Day 61: Mile 735.1 - 745.3
So today was a shorter day, just 11 miles from my campsite to Trails Pass, then a descent down Trails Pass to Horseshoe Meadows where I got a hitch into town. I took it easy, broke camp late, hiked out to Dutch Meadow where I got lunch and water, then hiked a few more miles to Trails Pass, descended, went the wrong way, found Horseshoe Meadows anyway, and got a hitch with the first car I saw. And there were some memorable trail bits today: from my campsite, the PCT actually makes this curve around a valley--like from 6 o'clock to 3 o'clock to 12 o'clock, and from the 6 o'clock position I remember looking out and seeing the mountain at 12 o'clock (which was Trail Peak) and thinking, wait, I have to go there? And in 5 miles? That's far! That's going to be tough! But it didn't end up being that bad.
But the thing I wanted to talk about here was something I've been thinking about for a while now. And that's how this trail, the PCT, feels relentless. How it's become a grind for miles every day. And I've made some fun of it--a sort of see how far you can go--the past couple days, and I have m assurances--the 3 mph--so in theory I can make up the miles, but those are just papering over the issue. I remember mentioning this to Ian a while back--definitely in Tehachapi when I was sick but even before then--and he asked me, why? The PCT isn't a casual hike where you're just wandering around, taking in the sights, stopping when you want and starting when you want, there's a deadline to it: the snows in Washington. Miss that, because you're too slow, because the snows come early, and you don't finish. It's that simple. And that deadline has started to become more and more real as I have fallen further and further behind other folks, and as I'm now getting passed by people who started not days after me, but now weeks and a month after me. And all this after I trained for months before this trip, even with all that, I'm still not back of the pack, I'm *behind* the pack.
So maybe that's why it feels relentless: I feel acutely behind. Or maybe it's because I'm always chasing miles. Gone are the days when I would say, hike until I feel I'm about done for the day and stop. Maybe it was the time in the desert: that brought with it the careful counting of miles--to not calculate, and to not accomplish that calculation, risked dehydration and heatstroke and (in theory) death. So every day I had to make mile goals, and then hit those goals, or I'd run out of water. Is it any surprise, then, that I went further and calculated, wait, how far do I still have to go? Am I still going to make it to Canada? Because, let me tell you, at the pace I'm going, I'm not.
But regardless of its origin, the "plan-miles, make-miles" mentality has set in. And it's aggravated by the fact that I'm not good with freedom. I remember Ismael saying that one of the things he enjoyed the most about thru-hiking was the freedom. Today you could do big miles, or today you could sit around at a stream instead, enjoy it, and do small miles. And Martin--of Martin and Caroline back at Deep Creek--had proclaimed the same sentiment: some days they;d do 25 miles, other days they'd do 5 and just sit around. Even Boomerang's medical advice echoed this somewhat: he advised not doing the same thing every day, but varying it up, because if you do the same, consistent thing every day the body stops building and instead just maintains status quo, but if you vary it up--making sure to leave time for rest--then the body will go into build-build-build mode. All these perspectives circle around one assumption: enjoy the freedom. And for some, I think, freedom is what they embrace, it's their natural default. But for me, structure is where I incline. Give me structure and I'll naturally slot in, and the trail *is* a structure. It says go this way, and go this way some more, and there's schedules and timetables (reach the Sierras or Washington by this date or that date based on the snow), and I fall into these easily. And if you tell me, in the midst of something *so* structured where I don't even have to worry about where to *go*, I just follow this *trail*, well, in the midst of that to say "embrace freedom", *that's* a hard thing.
But that *is* what I'm saying for the Sierras. The Sierras are supposed to be the most beautiful part of the trail, the crown jewel. And everyone who goes through them remarks that they'd like to have spent more time there. So for me, for the Sierras I want to stop pursuing miles and instead try my best to enjoy the time out here. I want to be able to stop at a spot and just be, rather than saying ok, I'll schedule a 15-minute rest here and then I'll get back on trail and over that upcoming elevation profile with this pace I'll be able to hit that point by this time and--stop. I want to take it easy, I want to not worry about miles and days and Canada. I want to cultivate *seeing*, maybe even get the second Old Friend to make an appearance or two (odds are low, though: he's a fickle one, second). Because the Sierras--even just the little bit I saw today right before I left the trail--looked like, yeah, there may be something to all the praise that's heaped on them. I remember when I got to Trail Pass and had to make the right to head down to Horseshoe Meadow, I looked around and suddenly I said, I don't want to go. (With all apologies to Ten.) (Leslie gets it: ask her!) I want to stay here, I want to hike over that way, along the trail, not this way, off it. I want to keep going, I want to see what happens next.
So that's my resolution for the Sierras: forget the miles as much as possible, take the time as much as possible, and try to *see* it, really *see* it. Not camera see it, not eyeball see it, but really see and know it. Let it write not beauty--it's going to be beautiful--but let it write something beyond that, like the desert wrote something beyond just that it's hot and empty and tough. If I'm going to strive, don't strive to accomplish, strive to hear what the Sierras say.
