Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles Read online

  The southern Sierra Nevada - the High Sierra - is the highest section of the PCT, with the trail lying above 10,000 feet for many miles and reaching 13,153 feet on Forester Pass. This is a granite wonderland with magnificent peaks rising above tremendous forests. Here the PCT follows the John Muir Trail much of the way and passes through King Canyons-Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. North of Yosemite the Sierra Nevada slowly becomes less dramatic and the mountains are lower, though this is still fine country. Unnoticeable to the walker the Sierra Nevada merges with the southern Cascade Range which the PCT then follows all the way to Canada. The Cascade Range is characterised by big volcanic peaks towering over the lower hills and forests, the first of which is met in Northern California with Lassen Peak in Lassen Volcanic National Park. Through Oregon the PCT is at its gentlest, winding past the mountains through forests and meadows before descending to the Columbia River and the trail’s low point of 140 feet. There follows a long thrilling finale to the PCT as it climbs into the rugged and spectacular mountains of Washington State, culminating in the grandeur of the North Cascades. In total the PCT passes through six national parks and forty-eight designated wilderness areas, which shows the value placed on the landscape and the natural history of the trail’s environs.

  Finally my planning, or at least the British part of it, was over and I boarded an aircraft for the first time ever for the long flight to Los Angeles with instructions from Warren Rogers to catch a bus from the airport to Disneyland, where he would meet me. Very kindly he had invited me to stay with him and his wife Mary for a couple of days. Standing outside Disneyland in the dark dazed from the long flight I remember feeling a little unsure and a long way from home. A tall man strode over and shook my hand firmly. It was Warren. I guess my large pack and air of bewilderment made identifying me easy.

  Warren’s enthusiasm for the PCT came over immediately. I knew his feelings from his letters but hearing him speak really impressed upon me how important the trail was for him. Advice and suggestions tumbled out. He showed me the precious log book from the 1930s relays, kept safely in a fireproof box. I felt I was looking at a holy relic.

  One important task remained before I could start the walk. I needed to sort out food supplies. Warren reckoned I could probably find suitable breakfast foods and trail snacks along the way but that evening meals would be a problem. However he knew of a company that would send food parcels to post offices along the way so on my first full day in the USA he drove me out to North Hollywood to meet Charlie Yacoobin of Trail Foods. Here I selected what I hoped would prove adequate and tasty from a bewildering array of freeze-dried and dehydrated food. Being vegetarian I was pleased to find quite a choice of suitable food – I wouldn’t be living on macaroni and cheese for six months (a hiker’s staple that I was to eat rather too often on subsequent walks). This wasn’t the cheapest way to buy food but bringing six months’ worth from Britain was not an option and I didn’t have the time to visit supermarkets, buy food and repackage it – my visa for the USA was for six months, the longest period available, and I knew it might take that long to complete the trail. Most of the food was for evening meals but I stuck some snacks and breakfast food into the twenty-six parcels just in case I needed it plus the relevant sections of the guidebook and some rolls of film (this was long before digital photography) and left Charlie with the list of post offices.

  So far all I’d seen of the USA was Disneyland, miles of low buildings, heavy traffic and freeways. The air was hot and heavy, the horizons hazy and faint. There was no sense of wild country and not much of nature. That was soon to change. I’d planned on catching buses to San Diego and then Campo at the start of the trail, a two-day trip. Warren vetoed that idea and said he’d drive me, saving a day and giving me more time to hear his stories of the trail. As we sped down the highway the hot arid scenery of Southern California flashed past the windows. I couldn’t relate to it yet, couldn’t feel it as real, didn’t know what it felt like. I would soon learn.

  Warren dropped me at a campground in the tiny border hamlet of Campo, wished me luck and left me standing by the pack I was to live out of for half a year. I waved as he drove away. Alone in the dusk I realised the adventure was about to begin. High above the familiar constellation of Orion hung in the clear sky and there was bright half-moon. All the planning and preparation was over. All that was left was to walk to Canada.

