100 Miles of Solitude

Waking up in the small town of Dunsmuir, California, I swing my feet to the floor to walk to the bathroom but immediately sit back down in pain. My feet feel like the bones are broken and perhaps there are also shards of glass on the floor. I carefully try again and end up waddling, flat footed, to the bathroom and then quickly back to bed. For some reason, my feet feel like this in the morning on a rest day, not on a trail day, only on a rest day. It seems that when I stop hiking, the nerves in my feet begin to wake up, and all kinds of sensations begin happening all at once. It seems impossible that I will ever hike again, but miraculously by late afternoon, I have usually been ready for the trail again. This time, I am taking a zero day.

I have not taken a zero day since Cascade locks at the end of Washington. However, yesterday was one of the most difficult days both physically and psychologically that I have experienced thus far. It was over 90°. There was a new kind of flying insect outbreak for about 15 of the 22 miles I had to hike: tiny little gnats buzzing around my face, up my nose, behind my glasses and into my mouth if I opened it. I had already given away my bug head-net and insect repellent thinking bug season was over, so I had nothing with which to protect myself other than frantically waving my hands around which really did no good. Then, to top it all off, I heard what I am certain was a mountain lion making the chirping sound that they sometimes make. It came from the hillside above me, somewhere in the trees or cliffs. I never saw it, but it was not a bird. I yelled out loud, stopped to look around and eventually just had to keep going, looking behind me frequently. This was the final day of a 100 mile section that I hiked entirely alone. My ride into town was a Trail Angel named Doc who said I had to be there by 3:30 or he would have to leave without me so as to get to his other job…. so I ran the last mile and a half. I arrived at his pickup truck rattled, sweaty, smelly, and exhausted. I’m just glad I didn’t burst into tears.

It’s amazing what a shower, laundry, and a meal can do for a weary hiker’s body and soul. My trail friends Daniel and Silvio were already here in town so we had dinner and breakfast together, but they were ready to hike out this afternoon. I knew my body needed more rest and honestly, so does my heart. It was a big deal for me to do that hundred mile section by myself, to camp alone every night and walk alone all day, to make every decision alone. Most of it was gorgeous, much of it was empowering, the rest of it was at least pleasant, and none of it, except the last day, was terrible.

I set my mind to figuring out how to do the rest of the trip. Despite the simplicity of Trail life, there is more to it than just heading back out on Trail. I need to know how many days of food to pack, what is the weather going to be like, where is the next town and how will I get there? I have now stared at the maps of the PCT Northern California long enough for them to begin to make sense to me. There is a section I need to skip that had a severe fire earlier this year and is not safe to walk through. I need to rearrange some of my box shipments to be sent to different towns down stream. I need to rent a bear canister in Sierra City instead of shipping one, but the logistics are becoming more clear. I can already feel that Northern California is going to be transformational. It’s the middle section of a five section trip. It’s where the doldrums and the breakthroughs happen. It’s where people feel like quitting or skipping. I have felt myself move through the temptation to quit and go home with Ian and into a sense of strength and determination that I had not yet experienced. I feel more comfortable hiking and camping alone, and totally confident in my ability to physically do this trip. However, similar to silent retreat work, I notice myself being thin skinned and emotionally porous. I come into town, not just to refuel my body and recharge my electronic devices, but also to plug-in with my loved ones and talk to my kids and friends on the phone.

It’s still hot in Northern California, but I am beginning to feel the constraints of the changing of the seasons and the need to get to the Sierra before the first winter storms. My pace will certainly slow down at the higher elevations, but I am still hopeful. I jot down the names of the towns and the mileages to help me get a visual. Looking and planning ahead is essential, but as of tomorrow morning at 7 AM I will be focused on just the next 100 miles from Dunsmuir to Burney, probably alone.