At this point, I should say I'm terrible at keeping New Years' resolutions. But we shall see.
Some notes:
-- Campsite > Dutch Meadow > Trail Pass > Horseshoe Meadow > Lone Pine
-- Technically there are three ways from the PCT down to Horseshoe Meadow: in order of distance, Mulkey Pass, Trails Pass, and Cottonwood Pass. I had originally intended to go down Cottonwood Pass, but eventually went with Trails Pass, the middle option. The logic here is a bit convoluted. First, on the map Trails Pass looks to have the most direct route to Horseshoe Meadows, and fewer off trail miles is good. Second, going into Lone Pine I was going to lose some of my hard-fought elevation hardiness. And I wanted that to be earlier on-trail than later, reasoning that then when I returned, I would be able to spend more time at elevation to get it back for the next section. (Or something, this argument is a bit hackneyed.) And third: I wasn't going to make it the extra 5 miles from Trails Pass all the way to Cottonwood Pass, and then down Cottonwood Pass, by the end of the day, meaning I wouldn't be able to get a hitch when I got to Horseshoe Meadows. And that's probably the main reason!
-- Today I met Ping, at the Dutch Meadow Spring, where I picked a spot near a fire ring overlooking the meadow, and he picked a spot on the grass where the spring curved around him. I came there to get water, you want me to get that for you?, he asked, then, here, pass it over, and he filled my CNOC for me. We talked some, mostly about the trail ahead and strategies. His pack was tiny--I'm not sure the bear canister would even fit inside it!--and he was trying to not eat all his food as he wanted to make it to Bishop. Anyway, when he had first setup in his spot, it had been fully in the shade, but as we talked the sun slowly encroached more and more, but he was unwilling to move, so grabbed his rain jacket to cover his legs (like I do at times), and would soon have to cover up more and more. When I finally left, only his head was in the shade but he wasn't moving from that spot! But Ping was a nice guy, very laid back, and we're between bubbles so the mountains had felt pretty empty the past couple days--I think he just wanted to talk to another human being for a bit!
-- Coming down Trails Pass, like I said I made a wrong turn, went right instead of left at some junction midway down and found myself at the end of a meadow, with a trail that curved around said meadow. But across the meadow, I could see human-like structures. So I could go around or, screw it, head straight for that. And I did: over a marsh, then over a sandy bluff (really sandy, when the wind kicked up it blew sand in my eyes type of sandy), then over another marsh (now with a stream through it), then up another sandy bank, into the campgrounds. And then out of those campgrounds, to the campgrounds north to get to Horseshoe Meadows, although for that last bit I took an actual trail. I felt kind of bad trampling over non-trail parts of the marsh and bluff and second marsh, but then I saw cowpies everywhere in the marshes so I said, hey, if the cows can do it, why can't I?
-- The Cottonwood area is actually two areas: a southern area for camping, and then a northern area for equestrian and day-hikers. The advice--slightly unclear on Guthooks--was to go to the northern area, and when I got there I talked to a random group of campers. Hey, how you doing, you wouldn't know how I can get a hitch into Lone Pine?, I asked them. Well, we're staying here for a couple days, but you can head over there--they pointed north--where there's a big parking lot for the trail system around here. That's where the day-hikers are. So I headed over there--again, ignoring the road and just going straight line-of-sight--and when I got there, the first car I saw leaving the lot I half-heartedly stuck my thumb out and, lo and behold, they stopped! And I got ride down with a couple guys who were planning to do Whitney tomorrow, and so had spent a couple days up here acclimatizing to the elevation. And I got to talking to the driver, who was from Poland, and had done Whitney I think 7 or 8 times already. I'm going up but, if I don't feel it, then I'll come back down, he said. But he had originally lived up in Washington, and when he had come down to California, had come down in the "perfect" season--those two weeks when everything is green--but when he moved down, got the reality. But then he discovered the eastern Sierras, and fell in love with it. It was amazing, he said, you drive the 395 through the desert, but then you go off to the side only a little bit and you're in alpine woods, with lakes and streams. In fact, he was moving from Marin County up north, to Temecula down south, and was happy that he would be closer to all this now. He'd been everywhere, all through Yosemite, all through Mammoth Lakes, day-hiking and backpacking. And I did ask him for advice for Whitney, and all he said was to take it slow, take breaks, but not too long, and that you'll start feeling it around 12,000 feet. He said the hard part was the mental part: the first bit is tough, so when you finish it you'll look up at how much more you have to go and think, I'll never get there. But keep going. The first time he went up, he got to the top where it's a ridge walk, and not that far, but it took him so long to go those final hundreds of yards, more than a half hour. But when he got to the top, all that weariness instantly faded away, and he was fine coming down. So that's something to keep in mind!
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