July 28, 2013
21 miles
mile 1606
Time for the morning commute. The town of Etna on the agenda. Orbit off first. Slack without movement. Then some groans about a mule kicked stomach. I listened to the symptoms. Could be my old nemesis Giardia. A parasite that causes sulfur belches mustard shits and swollen belly. Many of the water sources yesterday had been visited by cows. There, they made no distinction between toilet activities and drinking. Perhaps that was the origin of Slack’s distress.
The two of us got going but it was soon apparent that Slack’s hiking day would not be long. Fortunately, we crossed a highway after a few miles where Slack lay down to his illness. Being horizontal was his only relief. Which is where he stayed, as the traffic was nonexistent. I passed the time speaking with a history teacher who was doing a sectional southbound hike. He told me about the state of Jefferson and it’s near formation.
Tired sign
Jefferson was to include a large chunk of northern Nevada, California and Southern Oregon. The residents of these areas felt that they were being ignored by their respective state capitals. The idea was to break away and form their own state. It was to be named after Jefferson, an advocate of states rights. It’s symbol two crossed axes, because they have been doublecrossed by both politicians and judges. The announcement of succession was made, toll booths were set up on incoming highways, and government structure implementation begun. One small problem, the founding fathers horrific sense of timing. The announcement was made on December 4, 1941, three days before Pearl Harbor. World War II patriotism squashed the dream, but the sentiment runs strong still.
First signs of fire haze
The first vehicle by stopped and whisked Slack away to his fate. His condition worsening, I figured whatever lay ahead had to be better than hiking. The trail confirmed this as today was an up-and-down affair. I climbed to a ridgeline where I caught up with Orbit. She announced that she would hike slowly and savor nature. This was genetically impossible. She tried, and her effort was admirable but her heart wasn’t in it. Soon she was back to the blur of 4 mph. I however stayed with the nature viewing experiment. A fire in Southern Oregon had brought haze. Valleys filled with gray as though the skies had fallen into them. I breathed it all in, and coughed a lot.
Chipmunks and Quail were everywhere. Earlier Orbit had a baby Quail run into her leg. Slack saw a big chipmunk eat a smaller one. My interactions with chipmunks was limited to long stare downs. Lunch was served promptly at mile 16 next to a warm Lake filled with newts. Newts are a cross between salamanders and tadpoles. They’re brown on the top and orange on the bottom and can reach seven inches in length. Endearingly, they bark when caught. Swimming in a lake full of them is superior to the more mundane swimming with dolphins, manta rays, or sharks, etc., foisted on tourists everywhere. I did so with delight.
Directional lake
Town fever hurried the five miles and soon I was looking, downing Cheezits at Kirby’s love van with Seminole, Emily and Orbit. The first van by obligingly stopped and we were on our way to Etna. Our ride givers were hippies fleeing a commune filled with sickness and headed for a rainbow gathering at the Buddha Hole by Mt. Shasta. That sentence was probably a first for the English language. Dropped off on main street where humans were apparently banned on late Sunday afternoons. We beelined through the movie set to the soon closing brewery. The first order of any town visit being liquids and solids. For the record I inhaled through three root beers, one stout, one ham sandwich, one hamburger and one towering root beer float.
A Viking on the right who has breached the city wall and has pillaged the city market
Next a roof, but not before Slack appeared, looking semirecovered. We made our way toward the Etna motel. On the way I passed Viking sitting in front of the market vacuuming ice cream. Since Viking carries enough food for the apocalypse, he is never seen in towns. I captured the unusual event on film to confirm that even Vikings are weak for luxury at times. He growled that he would return to the trail within the hour or after four beers whichever came first.
The Etna motel was very fine and appeared empty. The anomaly was we just got the last room. The explanation—a motel full of hikers has an empty parking lot. There we cleaned up and relaxed to a TV reality show called “Naked and Afraid.” The premise being two naked and afraid people are dumped off the bush somewhere to survive for 21 days. Having once been on a reality TV show called skinny-dip I knew that 80% of what happened on such shows is not. So I gave up quickly and went to work on the journal.
Soon Veggie, track meat and Ole turned up and the night quickly veered toward the only business open on Sunday evenings in Etna. With only three locals in residence comparing work place notes, the bar was ours. The following entertainment to choose from darts, jukebox, pool table, bartender storytelling and Horshoe pits out back. We took advantage of all.
Ole, who once made a living airbrushing nipples out of fishnet bras for a lingerie company to protect the sanctity of teenage boys’ squinting eyes, filled me in on recent history over beers. The boys were waylaid in Etna because they were waiting for antibiotics to fight a most unusual affliction. Both Track Meet and Ole, not a couple, were struck with swollen left testicles. Admirably, no jokes were made about this sensitive issue. I wish them a return to balance in their lives.
Our bar
A good night passed well, with a soundtrack from the 60’s and 70’s, ending in the early morning where it must, out back in the Horseshoe Pits. There, the bartender told stories of his import export days, back in the Go-Go 80’s, delivering a certain South American product for certain rock stars. A local guy serenaded on his guitar about love and loss. And Orbit and I took on Veggie and Ole in shoes. All were hopeless at the game and the target score was constantly lowered. But to see Ole throw a shoe was spectacular. The process. At 6’7″ he would stand ramrod straight, and christen the throw with a name. For example, “The Hurricane,” then he would explode in spasmodic motion winging the horseshoe in a SideArm, reverse discus maneuver that endangered all spectators but rarely the target. It was visual beauty. Orbit, always the fierce competitor, finally and mercifully ended the night with a ringer. To bed I went unrefreshed, unrested and happy.
Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde
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