PCT 2018: Days 31-36, Tehachapi to Kennedy Meadows
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 31-36 from Tehachapi to Kennedy Meadows, mile 570-700.
June 4, Day 31
22.1 miles [592.9]
By some grace of God I got decent sleep thanks to those two robust bushes. Loaded a new map into my phone and couldn’t help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. Took a nice, lengthy stop at Golden Oaks spring 12 miles from camp. Avoided the heat and cameled-up in the shade all while hanging out with “Mio”. Tried to make a dent in my food because my pack weighs an absolute shit ton—it’s kind of demoralizing. I must have eight days worth and only need six; I guess I can eat as much as I want. I should buy less crackers next time. The wind seemed to subside the further north we went but it still felt like a hiking through the business end of a hairdryer. Hopefully this is the last of the wind farms. Adam seemed to be in a mood, the desert must be getting to him too. We’re probably both dehydrated. Wrapped up the day with tuna taco while dodging a few mosquitoes. They’re only going to get worse from here.
A Mojave sunrise and the last of the wind farms.
A stoveless resupply which is a little heavy on crackers.
June 5, Day 32
23 miles [615.9]
Said goodbye to the last of the wind farms (I made sure to double-check on the map) and made it 10 miles to Robin Bird spring only stopping briefly two times. My stamina is improving. The long-anticipated arrival of “Mio’s” Marine buddy “Bigfoot” had finally happened, I got to know him a little better over the course of the day. We took over an hour in the shade to rest and rehydrate. Barely making it another mile up trail, we stopped again. “Vinyl” and her friend Norah were sprawled out beside a Subaru under a makeshift canopy of towels and umbrellas held together with gold duct tape and good vibes. I met her yesterday and suddenly remembered talks of her birthday party. They welcomed us to their huge picnic spread which had; brie and bread; watermelon and Oreo cookies; kombucha and Sanpellegrino in all flavors; and most importantly, a homemade blueberry pie. Huge portions were being served and I didn’t think there was going to be enough to go around. “I’ll take a tiny slice, please”, I said timidly. “Vinyl”, plastic cutlery in hand, locked eyes with me and a devious smirk crept below her sunglasses. “Sure you can—‘Tiny Slice’” she snarkily said, plopping a huge piece on my paper plate. It killed, the crowd roared. Everyone commemorated the party by spray-painting their hiking poles gold. Adam and I left the shanty-town, pushing another nine miles before making a dinner stop. The weather was prime and legs felt good, ultimately we did another four miles as dusk slowly turned into night. “Tiny Slice”—it could be worse.
Sunset on a distant Owens Peak.
Blueberry pie responsible for my trail name.
June 6, Day 33
24 miles [639.9]
Greeted by a soul-warming sunrise. Despite an intensifying sun and miles of washboarded trail filled with shoe-consuming sand, it was still nice to hike in the limited morning hours with a cool breeze. Just before Bird Spring Pass I came across, quite possibly, the most idyllic Joshua Tree I’d ever witnessed. Even dozens of weekend campouts I spent at the namesake national park never lead to the discovery of such a magnificent specimen. Perhaps it was dehydration, perhaps it was a lack of sittable shade from the last 100 miles, but I was mesmerized. I dropped my pack and flopped down, eyes heavy with midday heat. For the briefest of moments—or maybe it was five minutes—I was thoughtless. Wonderfully adrift. Somehow, I managed to leave. Only a few miles later and we ran into some totally-clutch trail magic. Jim had the full spread: cold cuts, soda, chips, and cooler full of beer. I thanked him profusely, sandwich in hand, and asked about his involvement with the trail. He humbly replied, “I raised a lot of hell when I was younger, so, here I am giving back.” Finally gathered the gumption to leave and made it another nine miles before stopping for dinner and a camp spot. While assembling a dessert burrito, a flock of what I could only assume to be western bluebirds, at least 100 strong, buzzed overhead. Hadn’t even made it halfway through my burrito before realizing we were being assaulted by an army of ants. Still being surprised in the desert.
June 7, Day 34
24.4 miles [662.7]
Tossed and turned until 6 a.m. Uneventful hiking all the way to Walker Pass so I filled the time by listening to more music than usual. At the highway we were greeted by “Coppertone” who happens to be sort of a trail legend. He provided plenty of camp chairs under an awning, a hiker box where Adam scored a new shirt, as well as various snacks laid out on a table. “Coppertone” also offered everyone a float: vanilla or strawberry, root beer or cream soda? I opted for the nontraditional version which several hikers said was the superior choice. Tried to enjoy it slowly but did a poor job. All the while, a helicopter circled unusually low around the campground, only to land several hundred feet away from us. Slurping down the remainder of my float, I saw a flash of orange darting through the trees on a ridgeline above. Just before I began to worry, “Coppertone” offhandedly quipped, “some government officials came by and said they’d be running some tests today”. Twenty minutes later the heli took off, I could just barely make out an orange jumpsuit through the open bay doors. As the chopper left, quiet finally returned. We still needed to confirm a few resupply details with our parents which meant hitching into Lake Isabella or making a phone call. Neither of us had reception, so while I danced around on the shoulder, thumb extended, looking positively too positive, Adam spotted hiker friend “Pocket Rocket” who was in the middle of a phone call. Fortunately, we were able to use her phone and avoid the half-day jaunt into town. With the ‘extra time’ we double-backed to Walker Pass to hang out and hydrate more. I got a few Z’s in on a particularly comfortable camp chair. With most of the heat beat, we pushed another eight miles before finding a spot to cowboy. A terrific tuna taco while avoiding skeeters. Gosh, this has to be the last of the desert, the mountains are nearly here.
US Navy helicopter drills near Walker Pass.
Owens Peak Wilderness.
June 8, Day 35
24.5 miles [687.2]
Spent the first three hiking hours without music or podcasts in an effort to save any remaining phone battery (currently at 9%). The terrain has started to morph once again, perhaps it’s a sign we’re getting closer to the mountains. I’ve cinched my belt quite tight, flaps of fabric now bunch around my waist; my clothes don’t fit anymore. Even though there was nearly 12 miles of solid uphill today, the actual ascents weren’t problematic. I’m just so fed up sweating from every inch of my body with a ‘hot face’. It just sucks. Found a good spot for lunch and a snooze 15 miles in. Climbed a second big hill to finish the evening. A gentleman we’d been leapfrogging all day arrived at camp just as we finished setting up. He introduced himself as “Missing Person”, and without missing a beat said, “you must be brothers, right?” It was almost refreshing to hear someone say it so confidently, most people had been giving Adam and I double-takes, asking if we were twins and which one was older. He flashed a smile of admiration undeniably different than others I had seen. “Mind if I crash your site?” We nodded. The three of us talked and ate dinner, sharing stories from the desert. Offhandedly, he mentioned he hiked the AT 25 years ago—largely in memoriam of his late brother. I tried to keep eating chili cheese Fritos but they just dried up in my mouth. My tent is scheduled to arrive tomorrow, hopefully that eases the tension between Adam and me.
