Day 117: Mile 1763.3 - 1789.4

Let's talk about miles. So I'm in Oregon now, and in Oregon, you're supposed to be able to make miles. As in there's the Oregon Challenge: traverse Oregon--all 456 miles of it--in two weeks. There's no way I'm doing that, but it's supposed to be possible. And it's supposed to be possible because Oregon is relatively flat and, to be fair, based on what I've hiked so far (all 5 days of it) this is largely true: we're going up and down hills, but the slopes are pretty mild, and I can see how one could pick up speed and miles.

For me, though, I'm just interested in how far I can get in a day, and today I tried it out. Got a relatively early start--7:20am--and finished relatively late--7:20pm. In that time managed to get in 26.1 miles; 0.1 short of a marathon! So 25+ miles in a day is possible. Will I do it again? Probably not: the toll on the body feels pretty high. But it's possible, in Oregon.

As for the hike today, in the morning things actually got interesting: for the first 10 miles or so, the trail walked through these cascades of black rock, these rivers of black stone tumbling off into the woods below, the trail marked by high-contrast red gravel strewn along the carved out footpath. At first I had thought it the result of some sort of mining, but when it recurred slope after slope after slope, realized it was a natural phenomenon, likely something volcanic. It made for a nice change a scenery, though, from the interminable woods that preceded it.

And that also succeeded it. The black rocks stopped at Highway 140, about 10 miles into the day, and from then on it was woods, woods, woods. To be fair, I saw this in advance: coming into Highway 140, from amongst the stony rivers I looked up at this intimidating peak up ahead--Mount McLoughlin--towering above the landscape, right there, just mere miles away. And its lower slopes, its skirts, just covered in trees, a blanket of green, stitched by the tip-tops of innumerable conifers. And I knew that the trail didn't go over the mountain (thankfully), but basically walked through those skirts. So lots more woods. And so today I tried to see what folks appreciate about the woods, tried to pay more attention and *see*. And I remembered what Double Snacks had remarked at various times about the woods, how she had driven through them as a child on her way to the vacations on the shore (well, don't have those associations), how she felt safer when camping in them (versus me who felt safer in the desert where I could see farther), how she loved the smell of the soil, the softer dirt at your feet, and the berries, all the berries! And as I walked into the afternoon, for a moment I realized that, yes, it *is* nice to walk on softer soil, in the shade, munching on mango with a slight ambling breeze that's more fickle than windy, amongst trees and things bigger and taller than you. It's nice, but I wouldn't write home about it (although, to be fair, I kinda am, right now). But there's more to it than that. And I started to realize how the forest changes--much like I can recognize different types of shrubland and dirt in southern California--and that, if I knew and understand those changes, then, yes, this would probably be a much more interesting hike. But if my southern California experience is a guide, that would take many months of hiking these woods, seeing them in different seasons, realizing the underlying geography, slowly building the accumulated experience that lets you know a land. And that, honestly, you just don't get on the PCT. 

I will say, though:

1. I've noticed that some of the trees look to be dying--usually the lower branches that are just needle-less and drooping downward--and that these trees often have these mosses or lichens or something growing on them. And I wonder: are the mosses or lichens hurting the trees? Not clear--this is clearly a correlation is not causation arena--but those trees do make for spooky things: at first I thought they just had large nests in them, like the bundles in the trees in southern California, but then I realized, no, those aren't nests waiting for the next generation, those are dead branches from the last. Especially when these corroded trees mix with the live trees: I start to wonder, is it a plague and, if so, will it spread?

2. Every now and then the woods will let up, the canopy will break, and the trail will walk into a grove of little pines and firs, so cute, perfect little miniature Christmas trees no more than three-children tall. And it's wonderful until you realize how densely packed they are, and that thus they're not all going to make it: one will grow faster than the other, spread it's canopy sooner, and all the others next to it will wither and die as it consumes all the sunlight. But until then: so cute!

3. Where *do* the breezes in the woods come from? I mean, there are trees everywhere, shouldn't they block the wind? That's what happens in southern California but here, in the middle of a thick wood, where every avenue is blocked, still: there's a breeze. And it seems to come from whatever direction it pleases! Hmm, maybe the rumors are true: maybe the wind *is* indeed just trees sneezing...

