July 30, 2013
29 miles
mile 1645

Late to the trail because pen was in hand. My pledge to hike first snapped. Writing at night infeasible for too many reasons to recount. So the cows and I to the trail at 9:30. Their bells providing the rhythm. Why the bells? To scare the bears or make locating them easier were my best guesses. They stopped at the next lake. I kept going. The early trail rough going. Complicated and full of rocks, it required concentration and two-foot drive. I gave it that, as my last fall still smarted.

The trail today followed a narrow altitude band, the floor 6,000 feet, the ceiling 7,000 feet. But within the band it resembled a dribbling basketball. So my progress was honest. The fire in Southern Oregon was still funneling smoke into the local atmosphere so I probably averaged about a pack of cigarettes every 10 miles. Tried to enjoy them, as well as the vistas and scenery, but my hiking was manic. The culprit—mio.

For those of you not in the know, mio is a water additive. Every day on the trail I cycle liters of water through my system. The taste, especially with water purifying drops, monotonous or nasty. Mio saves the day. A few squirts and suddenly I’m drinking berry pomegranate juice. That’s a smile bringer. Anyway, at the last store only cherry mio with caffeine was available. So today I was slugging what looked like Sangre de Cristo. Not being interested in the taste, theory or habit of coffee I rarely have caffeine in my system. Thus my supercharged hiking up and down the basketball pattern was mysterious to me as was my decision to walk right through lunch. When I finally sat down at two to eat my heart was still racing. I had caught up with Orbit and Slack, who were relaxing around a cabin. I couldn’t stop talking. Slowly it dawned on me, I was completely jacked up on Mio, my future drug of choice.

I had entered the Marble Valley, that lay in the shadow of Marble Mountain. A white edifice that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. Of interest in Dover, the first four blocks inland from the shoreline would have a rowhouse missing here or there. I asked a local “why?” “Oh, the Germans had a big gun in France whose maximum range was four blocks inland here. They would lob a shell over now and then to let us know who was boss. We never rebuilt to remember.”

Came across three spooked female hikers. They jumped when I rounded the bend. Apparently they had come upon two separate bears in one hour. What luck, I had seen one bear in three months. Having left the cabin at three there were some miles still left to cover. We hiked as a group taking turns at lead. The air purer there as we were all ravaged by methane. I stopped for a second. From my angle I spotted an ancient canteen that had been left under a bush probably in the 60s. It was tin and the canvas covering had rotted away. I displayed it on a rock pedestal for those to come.

With conversation as a distraction, the miles dissipated. The path helped as it began a 22 mile descent into Seid Valley. The pace quickened. It felt like five miles an hour, an insane speed. Well you had to be there. Pulled up at Buckhorn Spring in the shadow of a triple tree. Loaded up with water for a dry camp and plunged. Arrived into final camp at 8:30. There Swiss Army, Storytime and Rabbit Stick were already laid out.

Rabbit stick was gathering ages of all the hikers he came across searching for an average. So far it was around 28 years old. Today we tried to come up with all the names of the hikers we had met. Made it to 110 trail names. Back to Rabbit Stick. He was the first American and 11th overall to row across the Atlantic. It took him five months of unsupported rowing to arrive in Florida from Africa. In his head he meticulously restored over 200 Ford model A’s in those five months to keep mentally occupied. He found that preferable to tackling the big questions of life. At 70 now he looks like he’s ready to row back. Inspired, as I lay down, I hummed “row row your boat” as my lullaby ticket to dreamland. And, no, I did not consider repeating his feat. Really.

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

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