  * See these two pdf documents for more information on the founding of the PCT and also the fascinating research of Barney “Scout” Mann of the Pacific Crest Trail Association who investigated Catherine Montgomery and Clinton C. Clarke. http://www.pcta.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Montgomery_March11.pdf . http://www.pcta.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Clarke_Dec10_spreads.pdf .

  CHAPTER ONE

  DESERTS & SNOW: SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  Campo to Weldon

  April 3 to May 9

  513 miles

  A broken-down barbed wire fence by a dirt road in nondescript desert scrub marked the border with Mexico. There were no notices, no signs, nothing to indicate the start of the PCT (there’s a monument now). I didn’t mind. I felt happy to be there alone and happy there was no signpost saying ‘Canada, 2650 miles’. This was my journey and I suddenly felt very possessive of it. For this year the PCT was my personal and private trail, no matter how many others I met along the way. Starting alone gave me the chance to absorb these early feelings and relish the beginning of a great adventure.

  I took a few self-portraits, the camera balanced on a rock, then turned away from the border and took my first steps northwards. The journey really had begun. I felt a little unreal, elated yet calm. I didn’t know what to think about what lay ahead. The landscape here wasn’t spectacular or even particularly wild. Locals probably wouldn’t give it a second glance. For me it was quite unusual though, a semi-desert environment totally unlike anywhere in Britain. A sparse scrub of tough, drought-resistant bushes covered the ground, interspersed with small cacti and clumps of rough-barked Live Oak trees. Lizards and ground squirrels darted over the ground. This was the chaparral, vegetation I was to become very familiar with over the next few weeks. I thought it superb. The route led along dirt roads past a few ranches then after a few miles the PCT became a footpath. And I promptly lost it! I was heading in the right direction though and soon picked it up again.

  After 14 miles I reached the campground where I planned on stopping for the night. To my surprise it had no water. I’d never heard of a campground without water before. I had none left either and was thirsty, having set off with far less than I needed. I hadn’t really registered that early April this far south would be so hot or that there would be little water on the trail. I quickly learnt that I must carry plenty of water. And know where the next water was to be found and drink deeply from every source. This was desert hiking and heat and thirst were major hazards. Luckily for me this first evening there was a campground host and she kindly gave me some water. This was the first example of a ‘trail angel’, a term I hadn’t heard yet but which was to become familiar. Trail angels are people who help hikers, often going out of their way to do so, and one of the aspects of trail life that gives faith in the essential goodness of humanity. The host’s son, a local volunteer ranger, gave me some tips about the next few days hiking, including possible water sources. I was on my way.

  That first day my feet had become very sore and swollen in my heavy leather boots, another hazard of desert hiking. I’d removed the insoles to allow them more room but they still ached. My arms and neck were sunburnt too, despite applying sunscreen liberally several times. Time for my sunhat, I thought the next day. The sun really was the dominant feature of the first few days on the trail; hot, white and relentless. There was little shade and few shadows. Just blazing light. The sky was vast in this flat landscape, the horizons far distant. Used to the rapidly changing scenery and landscape of the British hills I felt at times as though I was walking on the spot. Only the movement of the
sun showed the progression of time.

  On day two I walked mostly on wide sandy and gravelly trails through the dense, often shoulder-height, impenetrable chaparral. Towards the end of the day the first hills appeared; the Laguna Mountains. The trail climbed upwards beside big red rock boulders. In the shade of one of these I met my first other PCT hikers, Scott and Jim, sitting next to huge packs with gear strapped all over the outside that looked frighteningly heavy. I gazed at them wonderingly. Was I under-equipped? I was relieved when they told me this was their third day out and the weight of their packs was already a problem. I never saw them again or heard how much further they hiked. The PCTA says only 50% of thru hikers actually complete the trail today. Back in 1982 with far less information available, and heavier gear, the percentage was lower. At least 120 through-permits were issued by the Forest Service in 1982. Only eleven of us completed a through-hike to Canada. Of the others some dropped out completely while some skipped snowbound sections and only did part of the trail.

