PCT 2018: Days 62-65, South Lake Tahoe to Sierra City
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 62-65 from South Lake Tahoe to Sierra City, mile 1,090-1,195.
July 5, Day 62
18.9 miles [1122.1]
Slept in as late as possible due to last night’s celebration. Ate a chocolate snack pie to give my sour stomach something to work on while we lounged at camp. Eventually started making slow, unmotivated miles at 9 A.M. Up and over Dick’s Pass which was the only section of “up” for today’s terrain that looked sucky. Easy cruise the rest of the afternoon. Stirred up an appetite for a packet of PopTarts after a few miles. I just took a zero and had an outrageously fun holiday, still I want a vacation. Dare I say I feel bored? Perhaps any day which follows one like yesterday will be a bit bland. I’m so tired of hiking. The five of us took a windy lunch on top of some rocks along Fontanillis Lake. Did a double-ramen cold-soak and had handfuls of Swedish Fish. More lakes and snack breaks which always turn to smoke breaks. Called it quits without even hitting twenty and made camp. Had a small fire to keep away mosquitoes. Didn’t have much to say, probably dehydrated. Chowed down hard on my usual tuna taco and followed it up with a peanut butter and butter, honey, Oreo, and M&M dessert taco. Enjoyed sunset trickling through the dense blanket of trees surrounding our small camp.
July 6, Day 63
24.5 miles [1146.6]
Went to sleep with the expectation today was going to be long. Prayed to the pit toilet gods that Barker Pass trailhead would be freshly stocked with TP. Completely empty. I’m out, hopefully the abundant lamb’s ear will suffice. Rare internet access and a wandering mind informed me Philmont won’t be open for crews this season; the early fires were too dangerous. I’ve been dreading “the one” for the last eight years, the time I’m not there, it happens. Tried not to dwell on things out of my control like potential fire which could consume this trail. Cruised along Alpine Meadows, ate my other chocolate pie and couldn’t help but notice the package design was being quite generous with their product depiction, then into Squaw Valley. Took a smoke break in the top-shack of the Granite Chief lift with “TB” and “Sticky” and fantasized about winter, sizing up all the shreddable sick ski lines. Pushed on to Tinker Knob in the howling wind. Had a brief see-ya-later with “Sticky” who parted ways for Truckee; hopefully we reconvene. A few sectioners passed us by, thoroughly done with their journey and headed for the highway, and gave me a Backpacker’s Pantry—major score. Half mile more to the only “campsite” on the bare ridge. Squeezed into the only tree cover with “River”, who we met back at Kennedy Meadows, and “Blue”, someone I recognize from around Tuolumne area. Shoveled in dinner and found a good spot to watch sunset. Our evening color show was absolutely bonkers. Wildflowers too numerous to document and identify, remarkably all in bloom for what feels like the last month, shimmered in the setting sun. Layers of clouds speckled and streaked the horizon.
Squaw Valley ski lifts, Lake Tahoe in the distance.
July 7, Day 64
22.3 miles [1168.5]
Windy night of sleep. “Trash Bath’s” tarp didn’t fare so well but I think he could sleep through anything except free food. Packed and hauled ass seven miles down to Highway 40 stopping only for a joint at Jerome chair. Word on trail was a free beer to any thru hiker provided by Donner Ski Ranch. The restaurant awarded me a 40 ounce King Cobra (malt beer, what a thirst-quencher) and we made use of the patio. Proceeded to get inebriated which lead me to order a patty melt with fries; I can barely resist the smell of charbroiled burgers sober, I’ll forget how much it cost. I caught a few moments of a World Cup match, enough to remember the USA still sucks at one global sport. “Trashcan” has been struggling with foot pain, I will sometimes notice him rolling out his arches during lunch. Perhaps it’s his slight cauliflower ear or maybe his constant furrowed brow, his very visage all but promises he’s never said “stop”. He’s decided to take a few days off here, the gang is dwindling. Utilized cell coverage and crushed five and a half miles drunk and distracted talking to a few friends in the outside world. It was a lonely and quiet ten more before we set up camp. There was hardly any laughing this afternoon, it seems like “Shocks” barely talks to me anymore. It still feels like he resents me for being here, like nothing has changed. In a weird space for dinner. Tired, done, just try and stay present.
