August 13, 2013
19 miles today
Mile 2007

Cheated death by opening my eyes. Some other day, I suppose. My coffin back to a closet with the light of morning. Juice was delivered to me. I was really starting to enjoy my space. I became reluctant to come out. My fellow residents encouraged me to come out of the closet. A big step. Eventually, with their support, I felt safe enough and came out. It was better to be out. I felt more comfortable about myself. A new day and a new start.

An abbreviated town day. Resupply, laundry, paperwork, mail, computer work and so on. The requirements of civilized life compressed into eight hours. Sandwiched between bouts of binge eating, (a nutritionist suggested to a fellow hiker that binge eating was acceptable for through hikers,) a departing lunch of sushi, followed by panicked milkshakes as the trail drew near.
But the real show was the 21-year-old Smaka Sisters. Identical to the distant eye, covered by tattoos that distinguished when closer. Mirror personalities when closer still. Two completely different individuals when they opened up. As they walked down the street they would silently bump into each other at intervals, seemingly to exchange information like the phones in the commercial. Descriptive words that could be attributed to one or both: musicians, profane, snowboarders, artists, wild, welders, risk takers, jokesters, knife throwers, partyers, and slingshot experts. Dressed to the hilt as New Yorkers, they drew stares wherever they went. Their unspoken response: You want to stare we’ll give you a show. I knew them for 20 hours and enjoyed their company tremendously.
Five of us, plus packs, plus all the Sister’s possessions for a move to Portland, were jammed into a small Hyundai. Various laws were humiliated as we groaningly climbed back up the pass to the trailhead. A sad parting beneath a volcanic observatory, and back to the cinder grind. Our goal, a second pass called Santium Pass some 19 miles distant. A late start promised a late walk. A promise delivered as the sun angle low. The path turned west. The sun so bright that I felt I was hiking into high beams. I had to stare at my feet to move forward.

The dark set in. We came to packs by the side of the path minus carriers. A mystery. A ways on, a familiar laugh carried up the trail. We hid in the bushes. Soon Ole, Track Meet and Slack began their pass back from a quick touch of 2,000 miles. We jumped from the darkness screaming. They jumped back into the darkness screaming. Age old human entertainment. A reunion. Some small talk and a real goodbye on the trail where it belongs. The boys plan to hang in Bend for a while. Orbit and I plan to push hard for the border. Barring unforeseens our paths will not cross again on the PCT. We all know this. It is the way. Hiking is not a team sport. Groups of independent individuals may move together for extended periods of time. But in the end, everyone must hike their own hike. Alone or with others or both. All alone in the end.

The dark swallowed us each as we moved South and North. Soon, our own quick celebration of 2,000 miles. And more to the night. Focused movement and the silence that it brings. The sound of silence broken by the pitch of climbing motors. A highway cross and left beer. A halfhearted attempt to climb away from the noise. A home in a field of burnt out trees. A beer and a bagel for dinner. And an internal combustion lullaby to sleepland.

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

If you’d like to help out and donate, please click here!

August 12, 2013
41 miles today
mile 1988

Up and on the road by 6:30 AM. A third-party cowboy-camped nearby asleep when we arrived and yet to stir at our departure. Jealousy at such a fine sleep. The sun circled up and started in on the lakes. Their steaming a reflection of a renewed acquaintance. I watched two River Otters play in the new light, their exhales carrying across the caused ripples. It’s good to walk in the early hours.

Crossed paths with Bandleader yet again. He is pushing to meet his father at the Timberline Lodge. A lost zero when calculating their reunion led to bad math. Which translates into 40-mile days as punishment, should he want to be there punctually. He took it all in good stride and strides well.

Wandered for miles through damp, mossy forest. Immersion in a landscape creates a permanent reality in one’s head. This is all there is and all there ever will be. An end to permanence causes a shock. And so it was when I broke out of the forest to behold the first of Triplet Sisters. The three volcanic mountains are fraternal, not identical. Can triplets be identical? Regardless it was quite the eye feast. Also on the new pallet were the aptly named Brokentop Mountain and Mount Bachelor. Luckily, the glue of the PCT suppresses the urge to leave trail and start climbing. The path gathered residents. Passed many day hikers, also multiple dogs schlepping packs. Two Rhodesian Ridgeback’s caused a bout of homesickness, being twins of my own. Then a pack train for horses allowed us to pass and then gleefully tried to run us down on a big uphill. The terrain pushed the forest back. A second sister made her debut. We forged down a wide glacier-formed valley. An uninvited lava flow had rudely covered about a third of it, the meeting point stark.

