Back to Work

Leaving Etna after a zero felt like stepping back into the rhythm of the trail. The day before had been productive, maybe too productive. We resupplied, mailed off Emilie’s old backpack after she switched to a Gossamer Gear Mariposa, and handled all the usual town chores. I also spent most of the afternoon working on blogs, finishing two and trying to make progress on a third. Part of me hated using a zero day to work when my body could have used the rest. But this blog is something I want to do, and I keep hoping that putting in the work might eventually lead to an opportunity. So I sat there typing while my legs rested, at least technically.

A zero day in Etna before the next push north.

The next morning we were packed early and headed to the bakery before our ride back to Etna Summit. A sausage breakfast sandwich and strong coffee disappeared quickly before Dusty loaded us into the car with Roman and Amazon. Dark clouds hung over the mountains as we drove, something we hadn’t seen much of lately. After weeks of heat, the possibility of rain actually sounded pretty good.

A Different Kind of Northern California

We started hiking around eight, and by late morning the rain finally arrived. At first it was light, then steady enough to pull out the rain jackets and pack covers. The trail itself never became too wet, but every overgrown section soaked our legs as we brushed through it. After so much heat and dust, I didn’t really mind. The mountains seemed sharper in the clean air, and the forests smelled different after the rain.

Storm clouds gathering over the mountains after leaving Etna, a welcome change from weeks of heat.

We climbed into the Marble Mountains, where pale rock rose above the trees and lakes appeared between the ridges. It was some of the most beautiful country we had seen in Northern California.

A quick water stop in the Marble Mountains before pushing deeper into the afternoon.

Somewhere during the day our planned 25 miles quietly turned into 29.4. That had become a familiar pattern. If the legs were moving and there was a better campsite a few miles ahead, we usually kept going.

The trail leading us into the Marble Mountains, with the weather finally beginning to break.

Paradise Lake became the target, partly because the campsites we’d originally considered apparently had a reputation for rats. That was enough motivation for me.

Wildflowers and the pale ridges of the Marble Mountains after the rain.

We finally reached camp around 8:40 p.m. after hiking nearly the entire day without a real break. Alpacas and their owners were already camped near Kelsey Creek, adding another strange scene to a trail that never seemed to run out of them. By the time I stopped moving, my body knew exactly what we had done.

 

Evening light settling over the Marble Mountains near the end of a 29-mile day.

The next morning brought another familiar campsite problem: deer obsessed with urine. I had dealt with them before at Twin Lakes, and apparently the deer around Paradise Lake had the same addiction to salt. There is something deeply uncomfortable about trying to pee while a deer stares at you, licking its lips and waiting for you to finish.

An early start from Paradise Lake, trying to get miles in before the heat took over.

Then there was my sleeping pad. It had been leaking since Day 1, and somehow I had made it more than three months without fixing it. Most nights I was waking up repeatedly to inflate it, sometimes close to ten times. It was ridiculous. But every morning I packed it back into my backpack and kept walking.

Into the Furnace

The trail toward Seiad Valley started beautifully. Early light hit the surrounding mountains while we climbed through cool forest, but the easy morning didn’t last. We entered another burn zone, and the blowdowns quickly went from annoying to absurd. At one point I found myself practically hugging a massive tree, trying to get over it without sliding off the other side.

Some of the blowdowns required a little more commitment than others.

 

By midday the heat had arrived. We stopped at a bridge with a swimming hole and took a full hour. I spent about fifteen minutes in the water while Emilie slept nearby. Neither of us seemed particularly eager to leave, but Seiad Valley was still seven miles away. Those seven miles were brutal.

My ThermoDrop eventually read 103°F. The heat seemed to rise from the ground while the sun hammered us from above. I drank roughly eight liters of water throughout the day and still felt like I couldn’t get enough electrolytes into my body. Seiad Valley sits around 1,400 feet, and every foot of elevation we lost seemed to add another degree.

102°F and still climbing. The ThermoDrop would eventually hit 103.

Near the road we stopped at the former home of a well-known trail angel, now owned by Amber and Erica. They were keeping the tradition alive with a refrigerator full of drinks and a box of snacks for hikers. We left our packs near the driveway and talked with them for a while, grateful for another completely unexpected act of generosity.

Brian’s Place, where Amber and Erica are keeping the trail magic alive for PCT hikers.

Then came a final three-mile road walk. By the time we reached Wildwood RV Park, the temperature display outside the store was still over 100 degrees. Nina gave us a grassy place to camp alongside That Brunette, Tiger, Roman, Glissade, Gummy Bear, and several other hikers. We charged electronics, settled in, and started talking about the climb waiting for us in the morning.

Finally reaching Seiad Valley after one of the hottest days we’d had on trail.

