I flew down the mountain to Donner Pass. I vaguely remembered learning about this place in history class, and the tragedy that took place there. One winter in the 1800, the Donner party of 81 settlers were trying to cross the Sierras in order to find new land, and were blocked by heavy winter storms and snow. Half of the party died of hypothermia and starvation, and the ones that survived may have resorted to cannibalism. Almost 200 years ago where I stood, someone was eating another person. Wow. I met one of the guys I had been leap-frogging with, and together and we pushed up the trail a few miles to a rest stop off of the interstate. I delighted in the clean bathrooms and running water, although no matter how many time I washed my hands the water still ran brown, evidence of life in the woods. After charging devices and eating frozen ice fruit we headed off.
The next stop was Grubb Hut. It was a two-story hut, built for winter and summer use. In the winter when there was deep snow on the ground, you could get in the hut via the top floor. In the summer, you could use the bottom entrance. The cabinets were stocked with food, a few tables provided comfortable places to eat, a stove furnace sat in the corner along with wood ready to burn, books sat squat on the shelves, a guitar hung on the wall, and a solar panel provided light for dark winter nights. It would be an awesome place to stay. But we needed to make more miles so I made a mental note to come back in the winter and ski or snowshoe into the hut for a nice vacation. After all, I wanted a chance to use the 2-story privy as well; you don't see those very often.
I woke early and pushed all day long, only stopping for a 10 minute break for lunch. I was in a hurry to get to town, for my mom was there to meet me. She had driven across half of the country to spend a week or so with me, slackpacking me and enjoying the time together. After the longest downhill in my life (15 miles of complete downhill) I reached the road to Sierra City and spotted my mom reading a book in the parking lot. I eagerly crossed the busy road, and gave her a big hug.
We grabbed some food and started making a plan for the slackpacking adventure, pouring over maps, doing calculations, and trying to figure out the best way to do things.
Slackpacking is wonderful in theory, but a bit more complicated in reality.
It requires the roads to be spaced perfectly so the support car can get to you with food and your gear. Sometimes the roads can be sketchy gravel roads and sometimes busy highways. Oftentimes it takes a few hours to drive only 30 hiking miles up the trail in a complex road system. Finding the trailhead from the car can be tricky, as it is not always easily visible. Without cell service, neither party knows where the other one is, or if something went wrong.
My mother was a champ, navigating the back roads with no technology and crappy maps, and I was always relieved to see her sitting at the road crossing or hiking up the trail to meet me at the end of a long day.
Every morning I would set off, giving most of my gear to my mom to take back to the car, carrying only a bit of food, water, and some layers. With a light pack, I could fly up and down hills with ease. I would hike all day, moving as quickly as I could in order to meet my mom at a road crossing almost 30 miles away. When I finally arrived, I busied myself, putting my tent and things back in my pack, along with dinner and food for the following day. My mom and I would then hike up the trail a few miles to camp, and enjoy an evening together. We followed this pattern for a few otherwise uneventful days. The light pack allowed my body a much needed break while still making big miles.
I had heard rumors of a trail closure ahead because of a fire. When I got to the road, the rumors were confirmed true; a sign announced that the next 19 miles of trail were still open, but were likely to close at any time. After that section, 44 miles of trail was officially closed due to the fire raging a few miles away. Thankfully my mom was at the road, and I dumped unneeded weight in the car and made plans to meet her at the road in 19 miles before starting the climb. The views were hazy with smoke as I made my way over a ridge line. I could tell the fire was somewhere to the west, and knew it was relatively close, but the smoke covered any direct view of the flames below.
In a rare spot of service, I received a message saying that Belden was being evacuated because the fire was at its doorstep. That's exactly where I was headed. My mom was waiting for me in Belden; well, she was supposed to be, if she wasn't evacuated. Terrible visions came to me as my imagination ran wild with scenarios. What if I got there and no one was there, and I had to run away from a raging fire on foot? What if my mom refused to move while waiting for me and ended up suffering from smoke inhalation? What if I didn't even make it there and got turned around by rangers telling me to go back?
With six miles to go, I broke into a run, pack bouncing against my back with every step. The trail shot downhill in switchback after switchback. I sustained the run for much of the way, legs slightly bent to protect my knees, making my thighs burn as they caught the weight of my body step after step. Planes roared overhead nonstop and helicopters hummed in the valley below, tugging huge capsules of water through the air to dump on the fire. Through some trees I caught a glimpse of aircraft spraying white foamy stuff over a thick plume of smoke just across the valley, and picked up my pace. It was close. Too close. My legs! They screamed in pain.
At one point I saw a line of cars dotting the road below, so I knew there would be people; I could hitch into safety if needed. As I approched the bottom, the trail turned away from the fire and the smoke thinned. I heard a chainsaw in the distance. Comforted by these relatively normal things, I allowed myself to slow to a limping walk. The five mile run had made me incredibly sore. I reached the bottom of the long hill, hobbled across train tracks, and down a paved road. I met some firefighters walking my direction. They asked about the trail, and I asked if Belden was truly being evacuated; with all the activity it didn't seem like it. They looked confused, and encouraged me that there was no evacuation. Noooo... I mean, that was good, but that meant I ran for no reason. Man. I would pay for that tomorrow.