“Missing Person” sets up his camp.
Granite with quartz vein.
Sunset from Chimney Peak Wilderness.
June 9, Day 36
15 miles [702.2]
Broke camp and high-tailed it to Kennedy Meadows. I sniped at Adam the last few miles, saying some really dumb shit. 'Got the clap' as we approached the general store—other hikers applauded each new arrival's success. If I smiled any harder I probably would have ended up in tears. Today was the lowest I've been in recent memory. Even those hard days early on in the desert pale in comparison to the neurotic, worthless feelings I subjected myself to today. Bought some beers and tried to mingle with the dozens of other hikers, hoping to take my mind off of me. Signed up to take a shower in one of the jankiest homemade stalls I've ever witnessed (I should have just taken my towel to the Kern river.) I skipped the washing machine since it had a sign-up list longer than my sleeping pad, opting to have another beer and wash my socks under the spigot. Parents arrived with our resupply and loving support. They treated us to dinner at Grumpy Bear's Retreat, the only restaurant in the area, for a burger. I managed two bites before unraveling, bemoaning problems Adam and I should have managed ourselves. They drove six hours for me to treat them like a petulant child. I feel sick to my stomach. It feels shameful to admit how close I was to quitting, especially when the getaway vehicle was being driven by mom and dad. Grow up, Justin. After dinner, I tried to turn the evening around and bought everyone beers. We started joking around and laughing, sharing stories like the clogged toilet and photos of unbelievable desert sunrises: Kernes family therapy. Divvied up the resupply and setup my new tent. Tried hard not to be awkward as our parents drove out. Later, “Missing Person” came up and said we looked down and out at the diner. I smiled weakly, “family things.” He congratulated us on making it out of the desert. I'm overjoyed to be finished.
Bakeoven Pass and unnamed peaks.
Kennedy Meadows General Store by night.
Hike On?
PCT 2018: Days 37-39, Kennedy Meadows to Mount Whitney
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 37-39 from Kennedy Meadows to Mount Whitney, mile 700-766.
June 10, Day 37
14.3 miles [716.5]
Despite dozens of drunk and frisky campers I managed to get decent rest, waking early for an uninterrupted use of the porta-potty. Trepidatious about yesterday but feeling generally good, I finished the rest of my spigot-laundry, charged my remaining electronics, and attempted to stuff seven days of food into my bear can (where am I going to put these crackers?) Also, I learned the canister doesn’t fit horizontally in my pack. How did I not test it out at home? Adam and I hitched to Grumpy Bear for the famed all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. I only finished one after an included plate of potatoes and eggs, legitimately, I was full. Waddled over to Triple Crown Outfitter where Adam upgraded his shirt and bought his own bear can. Got a miraculous hitch in a Ford Sport Trac back to the general store; 14 people plus a dog crammed in the cab, on the hood, and bed, tailgate down. It was a sight to behold. Took a few hours consolidate my new gear and figure out a comfortable packing style. Scored and ass-pad which should provide more comfort around my hipbelt area. Said our farewells to “Mio” and “Bigfoot” who are headed home today, having completed their planned section. I don’t like saying goodbye to friends. Hiked out 15 miles through gorgeous meadows, lichen covered rocks, and weather-worn pines, finally cresting above 8,000 feet. I’m home—the Sierra—it feels delightful. Set up camp at the Kern River and Monache Meadow junction and ate our second Velveeta salsa mac dinner. Always eaten on the first night of a preprepared resupply, the last time we had this meal was Warner Springs, 600 miles ago. Only eight more remaining.
Grumpy Bear all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.
Hitching with the tailgate down.
Monache Mountain and Deer Island.
Kern River and Monache Meadow.
Sunset on Monache Meadow.
June 11, Day 38
25.3 miles [741.8]
In the wee hours of morning I tossed and turned, never finding a warm position. As consciousness slowly arrived, I realized the interior of my tent had been covered in frost. I whipped off my quilt, jumped into laced shoes and unzipped the tent frantically. Rather carelessly, I had left my water filter in my pack which had spent the night outside. Rule #1: don’t let your filter freeze. It sparkled with ice crystals—welcome to the Sierra. A depressing chorus of “I fucked up” played nonstop in my head. I told Adam I might need to borrow his filter, he seemed to take it fine. Packed and hiked out, climbing to 10,000 feet for the first time on trail (San Jacinto doesn’t count). My pack certainly feels like a fresh resupply, it easily weighs 40 pounds. No matter how I arrange my gear or adjust my straps, it pulls on my shoulders trying to grind me to a halt. Demolished a tuna taco and tons of mom’s jerky for lunch while drying my soggy tent in the alpine sun. Rationing food and a night of cold sleep meant I was hungry most of the day. Hiked a vertical mile of total altitude and my legs are completely shot. Set up camp at Diaz Creek, ducking and weaving through clouds of thirsty mosquitoes. Adam prepared dinner, tortilla soup, while I refilled our water supply. Whitney is close, but quite a haul still lays ahead.
Owens Valley and Cerro Gordo Peak.
Pinus balfouriana ssp. austrina, or more commonly, southern foxtail pine.
June 12, Day 39
25.3 miles [766.3]
I wasn’t the quickest packing up camp, however, Adam waited and paced around, albeit rather uncomfortably. I may have started off in front but quickly fell far behind as we continued to ascend above treeline. Around one set of switchbacks, two small flashes of fur chasing each other ran towards me. Instantly, I stopped and snapped my head up from the ground and tried to freeze. The two creatures stopped just as suddenly. Immediately I recognized one to be a golden-mantled ground squirrel. The other had a weasely appearance, sleek and slick, his tail tipped with black like a freshly dipped paint brush. I have a strong suspicion the unidentified creature was a stoat. They vanished as quickly as they arrived. After a few more miles, Adam and I lost motivation and shared an early, hot lunch just before the mouth of Chicken Spring Lake where Guthook claimed, upon arrival, “you will really feel like you have entered the High Sierra”. They weren’t wrong. For a few hours, we hiked through some sort of natural wonder Meow Wolf exhibit. Psychedelic thousand-year-old trees with twisted trunks, melted limbs, and horrific faces solidified in weather-worn bark. Stumbled another 16 more miles to Crabtree Ranger Station and set up camp. There must be over 60 PCT hikers here waiting to summit. While Adam and I ran pass routes (damn mosquitoes) and ate dinner, he told me he plans on sunrising—wheel’s up at 2:30 a.m. This seems pointless, but then again I always bitch and moan about rising early. No bear can or tent; get pumped, you can nap later.