Towards the end of the day, I stopped by Christi's Spring, another water oasis in an otherwise dry section, and stocked up before heading out again. And there I saw Wetfoot and Double Snacks, who had somehow ended up behind me (I was sure Double Snacks, at least, was ahead of me), and talked with them some. And checked the map: there was a campsite about 4.5 miles hence, labeled a Tentsite (3) but called a veritable "metropolis" in the comments, and so I went for that. And on that last stretch, as dusk drew down, the trail suddenly became pretty smoky, and I could smell it on the air and feel it in the (reduced) capacity of my lungs. And this was strange: the air had been clear all day but now, suddenly, it was smoky. And I reached the metropolis and set up--I thought it was called a metropolis because it was roomy, but evidently it was called so because it was quickly crowded--which it quickly became as Oh-Man was already there, then Chicago showed up, then Daddy-O, then Double Snacks, then Wetfoot, then another hiker whose name I didn't catch: a lot of folks crammed in! But it was good to finally catch up with Double Snacks and Wetfoot, good to talk with them a bit and hear the familiar patter: Double Snacks' considered and rational observations, Wetfoot's commentary that's half insight, half snark. There's a certain benefit to hiking alone but, on the PCT at least, there's also a certain fun to being around folks you know! 

And that was the hike! A long day--and I should probably take it easy tomorrow--but a good one, even if I am pretty tired at the end of it!

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Some notes:

-- South Brown Mountain Shelter > Highway 140 > Freye Lake > Christi's Spring > Campsite

-- It's strange: everything here is green, but the trail is largely dry. For example: today, leaving camp, it was 10 miles to Highway 140, where you could hike 2 miles off trail to get to Fish Lake and get water. Then hike 2 miles back. Or: keep going, until Freye Lake, which is only 0.25 miles off trail, at the 15-mile mark. The latter's what I did but a 15-mile water carry: that's comparable to what we were doing back in the desert, where things were empty and dry. But here everything is green and trees, yet still there's little water! And I think the reason is that there's no water *on* *trail*: the PCT rides the ridges, but if we were to descend down into the valleys, we would find so many lakes and likely the above-ground springs, and below-ground streams, that feed those lakes. So there's water around if we were willing to go off trail a mile or two to get it. Of course, we're not willing to do any such thing so: yep, it's green, but yep, it's dry!

-- It seems much of the PCT here is used as a cross-country skiing route in winter: there are these blue-diamond blazes, usually about 10-12 feet up, tacked onto the trees. (Hmm, so I'm guessing the snow here gets as high as 10-12 feet.) (This is a case where a practical familiarity with basketball--in particular the hoop height--would help, but I have no such familiarity.) So that's good: the trail is multi-use! I'm familiar with multi-use from southern California, where pretty much every trail is used for both hiking and mountain biking, with the upshot that you always hike with your ears open to avoid getting run over. And back at Qualcomm, I used to joke with Martin--a mountain biker--all the time, and he would say things about how hikers are terrible: when you hit them, they don't even have the decency to fall into a ditch and at least smooth out the trail some, they always flop about and make even more of mess of things. Martin was always trying to get me onto a bike--he always said, those long distances you hike, they'll go by a lot faster on a bike and you'll have more time in the day to do other things. But that wouldn't work: if my hikes are anything to go by, I'd just expand the ride to take up the whole day anyway!

-- Mount McLoughlin looks pretty scary from the PCT--can't imagine going to the top!--but I wonder: if I was day-hiking, would it look so intimidating? Because if I'm day-hiking, I'd have planned a route and know that that route is doable, and then even though it looks high up, rationally there's a way up. Whereas on the PCT, which skirts around, it's left to look big and tall and impossible.

-- At one point, the trail rose a bit higher up and through the trees I caught a glimpse of Fourmile Lake. But it looked a bit pathetic: the shores were huge, all dirty brown and old-hay yellow, encroaching on the pure blue of the water. It's been a dry year and you see it especially in the lakes and their expanding shorelines.

-- So last night, I signed the register at the shelter--in the dark and with my headlamp--and I remember putting the pen down and thinking, oh hey, they use the same pens as I do, the Bic Atlantis! Only this morning I go to grab my pen and put it in its usual place in the right cargo pocket, and I can't find it, and I realize, oh wait, that pen from last night? That was *my* pen, it's just in the time it took to sign my name I forgot it was my pen, thought it was theirs, and left it there. Ah well: I still have three backups (they come in packs of 4), so I'm fine leaving it there: less weight for me!