Someone had a great campsite.
July 8, Day 65
26.9 miles [1195.4]
Hot and emergent midnight poop, it felt absolutely gross. Managed to fall back asleep with relative ease. Sunrise came and we left. “Trash Bath” and I chatted for most of the first ten miles, then he bolted ahead and began running like he always threatens. I think we’re all thoroughly tired of this section. I saw “Shocks” only twice on trail. The other 17 miles were spent alone with me and my racing thoughts. The four of us managed to coalesce under the North Yuba River bridge just before the highway. “Combo” must have been feeling daredevilish; he launched two spectacular 30-foot gainers off of the steep rock outcropping. A rather unexpected and fast-earned hitch cut off a mile of asphalt walking into Sierra City as the sun began to set. Hand-written, sun-bleached signs indicate town is closed on Sunday/Monday’s, I can’t possibly see how that’s a smart business choice even for such a backwoods location. Place is quaint, but it mostly gives off a homely and secluded vibe ranging somewhere between a dilapidated 70’s ski chalet and outdated Chinese restaurant. Fortunately the Post Office is open tomorrow: 10a-2p (reminds me of college administration hours), our resupply and my desperately needed new shoes are in that box. Listened to Jordan Peterson on Joe Rogan’s podcast and he got me ruminating about my current situation with Adam. Lots of nasty and malevolent thoughts. Bad juju. Broke down and got a can of Coke for $1.50. The church has provided a free overnight area, there were already a dozen or so campsites set up in the modestly sized front yard. I laid out my tarp and collapsed. My soles are sore, my calves are tight. No booze and I’m out of weed, stuck in sobriety. Two tuna tacos in hopes of replacing the malcontent with fat and sodium. Hopefully our package shows up tomorrow.
Hike On?
PCT 2018: Days 66-70, Sierra City to Belden
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 66-70 from Sierra City to Belden, mile 1,195-1,300.
July 9, Day 66
0 miles [1195.4]
All I wanted was a day off. I got one and instantly regretted it—what a hard day. It started out so nice. I splurged for coffee cake and an Americano at the cafe and ate on the patio with “Conflicted”, who I remembered meeting at lunch in S.L.T., and we talked about the MeatEater podcast. For twenty minutes he schooled me on the finer points of the Pittman-Robertson Act and how hunting drives conservation, how hikers think they’re stewards of the outdoors but really it’s dedicated hunters, taking every opportunity to interrupt himself and me at times to mock rabid social inclusivity in a type of Liberal comedy character. He’s awesome, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Waited and caffeinated until the Post Office opened—no package. “Trash Bath” and “Combo” hung around patiently but eventually grew weary and bid us a hasty see-ya-later. A small part of me thinks that’s the last time I’ll see either of them, yet I’ve had that thought before and been wrong. We kept checking right up until he, the singular postal worker, closed at 2 P.M.—still no package. Demoralized by the consequences. Adam was visibly stressed and moody, I tried to give him space and chatted with other hikers congregated outside the country store and anxiously watched the day pass. Felt trapped. Tried to forget the time and drank a few pricey tallboys even though my subconscious told me I’m spending too much and it wasn’t going to help in any event. No resupply and with little food in my bag I ordered a “gutbuster” from the deli; a monstrous knife-and-fork burrito bordering on vulgar who’s contents tasted uniformly of everything I had seen exit the kitchen. Braved the free, frigid public shower long enough to turn my surface grime to sludge, I couldn’t hold out long enough to use soap. My towel probably took the brunt of my filth. Sat, sat, sat. Fell into the social media hole. Zeros aren’t fun, Sierra City kinda sucks. Currently it’s well past hiker-midnight, I wish the others around me would stop talking.
The only picture I took on Day 66.