Cirque Peak approaching entrance of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks.
Mount Guyot.
A hiker refills water from Whitney Creek.
Hike On?
PCT 2018: Day 40, Mount Whitney
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers day 40, Mount Whitney.
June 13, Day 40
22.4 miles [772.7]
I actually slept as evidenced by waking, it took a few minutes to regain lucidity. Alarms aren’t meant to go off that early. While I threw a ration of snacks into my nearly empty backpack, a big, hot, ball of nerves filled my stomach. At 2:33 a.m. we set off into the void with headlamps which only provided a small swathe of understanding. Water crossings ran black with cold, a rare slip ended with wet, icy toes. I took a rest at the base of Guitar Lake and noticed a dozen or so faint pinpricks of determination slowly making progress up the switchbacks, a blanket of stars defining where the mountain wasn’t. With each gaining step I couldn’t help but remember my Scout troop’s six-day expedition where I celebrated my birthday, to the day, at the summit—I was 15 years old. We pressed on and it became clear we were going to miss sunrise by half an hour. Between Keeler Needle and Crooks Peak we stopped to enjoy the show from 14,000 feet. Shortly after, I got to the summit shelter and, much to my surprise, smashed a working “That Was Easy” button. Also found was “Trash Bath”, “Combo”, and “Gilligan” (previously Brett from the desert) celebrating their victory. It was almost like a reunion. Snapped photos and ate my victory gummies, then made our way down. Met “Brownstreak”, a talkative Hawaiian I struggled to keep pace with. We chatted about ski-bum life the entire way back. Took a fat nap before packing up camp and managed another six miles to Bighorn Plateau. Adam and I struggled to agree on a campsite and ended up getting testy with each other. It’s clear he is still unhappy with our current situation. I asked him what was on his mind and we ended up having the same conversation over again, not finding a resolute outcome. Though it’s clear; I’m ruining his time. He needs to be his own person—and so do I—but the thought of doing this alone scares me. I cannot quit, I’d hate myself more than I could possibly imagine. Despite having just been physically at the highest, tonight, I am emotionally at my lowest.
Hike On?
PCT 2018: Days 41-44, Mount Whitney to Bishop
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 41-44 from Mount Whitney to Bishop, mile 766-831.
June 14, Day 41
19.2 miles [791.9]
Frost on my bag once again, another cold start. Still a little bummed out and attempted to wake and bake my woes away. Definitely harbored some anxiety about today’s terrain and what it would bring but I quickly got enamored in the grandeur of the Sierra. In the first few miles I forded Tyndall Creek rather than take the time to find an ideal rock-hop-spot which resulted in soaked shoes ending in torn blisters. Slopping around in slushy snow didn’t help either. I have to remember to keep my shoes dry. We got to the final approach and looked up at the remaining 700 feet of gain while filtering water. It looked like Forester Pass was going to fall into space. A nearly vertical wall of snow was clearly visible from the bottom—the most highly anticipated and fear-mongered location so far. People had asked “are you going to bring microspikes? Where’s your ice axe?” There I was, time to cross the bridge, a phrase I’ve come to love. Intimidation abated with each step taken closer to the saddle. I glided across the snow-covered section with ease. Another hiker who had been tailing us the entire way up had halted before the snow. From 200 feet away, it was easy to tell he wasn’t a happy camper. “You got this”, I yelled over the chasm, “it’s way better than it looks!” He nodded, flashing a thumbs up, then took cautious steps all the way across. We saw him at the top, beaming. After a snack break we glissaded down the backside and continued to Glen Pass; it kicked my ass. Low food with a rationing mentality lead to me bonking. I was whopped, Adam was light years ahead of me. Two passes in a day is ridiculous. The thought of food kept me moving—50 miles to Bishop.
Forester Pass approach, mile 779.3.
Forester Pass and the Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks boundary, mile 779.5.
A hiker glissades down Forester Pass.
Northern side of Forester Pass, mile 780.
University Peak, mile 783.
June 15, Day 42
23.8 miles [815.7]
Warm sleep for having camped above 11,000 feet. Got up and out with intention because it’s hard to lie on my back with how tender my heels are—I can feel my heartbeat throbbing in my feet. Nervous about how well I would do but blisters are a known quantity, it really can’t get much worse than this. Just have to keep putting one in front of the other. Only a few miles in, I took my shoes off in order to cross between Rae Lakes with certain dryness. After yesterday’s water-logged experience my new mantra is still ringing in my head: wet is worse. Drifted throughout treeline, dozens of half-frozen alpine lakes speckled the rocky terrain. Pinchot Pass wasn’t forgiving, albeit much easier than Forester and Glen. Intense beauty was all around but I found myself looking down most of the time, the sheer discomfort pulling me away. However, I must have hopped over 50 streams and at each one, with enough searching, there were enough slick rocks or creaky downed limbs for a strategic jump-and-pray, each leap followed by a gratifying mental ding of success—I felt like a video game character. During one of my searches I found a half-full bottle of olive oil bobbing in an eddy which went spectacularly with our pasta dinner. At this point my food bag is mostly bag and trash, free calories were a godsend. Pushed to the base of Mather Pass and set up camp as spumoni skies faded into starry oblivion.
Adam gives me “knucks” for getting over Pinchot Pass.
Marmota flaviventris, yellow-bellied marmot.
Sunset in Upper Basin, Mather Pass, mile 815.7.
