August 30, 2013
30 miles
mile 2535

Waking up wet is corrosive to one’s natural optimism. Wet and cold makes optimism seem unnatural. And so it was. Three hoods were not enough to relieve iced brain. But body memory was enough. Pack and move. A fact. Wet gear is heavier. I was developing a hostility toward northern Washington. Took off in everything I owned. The rain seeking entry points. Slow going. The gloom and rain began to lift. Which left me constantly delayering to avoid overheating. To delayer is another way to say stopping. 3 miles in the first two hours. Should be 6 miles.

Collided with two locals headed south. They assured me of an improving weather report. I replied with something grumpy and unclever. Then I looked up. You don’t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, as Bobby liked to say. And you know what, it did look better. Maybe I should snap out of my pity meanderings. Climbed up to a high trail that skirted a long ridge. The mountains reappeared and began to shine. I rerecognized the sun. A German Shepherd fled down the path in front of me. Closer examination revealed a new breed of super Marmot wearing mink coats worthy of a PETA campaign.

Today the PCT threw pass after pass at me. I battled on happily as my heavenly waterfall was no more. In a moment of stillness I caught my aroma. And recoiled. My last shower was in Oregon. Having signed on to Orbit’s campaign of no warshing in Warshington (East Coast and proper pronunciation of terms. See appendix.) I had no one but myself to blame for my stench. And now I understood why the Marmot was fleeing. The Blast Orbit initials logical.

Split some mountains and then made my way down a long Moraine Valley carved by a departed glacier. There I met Orbit by a stream for a formal lunch amidst the steam of our packs. The fine weather produced fine spirits, and we had a lovely chat. Then the boss called us back to trail work. The path lowered into a world of moss. From floor to ceiling all was green carpet. Stayed on the valley floor for an hour, knowing it was a prelude to a big climb. Came to a river rager that signaled the base of the climb. It’s torrent had severed the spine of a bridge oppressor. Here I stopped and dealt with the sock issue.

My new REI socks had proved garbage. Within a week they were 60% holes 40% socks. Which means and translates into blisters. Luckily Orbit had found a pair of forgotten men’s socks drying on a rock. Unluckily they were wool (for which I have a deep animosity) and too small. Those I was wearing now. I removed them and wiped away the blood. Wool eats my skin. Back to the REI garbage. I reversed them so the holes went to the top of my foot. Creativity recycling garbage. Crossed the bridge ruins and started gaining altitude. Passed a fit 70-year-old man who at 120 pounds was carrying a 45 pound pack. Unfortunately he had pulled his quad and was having a hard go of it. I thought of ways to help but selfishly discarded them. All to their own my copout.

My climbing pace increased. My old self in slow return. Injury to me has physical and mental components. I had noticed caution and hesitation since my fall. I worked to discard them. I wanted to reach Canada strong not dragging. In racing, a negative split means the second half of a race is stronger and faster than the first half. It is the hallmark of a race wisely run. At 60 days we had walked roughly 1,000 miles. At Approximately 120 days, if all went well over 1,600 miles. That is the first component of a negative split. The second I began to work on.

The climb was long. By summit, sweat had added greatly to my crust. The light in retreat. But, wow, what a view. For 360° the Cascades raged. I got dizzy spinning. Wanted to be a God and go pinnacle leaping. But alas, mortals just start down the other side. Caught up with Orbit who gave me my daily numbers briefing. Thus informed we discussed the feasibility of various destinations. She pointed to a massive opposing slope coated in switchbacks obviously caused by Zorro having a seizure. “At the top of that is mile 34 and our camping home.” “Not happening,” I replied. “Agreed, it’s too late in the day.” She pulled out her beloved maps and began exploring contour lines that created a 3-D landscape in her head. “We’ll camp at the bottom. That will be 30 miles. Should be something flat.” Plan.



Black set in. The switchbacks grew sharp and steep. A memory. A little PTSD maybe. Eyes on the edge. And always down. my knee began it’s late day complain as the Aleve wore off. I spoke gently, “We’re almost there.” Crashing water gave our destination away. No camping spots on this side. Across the bridge. None either. The bridge is bed then. At this hour there will be no more crossers. I gathered for the fire while Orbit ran the tough errands. Not used to being the weak link. Wet wood will burn hot with loving encouragement. I loved. And added pages of my book yet to read. Soon hot food was headed where it belonged and gear was evaporating. Then to bed over the roar of the undamned below.

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

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