July 10, Day 67
20.6 miles [1216.0]
Another rude wake up by the local gang of bullish, squawking Steller’s jays. Began The Wait and saw lots of hikers arrive, many of whom I recognize. “Dingo”, who we met on Day 2; “Twerk”, pink shirt and all; even “Sticky Fingers” caught back up. Sarah and Kevin who have been immobile or asleep the past 48-hours have seemingly beaten their collective food poisoning and are looking much better. Talked with “Clean Turkey” who’s already been here for three whole days waiting for a replacement debit card. Yikes. Apparently she has made friends with the local family of loggers and was given some fresh roasted corn last night. Friendly postal worker Rick (we got to know each other on a first-name basis) had our resupply package. Huzzah. Snapped a hasty photo and laced up my new shoes. Snazzy, fresh, sproingy. Divvied up our food and immediately headed out. Hot. Hilly. Humid. An immediate 3,000 feet of ascent in the first eight miles. Forced myself to snack at Packsaddle campground, Adam cruised by me like the bump on a log that I was. I’m practically invisible to him, it seems. Beleaguered I shuffled up second steep, unrelenting hill, overwhelmed by dark thoughts. Sobbed and kept walking because you can cry and hike, sitting just feels even worse. Pulled myself together before camp. Dinner was our hard-earned gnocchi meal prepared with pepperoni and olive oil. Adam eked out a small smile and we made a few crass jokes, I felt a lot better. A guy in a wide-brim hat and pale blue Columbia PFG rolled into camp, introduced himself as “Tooth Fairy” and ate dinner with us. My calves and Achilles are exceptionally tight, I wonder if that’s the terrain or my new kicks.
My only two-pair of shoes which lasted almost 3,000 miles.
July 11, Day 68
35.0 miles [1251.0]
Better day but I’m certainly not getting my calories correct. Despite this, we absolutely crushed 35 miles! Not only a 30 but five more on top of that; my new longest day by more than six. I remember days in Scouts where ten miles seemed like another solar system away, hell that was a day’s worth of travel. Warmer start which was a nice motivating factor to leave the comfortable confines of my tent. Floated through miles and miles of dense, thick pines and firs covered in woolly moss like chartreuse spring vests. Hardly saw Adam at all, the few times I did he didn’t look happy about anything. Lunch cheered us both up. During a longer downhill section I ran (it’s still not clear to me why people like running). I nearly tripped and I let me knees buckle and sat down instead of hurling ass over pack. Stood from my burning wreckage and took limb inventory and noticed a hunk of skin missing from the knuckle of my thumb. Surprised not to be hurt worse. Note to self: don’t go home on injury. Passed more than 20 hikers, many of whom I saw in Sierra City. Water sources are getting farther apart, I should have filled up under the bridge but we pressed on. Used the last of my water to rehydrate a chicken risotto Backpacker’s Pantry for dinner. Legitimately thirsty but it’s hard to determine the true severity, just like hunger. There’s water a mile or two up trail. Body is sore but it’s nothing new. There’s a shrill whine of mozzies are all around me. Thirsty, just like me.
July 12, Day 69
30.0 miles [1281.0]
Started the day off with an eight-mile hill, the skeeters started even earlier. Just put one in front of the other with Foo Fighters on a loop. At the top of the hill was Lookout Rock—a vista name which must be on the same level of popularity as Main Street—which seemed like a worthwhile snacking point. Ate a few dozen handfuls of fruit snacks and chips and took in the view with AJ, a Day 3 acquaintance and Whitney summit appearance, and “Pilgrim”, someone I’d only seen from a distance. Upon closer inspection it became apparent his sole article of clothing is a bed sheet fashioned somewhere between tunic and toga. A few more miles to Bucks Lake road where Adam and I took a peaceful lunch in full recline. I gave my dusty, gritty footsies a bandanna bath and sat shirtless in reverence of the lack of mosquitoes. He’s in a good mood, it certainly cheered me up. Resupply is Philmont-heavy with items like Mojo bars, Larabars, and even those “Mark”-bars (rice crispy copy), all my rations bring back memories of hiking in the Sangre de Cristos. Elated to get a shirtless mile or so in the evening during that special time when the air temperature dips five degrees in less than five minutes, it was so relaxing I even got a shirtless poop without being attacked. Haven’t had the opportunity to do that since the desert. We busted another 30 which feels great to do, especially after yesterday’s feat. My feet feel sore but a discomfort relative to the amount of distance I’ve covered, Guthook shows just shy of 6,500 feet of elevation gain today alone. Currently we’re perched along the precipice of a massive canyon which is nearly 4,000 feet to the bottom, camp is hella windy. There are a few other hikers I recognize who rearranged their stakes and made as much space as possible. Big Belden hike is coming up, stop looking at the terrain map, it won’t make it any less steep.