June 16, Day 43
27.3 miles [831.0]
Heard other hikers packing and instantly craved more sleep. I stuck my head out of my vestibule and found Adam already breaking down his tent. Hustled and got up and over Mather, then began 4,000 feet of descent for the Bishop Pass trail junction. Obsessed about food to the point of fantasy. Played a mental game where I tried to imagine foods I wouldn’t eat even if offered to me right then and there (I didn’t come up with anything). It worked well at keeping my mind off my feet which are completely fucked up. Cold mornings, soggy shoes, sharp rocks and crusty socks, 25-mile days, and low calories, never have I had this many blisters. Arrived at the junction and devoured my last packet of tuna—dry. Adam and I have both done Bishop Pass many times but always the northern approach, never from the other side. It was brutal. The first three miles might have been my hardest physically. Had a few excruciating moments of wanting to “Stop”; to just not hike anymore, to sleep and get as close to death as I could, but those moments faded just as they always do. A mile before the pass, Adam threw out one of his usual outrageous suggestions. “We could always push for the parking lot”, he dryly said, both of us drenched in sweat and sucking wind, the sun already having set behind massive granite peaks. He was just as done as I was. Somehow, delirious, I agreed, adding another six miles to our day. At 10:30 p.m., broken, tired, and hungry, we arrived at windy South Lake parking lot. My resupply had two packets of Probar Bolts, a highly coveted gummy snack lovingly saved from summer camp, I had already eaten the first pack on top of Whitney, saving the final pack for a special occasion. I chewed them slowly, trying not to think too much about what I’m going to eat tomorrow.
Adam breaks down camp, mile 815.7.
Moonset over Mount Hurd.
June 17, Day 44
0 miles [831.0]
A windy night continued into the morning, I had on all my layers while waiting for a hitch. Didn’t sit long before meeting our lord and savior, weekend warrior, Thomas, who by his own account was headed home a day early since he “wasn’t feeling it”. Got dropped off at the famed bakery and I limited myself to a chocolate croissant, chocolate covered espresso beans, and a large coffee which covered a large portion of my vices. Dined al fresco and watched clean tourists before heading over to McDonald’s for the “real food”; two chicken sandwiches, a large fry, and a coke, all while refilling my podcast supply. Wandered through a few gear shops and found two things: a replacement water filter and “Trash Bath”. The three of us formulated a plan for the upcoming section while booking a room at the Hostel California. There weren’t any laundry services so I dumped out my remaining crusty packet of drink mix and a few straggling raisins from my bear can and threw in my fetid garments with a few hefty squirts of dish soap—the socks took four rounds alone. Adam pointed out that it was opening weekend for “Incredibles 2” and the dinky two-screen theater probably still had a few tickets left. We made use of the free bikes and purchased tickets before taking a quick pit stop at the grocery store for beer and munchies. Even though the theater was completely full with 8-year-olds, the movie was amazing. Stayed well past the credits, then biked back to the grocery store for a full resupply and tonight’s dinner. At the hostel, I cooked brats and onions, in a real kitchen on a real stove no less, Adam made a salad, and “Trash Bath” shared his gallon of mint chip. Feeling the vortex hard on this spectacular zero, it’s not going to be easy to leave.
Erick Schat’s chocolate croissant.
Hostel Bishop bicycle.
Hike On?
PCT 2018: Days 45-49, Bishop to Mammoth Lakes
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 45-49 from Bishop to Mammoth Lakes, mile 831-906.
June 18, Day 45
11 miles [831.0]
Drunken slumber wasn’t great but breaking my 44-day streak without a bed on a memory-foam mattress was heavenly. Immediately got coffee from the common area, took my bedraggled gear out to the patio and started evaluating. Water bottles were thoroughly scrubbed, with soap, and electronic devices got topped off while other hikers around me lanced blisters and patched holes in tents. Drank a third cup repackaging last night’s resupply, thank god this one’s only four days. Walked across the street with my fourth cup to Bronco’s Deli and got the daily special machaca and egg burrito, smothering it in as much fresh habanero salsa as I could tolerate. Back at the hostel, “Trash Bath”, “Shocks” and I mowed through a few dozen freezer cookies and the rest of the mint chip ice cream while looking for future problems to solve with a reliable internet connection. It dawned on me my first and only pair of shoes are legitimately starting to wear thin, I purchased the same pair, a half-size bigger (why not, everyone’s doing it), and had them delivered home for future request. Ordered new earbuds since the first pair have been destroyed and the backup set has already lost sound in one ear. Finally we summoned the courage to leave, ultimately getting three hitches to the trailhead. Sometimes I worry but all it takes a happy jig, a smile, and about twenty minutes. Hit the trail around 4 p.m. and had a blast going the “correct way” towards Bishop Pass—this must have been my eighth trip this direction. We passed Long Lake and “TB” took a dip, he’s trying to jump into 50 alpine lakes. Managed to get a mile or two away from the PCT before sundown and set up camp. An amazing zero, this time it actually felt restorative.
“Trash Bath”, “Tiny Slice”, and “Shocks” try to hitch to South Lake, Bishop, California.
Sunset over Bishop Pass.
June 19, Day 46
14.9 miles [844.4]
Warm sleep and good rest made for an easy departure, the group of dudes who politely tried to share our site late last night weren’t moving by the time we left. Within the first mile, as I rounded a switchback while picking out my morning music selection, I saw a grouse sitting on the trail. Before I could identify it any further, it flushed, thereby checking two separate items off my internal “Nature” list. Merged back with the PCT (hooray!) and started the climb up Muir Pass. Postholed for what felt like the entire 3,500 feet of gain, false peaks and crests made the ascent even more demoralizing. I was exhausted; a malaise only altitude is capable of. Muir hut seemed like an apparition until I swung open the hefty wooden door. We celebrated and tried to mute our collective agony by hotboxing the entire hut with a few joints. It seemed like the perfect occasion so I drank the Coke I packed out, taking care to chill it first in a pile of slush. Morale improved. Left the shelter just before 3 p.m. which only made things more challenging because the sun had thawed enough of the usable terrain which had turned it into a frigid stream. The alternative was more frustrating postholing through uncompacted drifts. Made it to the northern end of Evolution Lake which seemed to be a popular spot to set up camp. “Skinny Dip” and “Hot Pants” introduced themselves and we all ate dinner, swatted away skeeters, and bitched about the slow, difficult progress. A few more joints emerged and were passed around the dining rock, all of us believing in and hoping for its magical medicinal properties—my feet are raw hamburger. Didn’t even make it 15 miles, a feeling akin to being unable to run in a nightmare. However, the views were straight from fantasy.
Half moon and Muir Shelter, mile 838.8.
Postholing before Mount Solomons, mile 837.
Muir Shelter, mile 838.6.
Sunset over The Hermit from Evolution Lakes, mile 844.4.