I met my mom in the non-evacuated town and I squished with three more hikers in the small car to drive around the 44 mile fire closure. The good news was that it allowed me to skip quite a few terrible hills. The bad news was that the official halfway point lay in the middle of the fire closure.
I found a temporary halfway sign at the trailhead. Delighted, I had a photoshoot and then we were on our way. My mom and I hiked four miles to a spring. We ate dinner together in a tent, mosquitoes buzzing outside.
Halfway point!
Math depressed me. If I didn't skip ahead I would have to average 32 and 1/2 miles a day to make it to Canada on time; I had to make a deadline for my fall job. Skipping ahead 300 miles meant 25 miles a day average. Still more than I wanted. I was so tired of pushing and pushing all the time.
Interrupting my calculations, a hiker came bouncing down the trail, a huge smile on his face. Great. The last thing I need right now; I dread encounters with happy people when I'm in a bad mood. "Morning," he beamed, "how are you today?" "Alright," I mumbled, the first time I didn't lie for that question. "You are trucking it. Trying to make it through the park?" I nodded. "You got it girl." He passed. Surprisingly, that actually made me feel a bit better. I had to hike 20 miles through Lassen National Park in one day because I wasn't carrying a bear canister, in addition to the 10 miles to get to the park boundary.
My mom joined me on trail to go visit a thermal geyser. Water boiled underground, forcing steam out of the cracks in the earth, a pungent smell of hard boiled eggs hung in the air. I made it to the parking lot and grabbed some food from the car. It was incredibly hot, and I was not excited to hike. As I delayed and debated over mileage, it got hotter. So miserable... so I kept delaying. There was the car. I could escape. I was tempted to call it quits for the day, to drive through the park or even go to town. After hours of trying to motivate myself, I got bored and annoyed at the pain of dragging out the inevitible. I came here to hike, so I would hike. Not take the easy way. So I moved on. I poured water on my head to cool down and took off with all my gear in case I didn't make the mileage to the car at the end. I told my mom not to expect me to make it. At that point, I would be lucky to make it through the park. Once I got hiking it wasn't so bad. With a full pack, I could set a steady pace without feeling like I constantly had to push. Slower, but more enjoyable. After a while I came to a lake where I took a moment to swim and eat dinner. Onward. I had many miles to go still. The trail cut through a burned area, dead trees casting shadows from the setting sun. I ran into another thruhiker and we pushed each other to the border. It was dark when we got to the sign. Longest day so far- 31 miles. I hope for more days that long... but less painful.
I slept like a rock, except for the hour I lay awake, listening to deer pretending to be bears, and imagining dead trees falling on me. I hiked quickly until I saw my mom coming up the trail toward me. We hiked out together to the car where I dumped my heavy pack and grabbed a day pack, stuffing it with with water and snacks for the seven mile slackpack. It went quick, and when I got to the next road we went to eat food. While chowing down on fajitas, we heard that a road was closed because of a fire nearby. The PCT happened to cross that road. So was the PCT closed as well? It seemed like fires were popping up everywhere. We went to a ranger station to see if the PCT was closed as well. It wasn't; all they said was to use caution, and the trail might close at any time.
We checked out some lava tubes to delay the decision of whether or not to proceed on a potentially closed trail. The tubes were incredible. And cold. The cool air contrasted the torrid sun. Smooth walls and rough pumice under foot- remains of liquid rock burning through thousands of years ago.
When we emerged from the tubes, there was no change in the status of the trail. I silently accepted my fate of heading out into the heat. The trail was hot and exposed as it followed a ridge.
I made it to an incredible trail magic of coolers. I chugged a soda and moved onward. The sun set and it grew cooler as I pushed the remaining miles to the road where my mom waited. There were reports of cougars in the area and it made me paranoid to hike in the dark. I blasted a podcast to scare them away and was on the constant watch for glowing eyes. I was delighted to see car lights reflecting off my headlamp. My mom had set up my tent for me and I eagerly shoved down Mexican leftovers before going to bed.
Crossing over lava rocks
Final leg of the slackpack. I cruised down to Burney Falls. They were marvelous. The falls rivaled all other falls I had seen, and the cold mist settled on my face as the water seeped out of underground aqueducts only to spill freefall into the creek below.
We ended up staying at a church for the night. A lovely community opened up its gym for hikers to shower and sleep in. Decided to stay the next day as well for a zero.
Teleportation. Flying down the road 60mph. I was skipping 230 miles of trail to avoid hiking in the heat and smoke. I could do that section later. Skipping ahead would allow me to catch up with my trail family and make it to Canada on time before the heavy snow hit. It would also enable me to finish on time, for I had to get to a fall job at the end of September. My mom dropped me off in the last town on the PCT in California. With a light pack, I flew up a huge hill to meet her at a gravel road. We ate lunch together, then said goodbye. After over a week of slackpacking me, she would head home, and I would head for Oregon.
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