Adam destroys a lunch taco.
July 13, Day 70
21.2 miles [1300.5]
Greeted by gorgeous clouds. Packed and practically fell with the rate of gravity towards Belden. Crossed some railroad tracks and entered “town” which seems like an unfair designation, there can’t be more than 12 people living here. Before I could even set my pack down, a bald man with a plush raccoon tail clipped to his floral print shorts approached and welcomed me before launching into his practiced whispered drug spiel like any hardened festival attendee standing outside the venue holding a cryptic sign proclaiming: “Need Tickets”. I’ve been out for almost a week and Adam let me borrow some cash. We followed “Meow Meow” (more alias than trail name) to his van parked in the back of the already dinky-sized town. His van is a converted refrigerator truck, mostly made out of glass, the clean interior reveals three things: a bed, hardwood floors, and a selection of four other raccoon tails. He filled my jar of wax before 10 A.M, problem solved. Had a fairly sketchy highway walk to Caribou Crossroads, by then I was absolutely starving. Patiently waited for biscuits and gravy with eggs and sausage and a famed blackberry milkshake, the reviews of which had been motivating me for the last few days. Ate and chilled with “Pilgrim”, “Tooth Fairy”, and AJ, as well as “RV”, who I now recall meeting a day outside of Tehachapi and have seen a handful of times since then, is finishing his 700-mile section here. As we wished each other well, I saw him with new eyes; a man well into his fifties who spent 40 days doing exactly what he wanted along with the loving support of his wife and eponymous vehicle which drove town to town for aid and care. It was hard to leave the shaded safety of the RV park but it was a smart choice, especially after losing time in Sierra City. “Tooth Fairy” thought it wise as well and joined Adam and me. Brenda, a true local and quite possibly the most badass grandma I’ve ever met, shuttled hikers back to trail, meanwhile with brash authority telling everyone in the vehicle that if her 6-year-old granddaughter can hike out of Belden without complaining, than gosh darn it, so can we. Began the 15-mile, 5,500-foot assault during the muggiest part of the day. A graffitied trail blaze had a poignant message: “either way, it sucks”. At one of the smaller stream crossings there was a waterfall which had carved out a body-sized pool. I stopped only to remove my shoes and waded in, fully submerged, and tried to escape the hill and heat. Finally made it to the top, crossed mile 1,300, and made camp. Rain looks promising in tonight’s clouds but so far I’ve only had sprinkles.
Inspired by Pollock’s “Lucifer”.
Goodbye, Belden.
Hike On?
Summer 100: #61-70
I sit down at my cluttered desk after showering by lantern; it had been a few days since my last. Paperwork, letters, camera gear, shards of...
Summer 100: #61-70
61/100
I sit down at my cluttered desk after showering by lantern; it had been a few days since my last. Paperwork, letters, camera gear, shards of information constantly migrate on its surface, always in some state of disarray. I organize it in the mornings, but by nightfall, my hard work has seemingly been negated. I invert my headlamp into my water bottle and distance myself from the oil lantern. Although each room is fully-equipped with electric lights, a blessing and a curse, I find the constant thunking of moths against florescent tubes rather irritating. Under a bluish glow, I attempt to pen a few more letters, finally finding myself starting to relax. My days off are just around the corner once again; I make a mental note to make more notes for my staff during my leave. Already, two moths have invaded and drown in my bottle; perhaps it's time to go to sleep.