June 20, Day 47
21.2 miles [865.6]
Early rise in an effort to offset yesterday’s short gain. Just over five miles into the day came Evolution Creek which Guthook says is “often seen as one of the most difficult stream crossings in the Sierra.” Unbuckled my hipbelt which basically holds up my pants and took off my shoes per my mantra. As my thighs began to enter the frigid current, whatever soreness there was in my feet was replaced with sharp, stinging cold, pain to the point of questioning if I had sliced my feet on some of the rocks; the water must have been 33 degrees. My shitty too-big pants just made things more frustrating, I nearly tripped on the baggy cuffs trying to pull up the waist while also trying to use my poles to stabilize. Made it across with a wet taint but a dry pack. More downhill miles to Muir Trail Ranch where we took lunch. A few good items were in the hiker boxes but nothing nearly as miraculous as purported. “Shocks” found, made, and shared a peppered beef Mountain House while we tried not to judge the three fresh JMT’ers, all the while buzzarding over their resupply. “Hot Mess” managed to sweet-talk herself into a huge bag of pasta from one the guys. After a fat shade nap, we packed up and headed for Selden Pass. “Trash Bath” likes our company and it seems like he’s going to stick around. Camped directly on the pass in hopes of less mosquitoes but they found us anyway. Demolished a tuna taco and some mint cookies. Don’t know if it’s the altitude, blood loss, or miles, but I’m just whooped.
How “Trash Bath” says good morning.
Muir Trail Ranch international hiker door.
Selden Pass, mile 865.5.
June 21, Day 48
21 miles [885.1]
The best part about camping on a pass is knowing the next day will start with downhill. Even then it was hard for me to motivate for today’s hike. Made a rare slip on an early stream crossing and plunged both feet into the creek. My shoes managed to dry out before lunch. “Missing Person” was having worse luck and said he broke his phone; it fell out of his pocket and smashed on a rock. I recognized the look of despair on face, as clearly as he must have seen me wearing it back at Kennedy Meadows, while he told me and “Shocks” he was thinking of exiting—indefinitely—at Mammoth Lakes in order to solve this new problem. I gave him my fuel for a hot lunch. “How many Nutter Butters do you think I can fit in my mouth at once?” asked “Trash Bath”, not waiting for any guesses while furiously stuffing in six, somehow maintaining a proper airway. Put one in front of the other and trudged along, it’s hard to recall any outstanding events from the day—I’m sapped. Camped on top of Silver Pass in efforts to avoid mosquitoes. Pulled out two creamy chicken Top Ramen packets from my bear can, fished out a few garlic cloves skittering around on the bottom and sliced them, fired up my stove and fried the garlic wafers in olive oil with a few dashes of Tabasco. The aroma was powerful enough to mask our collective stench but not enough to ward off the clouds of skeeters, even at 11,000 feet. One less mythic property of garlic.
Sunset from Silver Pass with the Minarets in the distance.
Sunset over the Minarets, mile 885.1.
Silver Peak and Sharktooth Peak, mile 885.1.
Six Nutter Butter cookies
Mosquito dinner.
June 22, Day 49
23.5 miles [906.6]
Got a fairly late start on Silver Pass for the remaining 21.5 mile mostly-downhill haul into Mammoth Lakes. It seems as though mosquitoes can’t fly faster than 2.5 miles per hour, so I just tried to maintain or outdo that pace for the entire day. Don’t remember much from the hike, stream crossings, trees, and lakes blended together like backseat views on a cross-country road trip. By 5 p.m., “Shocks”, “Trashbath”, and I rolled into Red’s Meadow. Immediately, I hydrated with an IPA from the trading post and we all reveled at making it to another town. My bear can is empty but I didn’t go hungry; success, and it only took 900 miles. Hitching seemed like a distant possibility but an $8 bus ride was a worthwhile investment. The old bird who sold me my first beer, who also sold bus tickets, must have taken another good look at me while I was asking for a bus ticket, selling me my second beer. Grinned like an alcoholic, downed the first and took the second to-go, hoping the bus driver wouldn’t care. Gang decided on John’s Pizza Works and we settled on a supreme-style ‘za; out of the 16 slices I had four or five, nothing but the pan was left. Coke has never tasted so delicious. Ran into “Combo” who had apparently rocketed ahead by a few days in order to hang with his family—he looked real clean. Made a quick stop at the liquor store for beer before setting off into the residential woods of this ski town for a spot to stealth. Got pretty drunk and talked between tents just like all those fifth-grade slumber parties.
Virginia Lake inlet, mile 891.6.
Chief Lake, mile 885.6.
Entering Red’s Meadow.
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PCT 2018: Days 50-52, Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 50-52 from Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows, mile 906-942.
June 23, Day 50
9.3 miles [915.9]
Decent rest for having slept near a road, drunk. “Shocks” shared his other Torpedo while we packed up and waited for “Combo” to come pick us up, the four of us went to Von’s for resupply. A disgruntled shopper got confrontational when he scrutinized my 23 items, not the stated and illuminated “15 or less”, most likely because I look homeless. While sitting at a table repackaging my food, a motorcyclist who was parking came within inches of colliding with me, even grazed my shoulders with his handlebars, the old man didn’t even acknowledge the incident to anyone at our table of four. Justin’s of the past would have handled both of those situations far worse; I just ate my Talenti in the shade and enjoyed not moving. We said our see-ya-laters and “Combo” dropped us off at the resort. Started chatting up lifty Sinona who gave us the nod for a free ride in the gondola. At the top I pilfered 10 mayonnaise packets from one of the restaurants while we watched mountain bikers bomb the slope and charged our electronics. I killed my remaining beer from last night. Met “Gandalf”, a kooky fellow, who was also waiting out the midday heat. Caught the return bus to Red’s meadow where I drank more beer. Spent a moment being touristy at Devils Postpile and admired the basalt columns. Struggled through nine miles of mosquitoes before setting up camp to seek refuge where I had my first fire of the entire trail. After 50 days, I’m finally starting to get the hang of this.
“Trash Bath” rides the Mammoth Ski Resort gondola.
Devils Postpile National Monument, topside.
Hexagonal columnar basalt of Devils Postpile.
Fly fisherman on the Middle Fork San Joaquin River.
