A 16 mile downhill. I prepared my knees for pain-- they hurt just thinking about it. But it turned out not to be so bad. The bad part was that the trial was overgrown and hot and gnats swarmed my face... I hate all those things. I listened to a lot of podcasts and books to take my mind off of it. It seemed to take forever to chip away those miles, but I finally saw the campground across the bridge. Yes! I was so happy to see my car, just as I had left it. I grabbed some snacks and went to soak my legs in the frigid stream. I scrubbed away the dirt and let my feet and knees go numb in the swirling river as I ate my chocolate. So content.
I ate a normal trail dinner sprawled out in a camp chair under the colorful trees, sad I hadn't stashed something more delicious in my car but delighted with the upgraded seating. As the sun set I climbed into my car and snuggled up to watch a movie on my cozy bed. Pure comfort. Pure contentment. Pure Bliss. Phase one of Operation FIG: Complete.
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