62/100
Efficiently, I pack my backpack and bolt for Jimmy's car only after thanking him profusely for its use. Although driving will save me roughly 25 miles, my slapdash and incomplete plan involves a fair amount of hiking during “danger hour”; monsoon season is currently in full-swing, especially during late afternoon. I make decent time on paved highway and carefully roll through a few miles of washboard road. Cloudy skies above me don't look promising, but regardless, I park at Ponil's parking lot and start walking. Miraculously the weather holds as I arrive at Pueblano, and as if on schedule, so does the downpour, washing away any desire I had to continue onward. I decide to spend the night, fortunately I know a few of the staffers. Sam and I worked in the same vicinity last summer, our paths crossed a few times. He shows me the work which went into cleaning their once musty and dusty tie shack; it looks great.
63/100
Set in 1914, Pueblano is one of two logging camps which offers spar-pole climbing, something which I still have yet to do. Although the rain has passed and clear skies prevail, perhaps there will be better weather next time- typical New Mexico. Jacob and I catch up on how our summer's are panning out. For the last few seasons, he worked in the Ranger Department and we chat about the transition to Backcountry. Everything seems to be going well, despite mid-summer cabin-fever. Loggerball, like baseball in reverse, is just about to start; staff are infamous for having an untarnished record against campers. He tries to recruit me for their evening game, but earlier, I had strategically offered to cook dinner for camp. Definitely a spectator sport.
64/100
Beneath my head the floor rumbles, a familiar sound of clamoring boots jolts me awake. A quick glance out a dusty screened window tells me dawn on my first full day has already broken. Three...two...one...a half...counting down silently, I force myself to sit up and begin packing; my daily schedule manifests with each piece of gear stowed away. Nearly finished, I scrounge around, finding my usual provision of strawberry Pop Tarts. I venture outside to warm my bones in the sun and begin aggressively hydrating. Along the river bank, tall grass droops under the weight of morning dew. Another gorgeous day, huzzah.
65/100
My last bite of breakfast disappears as I venture towards the staff tents to begin lacing up my boots. I find Patrick doing the same, getting ready to relieve a fellow staffer from early spar-poles; today was his rotation to sleep in. My staff have asked for a similar schedule despite already having one of the latest wake-up times for a backcountry camp. The South Ponil Creek quietly hums in the background while we sip our coffee. Strapping on my pack, I stow my cup and bid the magnanimous musical men farewell before quickly cross-referencing my map. I have not taken this trail - I am not going to get stuck in the rain.
66/100
Although not steep, the trail steadily gains altitude. Up, up, up, I feel as though I should be nearing my destination. My silent prayers seemingly answered, the trail crests and before it sprawls a familiar looking meadow. Miranda's trade tent is a distant white speck, dwarfed by the foothills of Mt. Baldy. I summited the 12,441' peak in 2012 and take a moment to lean against a rock, attempting to absorb some of the grandeur. A knot of excitement forms in my stomach as I reminisce over the difficulties and stupid choices which went into climbing Baldy, or for that matter any mountain. I remember my unlikely hiking buddies and how we randomly met. I remember not bringing enough food or water I remember trying to outrun dark and ominous storm clouds while quickly plunge-stepping down loose boulders. I think would do it again. Maybe next year. Maybe.
67/100
Large, puffy clouds float East high above the expansive meadow; it seems as though today's afternoon storm has passed by. A few other visiting staff and I sit and talk inside the dimly lit cabin, calmly enjoying our lack of responsibilities and current emergencies. After a hearty meal of stew and fresh baked bread, the evening's activities are ready to commence. Everyone makes their way down into the meadow as the sun begins to dip below the contour line. Three teams are efficiently split up while rules are briefly discussed. Five bases are pointed out and home rock is flipped to determine first team up to bat. When the rock drops, madness ensues; let the games begin! I may not have been able to keep all of the rules straight, but one thing remained clear from their game-ending chant: neighboring camps who request meat products better not be harboring any vegetarians.