June 24, Day 51
20.1 miles [936.0]
Waking up doesn’t seem to be any easier on trail, no doubt thanks to yesterday’s diet of beer. I got up late and took my time packing and hydrating. I hope the pictures I take somehow remind me of the sheer grandeur of the Sierra—it feels trite to keep calling everything gorgeous, amazing, and beautiful. Easy enough hike to Thousand Island Lake where we met a young family of four just about to leave. They had two sons under 13, everyone carrying remarkably high spirits, and informed us they were doing “just a 100 mile section”. I remembered the odd level of enjoyment and suffering backpacking taught me from Scouting. I took care to fist bump those little dudes with an extra level of coolness that only a group of three smiling, wild thru-hikers could provide. Was beyond stoked to take an extended lunch break staring at Mount Ritter but as soon as we sat down the skeeters began their assault. So far, the highs and lows of trail life are a natural and common occurrence, but it was then that I reached maximum frustration. I just feel helpless, my life has been reduced to two states: either moving constantly, never enjoying the solitude of rest outside of a netted shelter, or to accept it, like some sort of self-immolating monk, waiting for the possibly diseased swarms to suck me dry and cover me with itchy reminders for the upcoming weeks. I’m already chewed up, what’s the use in fighting? Sailed over Donahue Pass to find cleaner air and was rewarded with my new favorite view (so far). Another five miles before calling it quits and making camp. Pleased my tuna taco game has been fully optimized. A thoroughly squeezed mayo packet, a glug of olive oil, and a few heavy shakes of Old Bay goes into an awaiting tuna pouch. The gloopy contents is spooned onto an awaiting, crumbly tortilla and garnished with a heaping handful of hot Cheetos, tonight I had two. I’m utterly exhausted, but not hungry. And fuck mosquitoes.
Island Pass, Thousand Island Lake, and Mount Ritter, mile 922.5.
“Shocks” admires Mount Ritter, mile 923.4.
Donahue Pass, Lyell Fork, and Lyell Glacier, mile 930.5,
June 25, Day 52
14.5 miles [942.5]
Enjoyed sleeping late, then read until just past 7 A.M. Just as we were about to head out, I recognized Casey, the girl who “Shocks” and I met and hadn’t seen since the terminus, was about to sail by and I shouted out her name. She raced over and gave me a monstrous bear-hug, pack and all. It was strange because my only form of human contact on trail so far has been entirely fist-bumps. We chatted and caught up over the next few miles before she zoomed ahead. I don’t think I’m going to catch her. Arrived at Tuolumne Meadows and enjoyed the loving embrace of a picnic table. There were a dozen or so lonely sodas and beers with no accompanying notes and after deliberating, I took one of each. A young man with black frames and a hot pink shirt appeared to be holding court at one of the other tables. I recognized his face from scrolling through social media and asked if “Twerk” had taken his photo, a name I heard back at Casa de Luna. “I am ‘Twerk’”, he said sweetly and the table erupted behind him. It’s refreshing to find someone making original content, we talked shop for just a few minutes. Sat there feeling apathetic about moving, but “Trash Bath” wants to hike, he’s never been to Yosemite. I buckled and got a double cheeseburger with a hot coffee from the grill which seemed to boost my spirits. The three of us hemmed and hawed but agreed a $6 per person campsite was a good purchase. Set up camp and decided that Cathedral Peak—a pinnacle of angry, wicked granite—was a worthwhile summit. I snagged another beer from the convenience store before we blazed into the unloaded portion of our digital maps. Navigated to the trailhead and began the ascent, Cathedral sharply looming over us the entire time. The higher I climbed, the more exposed the terrain became, I should have figured a rock spire would be treacherous. With each step towards the peak I wanted to turn back, but I ignored the scared, weak boy who just wants to sleep and drink in the void of all things difficult. Class 2 morphed into 3, then suddenly 4, I scrambled past a pair of climbers practicing rappelling techniques, death a very real possibility. My brain loudly reminded me this was the second most exposed I had ever been without gear and rapidly was becoming number one. I pushed until I was 20 feet from the top before my wits and reptilian brain won out; this was good enough. Made it safely back to the trail portion, we all trail-ran, knocking off three miles of descent in less than half an hour. Stumbled onto the main road just before the convenience store closed. I got a carton of Merlot and we retreated to the very full backpacker’s campsite. Met “Sticky Fingers”, a friend of “Trash Bath’s”, he offered me a draw off his Makers Mark. There was a half a liter of Coke which I used to make kalimotxos, educating everyone with a full cup who gave me quizzical looks. Absolutely blitzed but I earned it; a reason to celebrate.
Cathedral Peak ascent.
Cathedral Peak, looking south.
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PCT 2018: Days 53-56, Tuolumne Meadows to Sonora Pass
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 53-56 from Tuolumne Meadows to Sonora Pass, mile 942-1,020.
June 26, Day 53
20.3 miles [962.8]
Unsurprisingly, I woke to hikers ‘quietly’ retrieving their smellables from the bear lockers. Read a few pages of Desert Solitaire before poking my head out and confirming “Trash Bath” and “Sticky Fingers” had made good on their promise to sunrise Cloud’s Rest; their tents were empty. Packed up and headed down to the post office and grill. Got two cups of coffee which had me buzzing. In typical fashion, just before 8 A.M., garbage trucks rumbled through the valley, dumpsters were being violently emptied—Welcome to Yosemite. Even though I had been there less than a full day, being steeped in the huddled masses of one of the most popular National Parks has started to bum me out. A van of Euro hippies which had parked next to the tables opened all their doors and musical instruments started appearing. About twelve seconds into the free-form pan flute session harmonized by a banal conversation from some try-too-hard Instagram model types sitting adjacent, “Shocks” and I decided to leave. Cruised through a few miles of open, lush meadows before taking a long lunch with “Combo”. Five, ten, fifteen, the miles melted. Took a bird bath at Miller Lake, mainly for my feet and pits. Struggled to cross Matterhorn Creek and made it half mile more before calling it quits. Nearly two decades of Scouting beat into me to never, under any circumstances, have food in, near, or around one’s tent for fear a bear would be attracted and attack. However, I am so fed up with mosquitoes, I welcome the possible grisly encounter and ate dinner in my tent with only a shrill, unyielding whine penetrating the glorious mesh. Suckers.
Cathedral Peak from Soda Springs.
Unique color and corrosion of Soda Springs.
A hiker suns herself beneath Tuolumne Falls.
Mosquitoes which made it under the rain fly.
Tuna taco with wasabi peas and chili cheese Fritos.
