Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bill Walker Page A
Authors: Bill Walker
Ads: Link
several hours in the middle of the day?
World’s most important resource. The average hiker like me might not even atempt the PCT without dedicated trail angels stashing water caches.
I was in the middle of a 24 mile waterless stretch, followed by another 25 mile waterless run. The only water re-supply in that 49 miles was at Scissor Crossing. And it was not a natural water source. Rather, it was a cache. At the Kickoff, the speakers had repeatedly reinforced the point that we should carry enough water to get by in case the cache is not stocked.
Nonetheless, like most hikers I arrived at Scissor’s Crossing low on water, and high on expectations. Some trail angel, or maybe an entire trail club, had built a sturdy construction of wooden cabinets. Inside, were scores of gallon containers of water. The rule of thumb is to take only what you need. But there was so much water here, I was able to chug all I wanted and lug several liters with me into the rugged San Felipe Hills. Being so well hydrated, I decided to go ahead and tackle the mid-day desert sun.
Here, the trail took on a different character as it inexorably wound its way up a barren mountain. Soon, I found myself out on a narrow ledge along a steep canyon. Ledge walking takes some getting used to; it was easy to become anxious and hurry. But patience was the real virtue because these ledges often went on for miles. Finally, the trail did a sharp u-turn and next thing I knew I was out on another ledge walking in the opposite direction, not that far from the ledge I had just been on.
A break would have been nice, but there was absolutely no shade at all in the middle of the day. So I just kept hiking nakedly exposed to the full wrath of the sun. The only thing I could do now was continually drink a lot of water, hoping to ward off that silent visitor— dehydration. My goal was to make it to another water cache by this evening.
Finally, I saw the lonely figure of Jerry, a member of the threesome from Detroit. To the naked eye, it was apparent his bulging gut had already deflated, due to monsoon-like perspiration. He was once again digging deep to try to keep up with his two friends.
“Man, I really don’t like this,” he said in as friendly of a way that a complaint can be registered.
All I could offer was a dry-throated cliché: “Hang in there.”
A mile further up I came upon his two partners, Tom and Paul, sitting in a crouch on the ledge. I immediately dropped to as supine of a position as my almost 7 feet could manage on the narrow ledge —head up against granite backstop, butt on the hot trail surface, and feet dangling off the cliff.
“How long have ya’ll been waiting?” I asked.
“About a half-hour,” Tom said. I was impressed while chatting with them that they didn’t use the occasion to gripe at Jerry for his tardiness.
“You know, these things usually work themselves out,” I said, broaching the subject that was surely on their minds. “The trail actually decides who you eventually end up hiking with.”
“Well, there is another issue involved,” Tom said diplomatically. “Jerry is a manager at the outfitter where we all work in Detroit. He decides if we get hired back.”
They stayed together.
Some hikers swear that their fellow hikers get to know more about them than their boyfriends and girlfriends. Whether or not that is an exaggeration, one thing is undeniable. You bond deeply, and often instantaneously, out there.
I finally got to the campsite I had hoped for and my mood immediately lifted. Another trail angel had driven dozens more gallons of water up a jeep road. The person had tied a thin rope through each jug and around a tree to keep it all tidy.
Better yet, Trout Lily was one of those on hand. The topics of shoe brands, backpack weight, food, water, snow levels, blisters, etc. get saturated during the daytime hours. As has been known to happen at campsites, the conversation turned to the opposite
World’s most important resource. The average hiker like me might not even atempt the PCT without dedicated trail angels stashing water caches.
I was in the middle of a 24 mile waterless stretch, followed by another 25 mile waterless run. The only water re-supply in that 49 miles was at Scissor Crossing. And it was not a natural water source. Rather, it was a cache. At the Kickoff, the speakers had repeatedly reinforced the point that we should carry enough water to get by in case the cache is not stocked.
Nonetheless, like most hikers I arrived at Scissor’s Crossing low on water, and high on expectations. Some trail angel, or maybe an entire trail club, had built a sturdy construction of wooden cabinets. Inside, were scores of gallon containers of water. The rule of thumb is to take only what you need. But there was so much water here, I was able to chug all I wanted and lug several liters with me into the rugged San Felipe Hills. Being so well hydrated, I decided to go ahead and tackle the mid-day desert sun.
Here, the trail took on a different character as it inexorably wound its way up a barren mountain. Soon, I found myself out on a narrow ledge along a steep canyon. Ledge walking takes some getting used to; it was easy to become anxious and hurry. But patience was the real virtue because these ledges often went on for miles. Finally, the trail did a sharp u-turn and next thing I knew I was out on another ledge walking in the opposite direction, not that far from the ledge I had just been on.
A break would have been nice, but there was absolutely no shade at all in the middle of the day. So I just kept hiking nakedly exposed to the full wrath of the sun. The only thing I could do now was continually drink a lot of water, hoping to ward off that silent visitor— dehydration. My goal was to make it to another water cache by this evening.
Finally, I saw the lonely figure of Jerry, a member of the threesome from Detroit. To the naked eye, it was apparent his bulging gut had already deflated, due to monsoon-like perspiration. He was once again digging deep to try to keep up with his two friends.
“Man, I really don’t like this,” he said in as friendly of a way that a complaint can be registered.
All I could offer was a dry-throated cliché: “Hang in there.”
A mile further up I came upon his two partners, Tom and Paul, sitting in a crouch on the ledge. I immediately dropped to as supine of a position as my almost 7 feet could manage on the narrow ledge —head up against granite backstop, butt on the hot trail surface, and feet dangling off the cliff.
“How long have ya’ll been waiting?” I asked.
“About a half-hour,” Tom said. I was impressed while chatting with them that they didn’t use the occasion to gripe at Jerry for his tardiness.
“You know, these things usually work themselves out,” I said, broaching the subject that was surely on their minds. “The trail actually decides who you eventually end up hiking with.”
“Well, there is another issue involved,” Tom said diplomatically. “Jerry is a manager at the outfitter where we all work in Detroit. He decides if we get hired back.”
They stayed together.
Some hikers swear that their fellow hikers get to know more about them than their boyfriends and girlfriends. Whether or not that is an exaggeration, one thing is undeniable. You bond deeply, and often instantaneously, out there.
I finally got to the campsite I had hoped for and my mood immediately lifted. Another trail angel had driven dozens more gallons of water up a jeep road. The person had tied a thin rope through each jug and around a tree to keep it all tidy.
Better yet, Trout Lily was one of those on hand. The topics of shoe brands, backpack weight, food, water, snow levels, blisters, etc. get saturated during the daytime hours. As has been known to happen at campsites, the conversation turned to the opposite
Similar Books