68/100
Sunrise happens much too early at Miranda. I fumble dumbly, finding my wristwatch under a sock; the time reads 6:24. It's supposed to be my day off. I awake inside the cabin to find a few people already sweeping and convince myself to begin dressing. As I begin to pack, I remember making plans with Carter to hike today. First, I decide to investigate a large grove of aspens along their meadow while the low morning light illuminates the pale trunks. Wild flowers, large saplings, fallen trees, everything is drenched in dew, even my pants and spare pair of shoes. Up ahead, I hear him chuckling and pointing to his monstrous custom moccasins, a muzzle-loader over one shoulder. “Totally worth it”, he proclaims; a sentiment I slowly find myself agreeing with on many different levels.
69/100
The learning curve for throwing a 'hawk firmly into your target is steeper than expected and staff spend a fair amount of time sharpening the ever-dulling blades. Frequently inside the cabin, a rough scraping noise emits from rusty files being drawn across tomahawk heads. I find Nick at the dining table utilizing a spare fifteen minutes to stay ahead on maintaining program supplies. For mountain men, everything seems to be about preparation. A well-oiled gun, sharp tomahawk, sturdy shoes, each item needs to be in top shape for tracking down big game. I see a crew awaiting instruction from the porch; he doesn't hesitate in sticking his first throw.
70/100
Each consecutive summer I work, I recognize fewer and fewer staff who started the same year I did. I remember the day I met Karl; it was the last week of summer and he had been transferred to our camp, helping us prepare to close down. Now, down at the end of their long and greasy table, I see him unfolding a small swatch of cloth and gesturing for me to join him. I sit down opposite of him and notice a few stacks of numberless cards, dried meat, and a rather large tomahawk. He quickly glosses over the rules; there's a twinkle in his eye. I have always known Karl to be a bit mischievous. I cautiously decide to play along.
Karl Hubbard Miranda Philmont Scout Ranch Cimarron New Mexico.
Summer 100: #81-90
After finishing dinner's dishes, I wander out on Cyphers Mine's porch to snag some coffee. Everyone has started to assemble in anticipation for...
Summer 100
Summer 100: #81-90
81/100
After finishing dinner's dishes, I wander out on Cyphers Mine's porch to snag some coffee. Everyone has started to assemble in anticipation for Stomp, an almost historically accurate musical extravaganza, which is sure to entertain. A few staff carrying lanterns and cumbersome instruments head towards the smaller cabin with dozens of people following in tow. I grab a few more cookies before making my way over, eventually finding a decent seat towards the back. With little notice, the ensemble explodes to life, the entire show interrupted only by raucous clapping and laughing from the crowd. I take my unspoken cue during the last song and begin heading back towards the main cabin as to avoid any rush. I turn around to see a mass of headlamps flickering on, illuminating the dense darkness around them. Camper exodus never lasts long.
82/100
Since early morning, heavy clouds have been passing through camp, threatening us with rain. Only in the last half hour has their decision changed, an ever increasing pitter-patter of droplets can be heard on our tin kitchen roof. I finish my dinner and tell my staff to hold off from starting charcoal for our cobbler dutch oven feast while I scout weather conditions. A quick jaunt up to our meadow reveals just how socked in we are— looks like we are making eight cakes tonight. When a Scout has had their expectations set on cobbler for 12 days, cake is severely lacking in culinary appeal. I have had to deliver worse news though, perhaps I'll even get a small slice.
83/100
Obligated from the immediate need to start charcoal, I decide to take advantage of the ominous silence in our secluded meadow. Four more days remain until the second Camp Director meeting; it has been hard to quiet my apprehensions. Tomorrow brings the start of August, my final set of days-off begins the day after. There are so many camps I have neglected to visit. I still need to type up the second half of my report and I have yet to hear back on my application to work during fall. I take a breath, deeply filling my lungs with clean mountain air. I try to feel support from the damp rock on which I sit, and slowly, I return to our meadow. Cake nights are insanity– loud music and teenage boys tweaked on sugar– but there is little else I would rather be doing.