Everyone had an opinion about that climb.

California’s Final Test

The climb out of Seiad Valley had been talked about like some kind of monster. People were planning to leave at three or four in the morning to beat the heat. We were up at four and walking by five, headlamps illuminating the trail while we tried to dodge poison oak in the dark. The first climb gained roughly 4,600 feet in nine miles.

Looking back from the climb out of Seiad Valley. 4,600 feet up in nine miles.

Four hours later, we were on top. I couldn’t help wondering what all the fuss had been about. It was a big climb, sure, but after Cabazon, Tehachapi, the Sierra, and everything else the PCT had thrown at us, it didn’t feel particularly extraordinary. Maybe that said more about how much we’d changed than it did about the climb itself. California wasn’t finished, though.

The climbing continued throughout the day until we had gained 8,667 feet, the biggest elevation-gain day of the entire hike. By mid-afternoon my legs were feeling every bit of it. Blowdowns clogged the trail near Bear Dog Spring, the sun returned with force, and water dictated our progress from one spring to the next.

Apparently even the trail knew we’d had enough of the blowdowns.

Some hikers took a road alternate that cut off miles and climbing. We stayed on the PCT. Late in the day we reached the campsite we’d planned on using, but a FarOut comment mentioned another spot half a mile farther with a view of Mount Shasta. This was going to be our final night in California. After everything the state had given us, and everything it had taken out of us, another half mile seemed like a small price to pay for the right campsite. We kept walking.

The site was rocky enough that Roman decided to turn around, but we stayed. Mount Shasta sat in the distance while the light faded across the mountains. We made dinner as the sun went down and watched the first stars appear overhead. The wind picked up a little after dark, but I didn’t care.

After more than three months, this was our last night in California.

After more than 1,600 miles, one final California sunset.

Day 100

Oregon or bust. We were getting damn close.

I woke to the sound of wind. There was an energy to the morning that felt different from most. Today wasn’t just another big-mile day. It was Day 100 on the Pacific Crest Trail. Six miles ahead was Oregon. A few miles beyond that was mile 1700.

Three milestones in one day.

We packed in the wind and started walking at 5:40. Dawn slowly spread across the mountains behind us while cows wearing bells made themselves known somewhere below the trail. I started the morning in my fleece, something that felt almost impossible after the 103-degree heat only two days earlier.

Six miles became three. Then suddenly we were there. The California-Oregon border.

Day 100. 1,694 miles behind me. Oregon.

Nobody else was around. We had the place completely to ourselves, and for once we didn’t immediately think about the miles ahead. We celebrated. We took pictures. We stood there and let the moment sink in.

California had taken more than 1,600 miles to cross. It had given us desert heat, the Sierra, snow, mosquitoes, burn scars, blowdowns, poison oak, long water carries, huge climbs, trail towns, trail angels, and more memories than I could begin to count. It deserved more than a quick photo before walking on. Eventually we crossed into Oregon.

Officially into Oregon and the Rogue River National Forest.

The next milestone was mile 1700, but before we reached it the celebration came to an abrupt stop. I heard a loud whack behind me followed by Emilie yelling. She had walked directly into a blowdown hanging over the trail and hit her head hard enough to briefly affect her vision. Blood quickly soaked through her hat.

I pulled out the first-aid kit and checked the wound. It was bleeding badly, but after about fifteen minutes we had it under control. She was shaken and her head hurt, but we didn’t see anything that looked like it needed stitches. Once she felt steady enough, we packed everything back up and continued.

Not long afterward we realized we’d passed mile 1700 without seeing a marker. So we made one ourselves.

Another milestone on a day already full of them: mile 1,700.

Day 100. Oregon. Mile 1700. After everything it took to get there, stacking rocks into four numbers on the side of the trail felt strangely appropriate.

North

Almost immediately, Oregon felt different. After weeks of blowdowns, brush, and disappearing tread, the trail suddenly looked manicured. We could just walk. No climbing over trees. No fighting through brush. No wondering where the trail disappeared beneath the vegetation. Just walking.

 

My first miles of Oregon.

 

We stopped for lunch at a creek and met Marilyn, a local who had helped maintain trails in the area. Later we found another bit of trail magic waiting in coolers beside the trail. I grabbed an orange Fanta, Emilie chose pineapple, and we sat for a while before starting the final miles of the day.

By six we were filling our bottles at the last water source before camp. Emilie’s head still hurt from the blowdown, and both of us were tired, but the trail was easy beneath our feet. We walked another two miles and eventually found a place to camp along a dirt road. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. But it was Oregon.

One hundred days ago, I had started walking north from the Mexican border. Now California was behind me and 1,700 miles were beneath my feet. There was still a long way to go. For tonight, that was enough.