June 27, Day 54
19.5 miles [982.3]
Blessed to have only a singular mosquito bum-rush me during my AM BM, after which any portion of flesh was in critical danger. Disassembled my tent while attempting to move at two miles an hour. Rolling start out of camp only to be stopped by a ranger, my first, who in predictable fashion asked to see my permit only after the briefest of greetings. “Can you fit all your food in your bear canister?” she asked, groping my pack for a rigid and dense confirmation. I nodded enthusiastically, handing her my permit with a mouth full of Poptarts, a bag of Cheez-its prominently strapped to the outside of my pack, silently thinking if I continued to eat at double my current input, yes. Hiked mostly alone much like yesterday, I feel utterly zonked. Walking all day is the hardest easy thing I’ve ever done. There’s a certain calming quality in the gorgeous monotony. Benson Pass proved to be a breeze but Seavey Pass was seriously steep. Dusk soon arrived and I set up camp didn't have much to say. Annihilated a tuna taco and somewhere around the fourth bite, had an out of body epiphany: mayo is king. The delectable, savory spread makes any dry packet of tuna taste luxurious. Much like any addiction I can’t imagine life sans substance. How do people survive on ramen and instant potatoes? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the mayonnaise haters. Killed the remainder of the wine while enjoying another night safe in my tent. Kennedy Meadows North is in 38 miles but I’m looking forward to tonight’s sleep more.
Wave clouds.
June 28, Day 55
23.6 miles [1005.9]
I should be elated, I should be proud. This afternoon I crossed the 1,000 mile marker, a new significant figure has been added to my trail log. But there wasn’t anyone around to celebrate with. As I got out my camera and wondered how I was going to take a photo of me and the ground simultaneously, fortunately “Combo” showed up and was a great human tripod, but he seemed to be in a real hurry (probably the skeeters) and bolted after snapping a photo for his own memories. Didn’t see anyone I recognized for the rest of the day, I just kept leapfrogging the same pair of vaguely international women who don’t seem to enjoy sharing the English language. Set up my tent while looking over my shoulder like an addled, twitchy squirrel, hoping and praying to see any member of my trail fam come into camp; no such luck. It took 55 days and finally it’s my first night ‘alone’. That fact bums me out even further. To top it off, most of my days are spent tuning out the drudgery of putting one in front of the other. Each day seems so long, each hour seems to be another brutal reminder that I didn’t even make it another three miles since the last hour. There’s a small chance I’m behind, my plan is to get moving an hour before we normally depart. Either way, I’m sure I’ll see someone before the highway. While filling water to cut down on tomorrow's morning chores, I misread the ground and sunk to my ankle in mud. I had to curl my toes to keep the shoe from being slurped up like a tender baby back rib. Washed it in the creek, there’s nothing better than starting the morning off with wet feet.
June 29, Day 56
14.8 miles [1020.7]
Of course my shoe froze, that novelty quickly thawed. But you know what? THIS smart guy snuggled with his water filter all night. Not learning that lesson twice. Crammed my shoe into a spare Ziploc and stuffed the whole mess into my puffy while I packed up everything inside my tent. Raced out of camp in efforts to ditch the nagging demons telling me I was behind. Had over ten miles worth of intrusive thoughts, loneliness being the main culprit despite passing and being passed by a dozen other hikers. Met “Captain” who remarked on my similar looks to another hiker he had just seen and I asked if he had met a “Shocks” or a “Trash Bath”. He told me I was about four miles ahead. I strolled down to the highway and snagged a beer from the parking lot magic and waited for my tramily to appear. Watched seven people to squeeze into a mini trailer, later I found out there wasn’t even tailgate. Gang showed up and we caught a ride into Kennedy Meadows North from a gentleman shuttling hikers for the afternoon. Arrived at the meadows and promptly bought a six pack, convincing “Combo” and “Shocks” to split a load of laundry with me. Ravaged a cheeseburger during the rinse cycle. Whole crew is back, I feel like an utter fool for having been so bummed. Scavenged a decent resupply from the convenience store before packing up one last time and heading out to the road. Hitching was getting tough—it was 6 P.M.—most of the tourists using the secluded road had already headed home. As the occasional car went by, everyone stood up and threw out thumbs smiling as hard as possible. With each missed opportunity my morale kept getting goofier; positivity attracts vehicles. A Mercedes Sprinter van zoomed by with no indication of slowing. “Sorry, we have TOO much space!” I yelled in my most sardonic tone to the exhaust fumes, the gang chuckled as they sat back down. Not thirty seconds later, much to everyone’s surprise, the Sprinter van came back and offered to help. I was absolutely stunned. The eight of us criss-cross-apple-sauced our limbs and gear into the rear and I politely handed the driver my camera while he pulled out his phone for the same purpose. “We haven’t seen this many people in the back of a van since India” he said with amusement, snapping our photo. The doors slammed and we rocketed off onto windy Highway 108. We screamed through tight corners and steep drop offs while our two intrepid chauffeurs told us plans of a second attempt at a Rainier summit. In some turns, I swore I could feel the back tires beginning to break. Said a few prayers and fortunately we arrived back at Sonora Pass. Made it a few miles up trail and set up camp. Happy to have lived, happy to be alive; remember that.
Deadman Creek.
Emigrant Wilderness, Stanislaus National Forest.
Burgers and beers with restorative powers.
The hitch that almost never happened.
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PCT 2018: Days 57-59, Sonora Pass to South Lake Tahoe
Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers days 57-59 from Sonora Pass to South Lake Tahoe, mile 1,020-1,090.
June 30, Day 57
28.8 miles [1049.5]
Deuced, then bounced; this group is fast. Hiked the majority of the morning with “Trash Bath”, “Combo”, and “Sticky Fingers” and, much to everyone’s delight, “Brownstreak”, who had caught back up. We chugged through miles of incredible vistas, even this mountain of rocks with a lone gnarled and dead tree. Took a late lunch, borrowed needle and thread and used the opportunity to sew up the holes on my right shoulder. First rip and it nearly made it a thousand miles. “Sticky’s” friends who were in last night’s hitch have joined our group: Sarah and Kevin, who seemingly reject trail names, and “Trash Can” are all new faces from the past day. We were all chatting at lunch when a pair of JMTers or sectioners (they didn’t seem like thru-hikers) told us there was trail magic at Ebbet’s Pass ending at 7 P.M. The map said 11.9 miles away and it was a quarter to three. My new friends bolted, it was a mad dash. I didn’t stop at all except to pee twice. With two minutes to spare I stumbled over the highway, legs pulsating with small spasms. A group of hikers were lounging near a vehicle and a foldable table. There was a full-on pizza oven, a kind of ludicrous contraption you might see buried in the pages of a SkyMall, which fit over a massive portable propane camping range. I collapsed against a tree with the other hikers and tried not to look too desperate. Immediately, I overheard they were out of pizza. Sarah who must have beaten me by only five minutes shared her slice with me; I don’t think I’m capable of a gesture that benevolent. The kind family noticed us last few stragglers and told us they would “make something work”. Out of their ice chests came containers of a homemade soba noodle dish. It had cilantro, green onion, pineapple, Thai basil, cabbage, all doused in a spicy sesame sauce--the most fresh vegetables I’ve had in over a week. A moment of lucidity informed me I would’ve happily paid $26.89 for it a trendy LA fusion restaurant, already having eaten two meals of my choice that particular day. I licked my cup clean just as logs of fresh mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes were passed out. “Now who has the balsamic” I joked to the hikers, beyond satisfied at the provided bounty. “Sticky Fingers” leapt up with a mischievous and elated look, he struggled to hold back a grin. Shoulder-deep, his arm emerged triumphantly from his pack with and adorable single-serving bottle of balsamic vinegar. There was clapping. Snagged the remainder of the fresh basil and made caprese, sharing with anyone still hungry. My life feels complete. The remaining dozen or so hikers all amassed and we thanked our angels with dirty, sweaty hugs. “Your kindness can never be repaid,” I said squeezing tight, their eyes glistening and sparkling with love.