84/100
My staff are confident and comfortable with running camp in my absence and require no input before my departure. I snarf my breakfast, smear on sunscreen, and switch on my earbuds. Seven strenuous miles up the Rayado, my rendezvous point takes me along a familiar route I have hiked countless times before. Famed for a particular section of trail, “the Notch' is a perilous passage through a windy and narrow section of exposed rock. The crossing is barely wider than my arm span and I recall the stories of dynamite and labor it took to carve this mountain. Most people stop to admire the grand vista, but the rocks are more breathtaking today.
85/100
My trail continues upward through dense pine and heavy underbrush. I begin to descend and the scenery no longer feels foreign, a sign my destination is nearing. Radiant afternoon sun bathes the river's banks with warm hues. Swarms of gnats glint in the haze while massive bees buzz back and forth between black-eyed Susans. Trout dart upstream into shadows and crows caw upon my arrival. It would seem as though Mother Nature has granted me quite a welcoming party; I know Fish Camp and its staff will uphold her standards.
86/100
Last night's sleep on Fish Camp's couch has completely refreshed my spirit and aching quads; I feel unstoppable. To bypass starting a fire in the wood-burner, coffee is made with water boiled on a portable backpacking stove, then slowly poured through a paper filter resting precariously on one's cup. A flash from my years spent at other interp camps reminds me that this morning's process is pure novelty. Taking care not to spill, I also grab the book I picked up yesterday and mosey outside, situating myself in 'the ring'– a 4-foot wide suspended metal ring thick enough for one person to comfortably slink against. The weather couldn't be more idyllic, hopefully it holds for our baseball game later this evening. Skimming for my place, I realize I am more than two-thirds complete. Perhaps I can finish before we leave, there isn't any room in my pack for rentals.
87/100
Go-time is here. I cinch my pack and hoist it onto a waiting chair, shift my weight, then my waist. My eyes fall on a small patch of wilting black-eyed Susans; miniature sundials marking the passage of time by their withering petals. I am fully aware today will be my last hiking day this summer–a fruitless notion–but one I cannot move past. We say our farewells and begin to hike, the Rayado deeply hums while trees gently sway with the breeze. I am so very far from finished.
88/100
After showering and scouring off the majority of my last week off, I make my way over to the Villa Philmonte's vast lawn. Softballs thwack into mitts as both sides begin to warm up, voluminous clouds effortlessly drift above our massive green; what a perfect day for a baseball game! I catch an unmistakable scent of hot dogs and popcorn, looks like dinner has been taken care of. Tonight's friendly match determines a “winner” of a two-part baseball series between Backcountry and Ranger leaderships. Our rivalry is comically overstated, but having won the first game, it is apparent the Rangers are hungry for more than just hot dogs.
89/100
I watch as the scoreboard is hoisted into the air, proudly displaying the game's final for all to see; it was a blowout. From the corner of my eye, I catch a water cooler-shaped blur racing towards amassing celebratory yellow shirts. In one swift motion, the entire contents is dumped onto Matt's shoulders as he lurches forward, attempting to avoid the icy torrent. Even though we lost by a fair margin, seeing the opposing team's plush mascot stolen and high-tailed across the Villa lawn into a waiting getaway minivan made for a pretty spectacular seventh-inning stretch. After all, it's all just a game; might as well have some fun.
90/100
Boundless talks about gather during yesterday's meeting has left me feeling drained and restless. Alone in a sea of people, I wander building to building, mind racing, searching for familiar faces. Past staff members manifest momentarily, a mental mirage generated from previous summers. I desperately want to leave basecamp, but the thought of returning to camp tomorrow morning doesn't sit well either. Hopefully I find a friend going into town who wants some lunch. My days are dwindling. I must finish strong.
About the Blog
Justin Kernes is a photographer and writer who thrives in the great outdoors.
From 2010-2017, he worked in the backcountry at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico.
In 2018 “Tiny Slice” successfully thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail.
Search the Blog
Featured Posts
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers day 111, Goat Rocks and my 30th birthday.