The miles flowed past like a boat floast on a lazy river. Lunch in a meadow cut by a shallow stream. Entertainment provided by the Pack Train’s arrival and refusal to cross said stream, much to their cowboy’s unsuppressed frustration. More float. We would easily make our 8:00 PM meeting time. The pace quickened as Orbit’s excitement at seeing her friends grew. I turned on a radio station, the only one I could get. It played the 60’s through the 80’s. Restored to my youth, I sped up in nostalgia of that faster time.


And then, when all was looking good, the trail turned on us. The float went over a waterfall. Into the lava fields we plunged. The last 10 miles were tortured. Twisting and turning, up one side and down the other, and forever crunching. Our speed butchered. But, oh, so beautiful. To see it, though, required a full halt. Eyes off-path plus movement equals trail suicide in the fields of our Lords lava. Orbit was having none of it. It was reunion time and she pulled away. I took in the sun’s retreat across the landline of lava. Savoring it and the trail magic mountain dew that fueled my final steps.

An emergence from lava onto a dark highway and alone. No signal to call. What to do but sit down to war. In the midst of a battle, an only chance, car. Aces in the back with a warm root beer and listening to Orbit and her friend, Lia, playing the catch-up game. As always, Orbit had gone down a different branch, thus our emergence on two points of the same highway.


First up, the Town of Sisters. A saloon fed me a pork sandwich that I will forever be grateful for. Then to a further reunion in a hotel room in the town of Bend at the well named Bend In Hotel. There we met Lia’s identical twin sister, Logan, followed by a surprise out of the bathroom from a third close friend, Leah.



The happiness and estrogen were bouncing off the walls. Orbit was finally surrounded by females. Out came a banjo and spoons. Music flooded. I faded. It was after 11. Time to hit the town. I passed and bid good night and crawled in the closet. Seven feet long by shoulder width, it felt like a Temple Grandin hugging machine. I closed the door to seal the dark. My thoughts arrived at a conclusion. “So this is what a coffin feels like. I think I’ll be cremated on that approaching day.”

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

If you’d like to help out and donate, please click here!

Day 101
August 11, 2013
33 miles today
Mile 1947

Thoughts of Jack’s parting words echoed through my awakening. “It is an honor to serve folks walking so far.” Right back at you, Jack. It was an honor to sit at your table. Left my tent lethargically suffering from a food hangover. Cockadoodlepoo as Ole would say, room for more. Crossed the tracks to the better part of town. Thought of the locomotive Veggie and I had beaten across our intersecting paths the other night. The conductor had tooted us but then cut his lights to limit our blinding. It’s the little things.

Tried to summit the mountain of leftovers, in fact we all did, but like all summits, there is wisdom in knowing when to give up and turn around. More fatalities on Everest happen on the way down then on the way up. Today was not to be our day to conquer. We left the summit for others and at 11 we withdrew and headed for the trailhead. Tammy, being her father’s daughter, smiled in triumph but did not humiliate the vanquished. It was good to see my friend and renew our ties. As I struggled away, I was immediately made aware of the impact on my knees of thousands of new calories.

Luckily, there was mercy in trail terrain. The path lazily passed the gorgeous, Catholic-inspired, Rosary Lakes. Each one beckoned a float of my bloat, but I stayed true to purpose. Slack caught up to me and we sorted through upcoming plans. He is coming up on his old stomping grounds of Bend and Sisters. His thoughts are of a couple of days catching up with friends and climbing. The pause would allow a reunion with Red Beard. Our meeting ended when we came upon Veggie, Ole and Track Meat already feeding their next growth spurt. Slack sat down to join the feast. The steaks of Tammy’s buffet not yet two hours old in their stomachs. Beyond my ability to grasp, so I kept walking. And walking.

Found my stride. On my own for hours with no recognizable footprints to track, my own plans began to percolate, then a familiar shadow, Orbit, caught up. Her lake rest had allowed me to pass. She told me her East Coast friends were passing through and could pick us up at the trailhead Monday night. This would require a push of 74 miles in 33 hours. Feasibility hatches plans.

