July 22, 2013
29 miles
Mile 1501

Slept in. Repeated the common morning, now down to a 15 minute process. The oatmeal/pack rhythm mindless and calming. Then the first 10 minutes of stiff disjointed walking. Age or 1500 miles, the answer matters less. One by one the kinks fall away. The flow takes over as the walk finds you. Three mph becomes effortless. Up, down or flat irrelevant.  You are free and cruising. Once there, you can forget about hiking and move on to the issues of the day. Later the pack will oppress as will the climb, heat, etc. But for now, the walk is so pleasant. Chills make the run up a scarred spine.

Red sets the pace. If he turns, I follow his current. If he stumbles, I focus on the path for obstacles. But mostly, I zone out, free to juggle erratic thoughts. I snap out  of it when we arrive at the McCloud River and it’s campground. From there, Red planned to hitch into Dunsmuir and avoid more wear and tear on his shins. Capitalism monkey wrenched the strategy. Camping in America is for the weekends. Mondays are dedicated to income. A deserted campground reminded us of this obviousness. Arrival in Dunsmuir was left to us.

At 14 miles, a creek, after miles without one, advertised lunch. Checked out the local eating establishments before settling on some flat rocks by a waterfall. I chilled my cheese and salami soup in the icy water, which returned it to the consistency of yogurt. Spooned it onto my tortilla pleased with nature’s assistance. Ate the last of it and tried not to taste it, but it was clear the grub was exhausted.

Orbit and Slack had been out of the picture for a few days, but as if a meeting had been called, they rolled in mid-lunch. Caught up on trail society doings and then aimed for a stream some 14 miles out. I didn’t get far. Turns out my soup no longer was a member of a food group. Therefore it didn’t understand how to behave entrapped in a stomach. It’s violent reaction to incarceration laid me low for a while. Note to future —- five days and no more for food without refrigeration.

Came to a slot canyon carved by a deep creek. All were halted for a swim. I threw my two water bottles down to Slack for a fill. They landed in the water where the current sucked them downstream. LNT (leave no trace) principles mean what they say. My two traces were headed to the Pacific. I scrambled down a path, ripped off my shoes and plunged into the Chase. Caught one easily and threw it to the shore. The other, though, was hellbent on seeing the ocean, or at least what was around the next corner. I could relate, but a Chase is a Chase. We slalomed through boulders as I closed in. Around a Naipalian bend and then to trouble—-shallow rapids. Both chase parties knew the make or break implications. I stroked hard and smiled inwardly about the obvious outcome. At the lip of the rapids I confidently stretched my hand to capture and hit an underwater boulder with my chest. Sudden deceleration. Six inches from my fingertips the bottle passed into the white water and on to the promised land.

For 1,500 miles that Gatorade bottle and I had been partners. Lips to mouth. The betrayal better. But it had left the backpacking family unit and I had to respect that. Freedom for all. But I have left a trace and for that I will pay in the karmic future. I contemplated that up the next big climb. Then put my head back in the hike as I slipped through the saddle and was presented with a new view of Mount Shasta. Started into the along downhill slide that eventually lands at  I 5 and Dunsmuir. Came upon the agreed meeting stream as darkness set in. Surrounded by ski slope angles there was no sleep to be had there. Pushed on until I caught up with the others and joined the hunt for flat. Eventually a logging road provided sanctuary. A late dinner. Am I getting sick of couscous? And to the pillow mulling over the wisdom of sleeping on a road.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

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