July 1, Day 58
20.6 miles [1070.1]
A sporadic crinkling of pads and tents began before the sun had risen. At some point I had acquired three packets of Folgers instant crystals, the tipping point in critical mass for achieving any type of altered state, and wiped out the straggling soba noodle from my cup and made a coffee-slurry. Reynolds and Raymond Peaks were a stunning sight and we crushed the first seven miles easy. Any moment of stillness I had was immediately filled with thoughts of the Harrah’s buffet—everyone’s going, hell “Dixie” put it on her top five. Managed to take a rare lead and hold it until lunch. I picked a spot at Lower Sunset Lake and left a note for those behind; when there’s a lake, there’s a reason to take a long lunch. Enjoyed the packet of kippers I had been saving while cold-soaking two bricks of ramen. Fruit Snacks have been a recent discovery and I must have inhaled four baggies of the little suckers. At that point the gang had arrived fully and we were all splayed out at the water’s edge, deep in lunch. A couple rolled up in their Jeep and began unloading two kayaks from the roof. They saw us, filthy and partly nude, in the shade and politely offered us water to which we politely declined. “Oh, well, in that case do you guys want some beer?” Everyone leapt up faster than I had ever seen, myself included, trying not to look too eager. Soon, a very unofficial rock-skipping competition broke out while a few joints were rotated around. “Sticky” and “TB” inflated their pads and paddled out about a hundred feet onto the lake, and with stunning success, lazily rafted. The dream had to end, we packed up and had a hilly, hot hike out, but intense mountain views were enough of a distraction. Gang got tired around 5 P.M., I was ready to hike further but opted to hang out. Had a campfire whereupon “Brownstreak” produced a two-inch cast iron pan out of his already minuscule Pa’lante. He sliced up a few fingerling potatoes and a clove of garlic, cooked it over the modest coals, dumped the whole affair into a Mountain House and passed it around. One of the rare times music seemed appropriate so I played a few bands out of my phone and everyone shared the sweets portion from their food bags. I offered up my whiskey and we all laughed until the embers slowly faded cold. My feet feel great, my muscles feel limber, I’m stoked for Tahoe and the 4th of July. And that buffet.
Mokelumne Wilderness.
Thornburg Peak and a distant Hawkins Peak, mile 1057.6
Therm-a-rest rafting.
July 2, Day 59
19.9 miles [1090.0]
“Trashcan”, the resident chief snorer and earliest-riser, made moves before 6 A.M. Carson Pass came and went, soon after we were at the information station where the kind staff provided thru-hikers with fresh cherries and ice cold Cokes. Took a few moments in the shade and people-watched at the busy Highway 88. Cranked out 15 more sticky, stagnant, sweltering miles, the buffet, part motivation and part hallucination, was the only thought on my mind. Made it to Highway 50 where we promptly split into groups and tried to hitch. I hopped in the back of a pickup with “Trash Bath” and “Combo” knowing full-well the other half of our group would catch up. Had to grab a second hitch to get closer into town. A few miles down the road, “TB” casually mentioned he was looking to re-up and our driver shot us all a knowing glance and whipped a u-turn, making a beeline for his apartment. After meeting his friendly dog and eating some normal brownies, we continued back into town, pockets full of therapeutic cookies and a fat baggy full of recovery. Gang reconvened at Taco Bell and decided we couldn’t possibly wait another day for the buffet. We headed towards the hotel and looked for a place to stealth. Directly behind the Harrah’s parking lot was a small wooded area which seemed secluded enough. With responsibilities taken care of, “TB” smoked us all out in preparation for our feast. Achieved a nearly uncomfortable level of high, I was paranoid my horrible stench was unable to mask the smell of drugs. None of us were Diamond members so we patiently waited in line, having arrived ten minutes after opening. Once the velvet rope had been lifted we hurriedly walked into the farthest region of the dining area, with the other hikers, as to draw the least amount of confused, comatose stares from the other patrons. I didn’t know what to expect but I knew I wasn’t about to load up my first plate in giddy, childish delight, slopping together whatever my lizard brain was craving. Weak. There’s one rule at a buffet: when the door’s close. After much restrained contemplation, I took a warmed plate and stood in line for prime rib, opting not to live up to my namesake when I was being served. I slowly enjoyed each jus-covered morsel, satisfied by how much it didn’t taste like tuna. Sarah was impressed by my singular first choice, her plate considerably less of a postmodern mess than “Trash Bath’s”. Red meat begged for a salad, on my second plate I heaped together as many fresh vegetables a bed of spinach and romaine would allow for and doused the whole affair in ranch which was an unbelievably nice vacation from olive oil. Having sated two of my biggest food urges (fresh meat and veg), my tastes turned ethnic and I had a wonderful chili pork stir-fry alongside a cold shrimp dish. Fairly certain I went back for another go-round, but in my binge, I can’t remember. Fifth course was dessert, I had an eclair and a handful of chocolate covered strawberries. Somehow I skipped sushi so I decided to sample their selection with my post-meal coffee. Any remaining room and/or neurosis which told me to get my money’s worth was filled with bread; empty, free calories I can get anywhere. Waddled behind the casino and set up camp. Full with a capital “F”, ready for a legendary zero.
Moon set over Elephants Back.
Carson Pass, mile 1074.9.
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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.
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Photos and stories from my thru-hike of the PCT. This post covers day 111, Goat Rocks and my 30th birthday.