Two good sounds from the forest today. Many trees had grown into contact in this area. Every gust of wind caused a rubbing groan. The other was the constant chatter of chipmunks. The sound similar to stepping on a child’s squeaky toy.

I lived on the fuel of leftovers into the night. Skipped lunch. Finally sat down after nine hours by a lake to attempt a bagel. The mosquitoes were having none of it. There, swarming prevented even a bag opening. So be it. Kept pressing. At 9:30 we called it. 10 1/2 hours, 33 miles and still fueled by the Dean Family generosity. A little soup, a big war and a day brightened by an old friend.

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

If you’d like to help out and donate, please click here!

August 10, 2013
0 miles today
Mile 1912

Big sound screamed wake up, ever-increasing, ever more alarming to the groggy. Reached for the panic button to pump adrenaline and flee. Then the locomotive passed. The wisdom of camping 100 feet from train tracks a morning topic. Wandered down to the store for a bulk cereal and milk breakfast. Took it by the fire pit that had been taken over by PCT hikers, the heat of the fire good against the chill of an Oregon winter morning. Happy Century Day to Orbit and Myself.

The Alaska hikers, with their huskies, departed just as Ole and Track Meet appeared, their pursuit complete, and then my reunion with Tammy Dean, an old and good friend who I had taught with in Japan and who is now the CEO of a bumper car company. At times I have modeled on her bumper cars at tradeshows. This demonstrates either the height of friendship or a serious misjudgment of talent on her part. She came bearing cupcakes, toys, friends and the keys to a pontoon boat.

The friends were Martha and her three kids Alma, Sam and Jacob. Loaded up the boat as the sun suddenly showed promise. I was appointed captain. As soon as I figured out F, N and R on the shifter, we were off. Buzzing around the lake at full throttle with five bearded pirates made boarding other boats difficult to resist. Decided to spare the children from bloodshed and instead stopped and ordered a full bathing for the unwashed. Then Martha tortured us with descriptions of the menu at her organic restaurant. An oncoming storm forced a retreat to Harbor. There, my pathetic attempts to dock resulted in an injury to deckhand Slack. Leaping for the dock to end the hopelessness, he came up short. A ricochet. Blood in the water being part of the life of a pirate.

Jack and Sandy, Tammy’s parents pulled up to complete the reunion. No two better people live in Oregon. Jack is famous for having lived to tell about a chainsaw that pierced through his stomach and out his back. They had brought 18% of a supermarket and every form of portable barbecue that exists. His simple challenge “you can’t eat it all.” “But we can,” the collective response. It was on.

An umbrella tent went up, for the rain came down. Steaks came and went. Ole tried to regain his lost 40 pounds in one afternoon. A silent concentration hovered over the picnic table, and then a savage realization that the battle was unwinnable. Jack smiled as one by one his victims fell away from the picnic table. He continued to cook and gloat in the rain. A roll call of his victims, Veggie, Slack, Orbit, Track Meet, Ole, and Blast. Jack’s victory pose consisted of holding a plate of steaks and gently asking “room for another?”

Games on the grass with Alma and Sam followed and then a run into a supermarket for resupply. Getting caught up with radio station music put everyone in fine spirits. With multiple musicians jamming in the giant truck cab, improvised riffs on impoverished pop songs had laughter echoing. Upon return the mandatory face paint by Alma’s face design. The winter moon came early and the cold began to bite.

In search of warmth, we moved to the fire pit, but it was over its occupancy limit. So it was off to a bar. Warm and with three pool tables, we were good to go. People kindly ignored the target painted on my forehead, Veggie’s dropping ass flap and our general malodor. The bartender even took a group photo of the PCT raid for the bar’s Facebook page. At midnight, shop shut down and we returned to air that hinted of snow.

Back at camp where the conversation revolved around news that two hikers had broken the speed record for the PCT this year. A man finished in 59 days and a woman in 60 days. The man was supported while the woman was not. This smashed the old record of 64 days. Crazy impressive. But as I walked back to my camp by the tracks, meteors showering overhead, I wondered how many games of pool did they get to play?

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

If you’d like to help out and donate, please click here!

