August 29, 2013
29 miles
mile 2505

The arrival of the morning shift served as an alarm. The following mundane recitation of a mornings progression evolved into cherished memories as the day passed away. I put on dry socks. I put on dry shoes. I put away dry gear. I was warm as I ate breakfast. I then unloaded myself from the dock and began my limp north. Positivity swirled about me. My knee felt better. I was dry and full. My pack, though heavy with six days of food, was manageable. My sister Jill had managed to locate and consolidate my passport and one other care package from Doc with one identifiable person in Steheekin. Now she was working on getting the two packages out to the ranger station that is actually located on the trail. That way I wouldn’t lose hiking hours diverting into Steheekin. I was six days from the border and moving despite repeated attempts on my hiking life. All was grand.

This fine state of affairs lasted approximately 15 minutes. Someone had forgot to turn on the sun. With no central authority the clouds, rain and gloom were allowed to run amok. They wasted little time. Oblivious to all of this I was following a lovely overgrown former railroad bed. If trains once used it then it is flat, which it was. I may have even whistled a few times such was my mood. The first rain arrived like a blanket. This too will pass I thought. The intervals between blankets ceased. “Go da hell,” as my grandfather loved to say. Out with the rain jacket. Up with the hood. Now each drop sounded like a flyswatter hitting a formica table. The hood acted as an acoustic amplifier as the twacks crowded into my years. The rain ratcheted up the assault by adding gallons. My pack began to retain water. It’s reverse pregnancy pulling me south. This was obviously personal. The trail transformed into a river. It’s current pushing south. Heavy soaked brush took their swings at my forward progress. I was having none of it. I just kept wading and substituted Canada for West Virginia in that John Denver country road song. Go ahead, give it a try. It’s catchy. And it kept me going.

For that is all it did all day. And that is all I remember. Sliding in mud, walking through trail ponds and wading against the current. My feet long numb. At one point the sun made a brief appearance, but it was obviously a mistake and it disappeared apologetically. In response the rain began an hour-long barrage. I began to wonder about hypothermia but couldn’t remember the exact symptoms so I decided not to have it.

The muck became slightly darker. My clue that night had arrived. Around then my feet took me across 2,500 miles. Sweet. Then through a massive rock avalanche. I could feel the rocks loosening in the liquid for possible advancement. Happy to move on. The idea became to just survive for a better tomorrow. Oh, how I missed the desert. (In Japan I taught that one s meant sand, two s’s meant super sweet.) Finally slip slid into Lake Sally Ann and set up my tent in yet more rain. Cooking with my stove was out of the question, so orbit heated me up some couscous. At about this time I figured out that the angle of my tent was wrong and the wind had driven rain inside to soak whatever I had left in the world that was dry. Inhale, exhale. Readjust angle. Crawl into the mush and hope exhaustion trumps misery.

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

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