  The Laguna Mountains only reach a little over 6,000 feet, small in Western U.S. terms, but are still high enough to have a different environment to the desert not far below (and still more than 1500 feet higher than the highest mountain in Britain but then the PCT at the Mexican border is nearly 3,000 feet high). As I climbed into the Lagunas the chaparral gave way to sparse oak woods and then denser pine forest, my first experience of the wonderful pine forests I was to revel in all the way to Canada. Out to the east I could see the lifeless orange void of the Anza-Borrego Desert shimmering in a heat haze. The rich, reddish-barked pines gave welcome shade under their spreading boughs. These were Jeffery pines, the commonest conifers in Southern California as they are extremely drought resistant. Growing between 5000 and 9000 feet they cloak the mountains that rise out of the desert.

  The change as I entered the pine forest was abrupt and dramatic. Here it was cool and humid with moist air rising from the snow patches that dotted the ground between the widely spaced trees. Someone had even been skiing here, their parallel tracks following the line of the trail. I found this unusual as I hadn’t discovered cross-country skiing at the time – later in the walk I was to travel with two skiers and realise how useful skis were for crossing deep snow. I’d meet this skier in a week’s time but for now I was alone. I camped beside a little creek in the forest, the first wild camp of the walk. I wasn’t far from a road though and a little exploration revealed a Mexican restaurant. I’d already learnt on my British long walks that passing by any opportunity for food was unwise so I forgot the instant noodles and packet soup I’d brought from home for these first few days and dined on much more appetising tortillas and enchiladas.

  Two days and twenty-eight miles into the walk and my feet were already in tatters. I had four blisters, many sore spots and they were badly swollen and ached all over. I knew I wouldn’t get much further without doing something about this. I’d brought some light running shoes for town and camp wear so on day three I hiked in these. The difference was astounding. My feet felt fine again. The boots went in the pack and were to be carried many miles over the coming weeks. They were much more comfortable on my back than on my feet and proved to my satisfaction the old adage that a pound on the feet is equivalent to five pounds on the back. I could have dispensed with them altogether but I knew that much bigger mountains lay ahead where there was likely to be much more snow than these thin patches.

  Early the next morning I reached my first supply point, the tiny little mountain hamlet of Mount Laguna. After collecting my supply parcel from the Post Office I called in at the little store, my journal in hand, open at the page with the first of many shopping lists that were to decorate its pages. This list read:

  Pot scourer

  Loo paper

  Toothpaste

  Candles

  7 choc.bars

  Biscuits

  Margarine

  Band Aids

  1lb. sugar

  1 pkt.soup

  Trail mix

  Dried fruit

  Instant breakfast

  Jam/honey

  Postcards

  Vit.pills

  Eight items were checked, eight would have to wait until the next store in, I hoped, five days’ time. I also marked my supply parcel list with the day of arrival, a day earlier than my estimate. Doing so brought home to me that the walk really had begun. Twenty-five parcels to go.

  Mount Laguna was a secretive little place. The dark brown, low wooden houses and wide, dusty roads blended into the surrounding forest, a forest that the town had not quite escaped from, so that the buildings seemed to be hiding cautiously amongst the trees. It vanished within minutes of my heading back to my trail. All I could see behind me were the pines.

  The Laguna Mountains are a tilted block of granite with the steep slope to the east. The PCT followed the crest on a path marked as the Desert Divide Trail which gave striking views down to the ridged badlands of the Anza-Borrego Desert, some 4,000 feet below. A sterile brown colour, the hills in the desert came to life at dawn and dusk when they caught the rays of the setting and rising sun and glowed red and gold. Then Oriflamme Mountain was aptly named. To the west the mountains dipped slowly away into rolling pine and oak forest that in turn changed abruptly to the undulating chaparral country. Ahead lay the next mountain range, the San Jacinto Mountains, with 10,834 foot San Jacinto Peak looking very white. I would be there within a week.