August 7, 2013
23 miles today
Mile 1852 on the PCT

Fell asleep in the pages of war. Woke up to the real thing. A massive cannonade at 2:30 signaled the start of an attack. I tried to ignore the onslaught. After an extended artillery bombardment of our position the pitter patter of bullets indicated that the enemy was drawing near. The intensity increased. No heroics for me. I surrendered quickly. And meekly, by putting up my tent. Soon the storm was directly overhead dumping rain and putting on a sound and light show. Ignoring weather forecasts is for fools.

Woke up part two to a wet and gray world. Drizzle is eased when a comforting omelette is loving and nearby. I started to pack up and head over for an embrace. A sudden violent cramp rushed me to toilet. With no time to dig a hole I miraculously spotted one already dug. I filled it. Emergency over, it came to me that I had just blocked the exit to someone’s home. I apologized the best I could but some ground dweller is going to have a crappy morning and learn hate thanks to me. Sometimes we do wrong in the world.

Into the warm dining hall. For some reason all the PCT hikers were seated in a far section apart from the civilized. Their wall of collective odor a hint. All were still talking about “the event.” PCT legends usually build up around a sustained effort. This person completed the trail in 64 days unsupported or this guy wore a wedding dress the whole way or this woman walked the trail 17 times. But every once in a while a single event will create an instant legend. This happened yesterday. It seems Orbit was eating a hot dog coated with mustard while sitting on the ground in front of the general store. Multiple legend witnesses were seated around her. A large blob of mustard fell to her calf and ran down it. (Orbits calf, a general description. Though shapely, at that point, it was covered in the mud, crud and the beer of multiple days of hiking without any form of washing. A large swollen spider bite featured prominently. Through all of this grows a thick forest of hair that challenges both mosquitoes and cosmopolitans view of American womanhood.) Back to the mustard. As the blob made its way through all of this following gravity, Orbit casually reached down with her dog and swiped the blob back on by dragging her hotdog up her leg. She then took that bite. Silence, then pandemonium. “No! You didn’t just do that!” Her studied and deep response “Do what?” The PCT summed up in a single moment and a legend birthed.

Feeling in need of refinement myself, I took a lukewarm four minute $.75 shower and watched the water run black. Then put back on my filthy’s. A quick resupply and then set off for the trailhead. Every cold wet step I regretted my snap decision to rinse out my shorts during the second half of my shower. As we came up Ole and Track Meet came down. A good reunion, but as always, another close call when it comes to hiking together.

Climbed 4 miles to the rim of Crater Lake in a steady rain and cold gloom. There a warm café with top-end prices and bottom end food فياجرا جيل. A quick lunch and then a 26 mile waterless stretch awaited. The plan was to walk into the night and knock off as much as possible. But an immediate return to the misery outside was too much to ask. Hot chocolate and journal work delayed for one hour. It was a debated hour, but the waiters prevailed. At four we would go.

Four and still gloom and doom. At 4:03 the storm fled and glorious sun smiled on Crater Lake. Out came the cameras and smiles. A strategy of waiting actually worked for once. For five miles we circled the rim trail stopping often to gaze at Wizard Island and the bluest of blue water. At 1,900 feet it is the deepest lake in the States. Seventh in the world. By average depth it is the deepest in the world. It has frozen over twice in recorded history. My question is why doesn’t it fill up and overflow? I’ll let the photos do the adjectives’ work.

We flew along in good spirits that only good weather after bad can provide. The trail stayed kind as the light faded. Dinner at 8:30. Veggie and I wrapped up our review of the collective unconscious and I pushed on alone to escape the gathering cold. Orbit and Slack were happy as I left. Slack had gotten down on his knees and proposed to Orbit that she become his future climbing partner. He then handed her a rock. She accepted. My congrats.

Flying once again. The right temperature, trail, music, frame of mind. Through a tunnel of darkness. Core warm, belly full. I’m trying to describe perfection or is near to attaining it as I’ll ever get. Of course it can’t last. But that’s okay. A windstorm had knocked tree after tree across the path.The PCT turned into a miles long hurtling event. Tough going in the dark. But as Taylor Swift would probably say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you more romantic.”

Finally 20 miles into the dry stretch I hit the highway around 11 PM. There someone had left it a few gallons of water. But a passing night car will always cause a PCTer to slip back into the forest. I pushed on a little, found a flat and waited for the others. The usual track down and to bed we were. A good night and a good coma in record time. All thumbed their noses at the weather gods by cowboy camping. Nunc pro tunc.

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

If you’d like to help out and donate, please click here!