August 14, 2013
33 miles
Mile 2040

Our remote camping spot proved unremote. Within 100 feet lay trail junctions and parking lots. Passing early hikers, intent on the trail, conducted conversations at alarm bell levels. Thus, we did wait. Nearby was a magic catch. I scored a root beer and a Mountain Dew to accompany my oatmeal. A passing trail angel in a robe generously offered to get us high. I decided to stick with oatmeal and sugar water for breakfast. I packed up and reviewed our night conversation to see if it made sense in the daylight of intelligence.

Numerology has entered the picture. Its denial would be troublesome. Its obeisance a challenge. I’ll lay it out. My lucky number is three. Always. Every team jersey I wore was number three. Orbit’s lucky number is three. We both started on May 3. We both would like to finish the trail in four months or one third of the year. That would allow Orbit to surpass her Appalachian Trail finishing time of four months and two days. Four months would be September 3. Which happens to be the day that I turn 50 on this earth. To get to the end of the trail and Canada by September 3 and my birthday would require us to walk an average of, you guessed it, 33 miles per day. Three countries, three states. Who could ignore this? We can’t, won’t and are going for it. Wish us luck.


The path climbed through dead forests that provided no oxygen. Sad, but gifting a perspective of geology that would otherwise be obscured. Around a dog leg and the haunted crags of Three Fingered Jack Mountain. There is that three again. We passed under the shadows of his mangled hand. The power of a snow year obvious from the crushed trees at the bottom of avalanche chutes. A most beautiful of mountains.

The day cool. The past bipolar in it’s confusion between both long stretches of water absence and excess. Lunch was at the serene Rockpile Lake. The sight of water brings out my appetite. The absence also. Perhaps I have something in common with the path. Nineteen miles to work for after lunch. NPR assisted. Massacres in Egypt and plans to halt global warming by injecting sulfuric acid into the stratosphere were equally disturbing. Soon I returned my attention to the forest.

A long downhill was fueled by handfuls of picked wild blueberries. I approached a well-stocked camp with horses. Closer inspection revealed the horses to be morphing into lamas. I paid for the diversion of eyes with a severe stumble. The campers grinned. To cover up my indignity, I inquired about the availability of a gin and tonic. Unfortunately their mixologist was on break. However, one camper advised me that the upcoming stream was dangerous to cross. He suggested I would need water shoes. I look down at my only shoes and shrugged..

Orbit and the dark caught up at the same time. She hadn’t heard the beast that stomped and snorted through the previous night. It had woken me. I guessed a bear or elk or something from mythology. Still thinking about it when we came to Russell Creek and it’s milky glacial melt. The current was nasty and aggressive. The darkness pitched in an ominous bent. Upstream and downstream were searched. Patience rewarded with a doable rock hot. Happy for dry feet I immediately plunged into a deep mud puddle.

Packs heavy with lugged water we passed stream after stream unmarked on our maps. Pushing to possibly meet a friend of Orbit’s at a distant trail juncture, we ran into the demands of sleep, this time by a highway of water. Soothed, I reached for war, but my hand never made it.

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

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