  A storm is approaching, I’d been told in Mount Laguna. By early afternoon flat saucer-shaped clouds indicated high winds. Soon the first cold gusts arrived and for the first time I needed to wear my warm fibre-pile jacket and balaclava. Clouds piled in on the wind but broke up as they reached the crest. There was no rain but snowmelt meant there were dozens of seasonal streams so I didn’t need to carry any water. The wind and the streams continued the next day during which I descended back to the chaparral and passed boarded up old gold mines outside the tiny hamlet of Banner before road walking across the San Felipe Ranch and along a highway to San Felipe itself, another small hamlet. Here the next trail angel appeared. There was a combined gas station/sandwich store/caravan site called The Log Cabin. It was closed but as I’d run out of water I knocked on the door to ask for some. The owner appeared, welcomed me in and gave me tea and a piece of her birthday cake. Friends there to celebrate with her told me there were record snows in the Sierra Nevada, something I was to hear regularly over the next few weeks. I was given the key to an outside water tap and allowed to camp behind the building sheltered from the still strong wind.

  Three more mostly uneventful and not very inspiring days on rock-hard dirt roads through flat verdant cattle country took me to the edge of the San Jacinto Mountains and the welcome shade of wooded canyons. More interesting than the walking was my first encounter with the annual gathering of ‘trailers’, as PCT thru-hikers were then known. Warner Springs was yet another place consisting of just a few houses - something I was already becoming used to and which was typical of towns along the PCT all the way to Canada. Here I met Joel and Jeannie sprawled in front of the post office with their dog, Riley. They’d set off two days before me and were footsore and weary. Soon two other PCT hikers arrived. They were from Finland so I wasn’t the only European on the trail. Over the next few weeks I would regularly meet and here of other trailers struggling northwards from Mexico until it felt as though a small community was on the move. Key contact points were post offices and restaurants, both essential to the wellbeing of hikers. Most post offices had PCT registers where you could check who’d already been through and look for messages and hints of what lay ahead. As this was long before the days of text messages, emails and online journals the registers were one of the few ways of finding out about other hikers and leaving messages. Some hikers also left notes along the trail both for individuals and giving general advice. Often though weeks would go by with no idea what was happening with people I’d met. Some of them I never heard about again.

&nb
sp; Two topics dominated the register at Warner Springs: the state of people’s feet and the state of the snow in the mountains to come. Rumours were spreading of the deep, late snow in the Sierra Nevada and there were stories of avalanches and even deaths (the last referred to a huge avalanche that killed seven people at the Alpine Meadows ski resort though I didn’t find out about this until years later). Today of course finding out information about snow in the mountains is easy – though that wouldn’t allay concerns.

  None of the four hikers at Warner Springs had any snow gear - I was carrying an ice axe - and they were all concerned about the snow ahead. A phone call was made to the San Jacinto Ranger Station. There’s about ten feet of snow above six thousand feet but it’s quite firm, we were told. In Anza, just a few hours walk from the San Jacintos, there was a note in the PCT register advising a different route down from the mountains if the snow was deep. I had more immediate problems. My second supply parcel hadn’t arrived (the only one that didn’t on the whole walk). The local store provided instant noodles, packet soups and boxes of macaroni and cheese sauce (mac n’cheese - a hiker staple). It would have to do. A road walk led to the start of the climb into the mountains and the snow. I read a paperback along this rather dull stretch of walking, something that was to become a habit on this and future long walks.

  Not far beyond a last cafe, which provided coffee and sandwiches (I already knew never to pass one by, it could be the last for a long time) I entered the San Bernardino National Forest and camped amongst the pines. I’d been out a week and had walked 115 miles. The going had been easy other than the heat but there’d been rather too many roads. I was looking forward to bigger mountains and wilder terrain.