Getting out of Burney
Every journey has its low point. I am certainly hoping that I just had mine. The 250 miles leading up to Burney had worn me down emotionally and physically. It was an insidious process. At first, it was a night of camping alone, but that turned into section of camping alone, then two sections, then three. The constant vigilance, making every decision by myself, and the grief I was still experiencing combined to create an overwhelming loneliness. I was just so tired of sucking it up and carrying on alone. I began to have fantasies of going home.
At Burney Falls, all services were closed for the season, including the waterfall itself which was actually roped off, and there was no cell service to call for a ride. While I was sitting in the shade eating lunch and trying to decide whether or not to stick my thumb out, a car pulled right into the pullout. I thought maybe he had seen me and was going to offer me a ride. Instead, he jumped out of the driver’s seat, ran around to the back of his car in full view of me, pulled his pants down and urinated! This was my introduction to Burney. After arriving in Burney by way of a different but equally creepy driver, a man who circled back to my motel and asked the front desk for my contact information so he could “show me around”, I was pretty down on strangers and hitchhiking.
In the planning stages for my PCT, I had arbitrarily told myself that I wouldn’t quit the trail without taking at least a week off to rest and consult all my primary sources of wisdom and support. This thought was accompanied by visions of a delightful hotel in a quaint, artsy town where I could eat high quality food, stroll the streets, look in the shops and feel safe and nourished. This is not a description of Burney, California. My motel was old and shabby with peeling linoleum, stained grout and a loud air conditioner. According to the manager, there was only one good restaurant in town which was closed for a few days. She herself would not eat any where else, so I went to Safeway, got some groceries and ate in my room, hiding from the man who had dropped me off. I felt wretched. There seemed to be no other hikers in town that night. Of note, the town of Burney was named after Samuel Burney, a settler to the area in the 1850s. He was found dead in the valley in 1857, and the valley became known as “the valley where Burney died“. It was eventually shortened simply to Burney. To me, it felt like the valley where Susan almost died, or at least where Susan‘s PCT almost died. Out I had to get out of there.
The next morning, I was able to get a ride with a Trail Angel from Burney to Chester where I waited six hours for a bus to take me to Quincy hoping to get to Truckee the next day. It turned out to be a “you can’t get there from here” situation. Everyone I asked got a quizzical look on their faces and shook their heads. You really can’t get to Truckee from Quincy without a private vehicle. Three different buses could get me to Reno but only at 7:30 in the morning before the post office opened, no Uber, etc. etc. In desperation, I ended up going to the front desk of my motel and offering to pay $300.00 to anyone willing to drive me. The very kind lady at the front desk of the Gold Pan Motel decided to do it herself and called someone in to take her place for a few hours. We had a very enjoyable ride, and I arrived in Truckee by 3pm on day three of this adventure. She only let me pay her $200.
I had been in touch with some Trail friends from way back in Washington. They were about 100 miles behind me, and were planning to skip down to Truckee in order to make it through the Sierra in time before winter. Initially I had not wanted to do such a big skip, but after my three weeks alone, and given how close I was quitting, I decided that I would try to meet them in Truckee and see if I could resurrect my PCT.
Although the three days off trail were not relaxing, my body was at least not hiking, and I returned to the trail unexpectedly refreshed with a team of six friends who call themselves The Lolligaggers. They sleep late, take long lunch breaks, and sometimes hike into camp in the dark. They are, in fact, so lolligaggy that I am still hiking alone with them somewhere behind me (unless they turn on the gas and outpace me in which case they are somewhere in front of me). At least I have people to camp with.
As I reflect back on what I am hoping was my emotional low point on the PCT, we are in the preamble to the Sierras. Today I went over a 9400 foot pass which will serve me well as I acclimate to take on the high mountains. After feeling so vulnerable and blue, I was hesitant to return to the trail. Hiking up the first climb, I checked in with my body and noticed that I felt strong. The scenery was expansive and uplifting, and I noticed that I was smiling again.
