We hitched a ride to Ridgecrest, rented a car, and killed a couple days in Panamint Valley, Death Valley National Park—being tourists. After church in Ridgecrest, we got a ride with Steve to Bishop where we happened upon Moonshine and Rosemary, hikers from 2008. Taking the bus to Reno, we boarded our airplane back to Washington.
I am sometimes questioned about the wisdom of solo hiking. I have two rather warped and somewhat flip answers as to why I sometimes hike solo. The first is that having planned and led a fair number of group hikes in years past, for which I was responsible for others, taking into account their capabilities and striving for their enjoyment of the hike as well as my own, I find it quite refreshing to just be responsible for myself.
The second answer is that I am too old to wait around to find the right hiking companion. It is difficult to find compatible hikers, who wish to walk long miles as slowly as I do. My friends and hiking companions who hike my speed don’t want to spend that many days and weeks on the trail. Thru hikers generally walk much faster and cover more miles in a day than I am able to do.
Getting another year older each year, I have limits to the time left in my life to walk long trails. If I were younger, I might think it reasonable to wait a few years to find a suitable hiking companion. In 2018, I do not have the time to wait. Ten years ago I didn’t think waiting reasonable either. I plan long hikes in some detail and send the plans to my hiking friends. If any wish to come, they are welcome. If no one can come with me, I’m going anyway.
In solo walking as well as walking with others, I have had glorious adventures, seen wondrous scenery, met interesting people, and become comfortable with myself in the wilderness. Solo hiking is not for everyone. But an amazing number of people of both genders and various ages, some of whom I have had the good fortune to meet, walk long trails, often solo. I’d become one of them.
Chapter 18 July 11, 2009
Oregon
“I feel good.”
I’d walked about 1,212 miles of the PCT. At age 67, closing fast on 68, I wasn’t on pace to complete the PCT by age 70 or 71 unless I picked up more miles. I decided to pick up some sections in Oregon each summer. My friend Linda, aka Gray Squirrel, wanted to come, too, for a ten-day trip. Deal. We would start in the south and walk north. But you can’t walk from a highway at the border of California and Oregon. For ease of transportation, we started at Seiad Valley in California, deciding to have breakfast at the Seiad Valley Café before heading up the hill.
Walking into the café, I was excited to see thru hiker Chuck Norris sitting there. He said we had just missed Billy Goat, Tigger, Piper, Unbreakable and No Trace, who had already headed up the trail. Chuck Norris invited us to add our signatures to those of other hikers painted on the white support van he was driving. Great start. We took obligatory start pictures and headed up the trail, and I do mean up.
We climbed over 4,600 feet that day. We also met Billy Goat shuttling two packs on the trail, essentially walking each foot of trail three times to fill in miles from previous hikes in which he’d not done this section. A multiple time hiker of the PCT, he made sure to get every mile of the PCT walked to count each of those multiple times as complete.
Gray Squirrel and I had a different way of hiking together. Gray Squirrel hiked at a faster pace. Walking ahead, she stopped every hour or 45 minutes and waited for me to catch up. We hiked together, separately, both happy with our paces.
Two days later, as we finished breakfast in the morning, Billy Goat walked up with my orange PCT bandana that had fallen out of my pocket. Crossing into Oregon we took a break at Observation Gap with Boone and Musa. I’d met Boone above Harpers Ferry on the AT in 2008. I loved how hikers I knew kept popping up.
Billy Goat fixed us Billy Beans, his standard trail dinner, and the following day we three all hiked together separately, Gray Squirrel in the lead, Billy Goat next, and I would come along 10 minutes later when we all sat down to chat. We continued to have beautiful views of Mount Shasta to the south and Pilot Rock ahead of us. I tried to take a picture of each different flower I saw, another reason I was always behind. After a leisurely dinner, Gray Squirrel and I sang Holden Evening Prayer for Billy Goat (and just because we liked it.)
The next day we bade adieu to Billy Goat, who was going to speed along the trail to get to Callahan’s for lunch and his food drop.
But coming out to the highway, I was overjoyed to see Chuck Norris and Tigger's van, Tigger, and Billy Goat, too. Callahan’s had been closed, so Billy Goat didn’t get his town meal for lunch, although he did pick up his resupply box. Unbreakable, No Trace, and Chuck Norris joined us, and we all shared their Pepsis and chips sitting in the shade resting and talking. Chuck drove us to our motel, and I was grateful not to have to worry about hitching.
A lovely zero day in Ashland was spent doing our laundry, a little shopping, lazing around the pool, resting on the bed and eating. I had rootbeer floats for lunch, and we ate a quarter of a watermelon for afternoon snack by the pool. Tony, the head waitress at the Wild Goose Restaurant, encouraged a local, Phil, to give us a ride back to the trail the next day.
Phil was a flake, and didn’t show up. So Tony, in true trail-angel fashion, asked Felix, another regular at the Wild Goose, to use her (Tony’s) car to take us to the trailhead. Tony would take no money for her efforts or the loan of her car, a gift of trail magic.
My thermometer said it was 89.6, hot for a Washingtonian. I struggled with the heat, insisting we stop for dinner and to rest before going on. That wasn’t Gray Squirrel’s choice; she didn’t like to stop until done for the day. However, I was exhausted by heat, collapsed on my sleeping pad and hardly moved for at least an hour. As we moved up the trail after dinner, Gray Squirrel led as I trudged along behind.
I looked up when I heard Billy Goat’s high-pitched voice: "I feel good." He was heading down the trail. We were headed up the trail. No one wanted to backtrack, but we liked each other’s company, so we made camp right there on an old overgrown jeep road. Since I’d liked the picture of Lake of the Woods in the Guide Book, Sunset Campground was our last stop, and we were rewarded with a beautiful setting sun over the water.
The next morning at the Resort I ate two breakfasts, one after the other. Eggs and bacon were for breakfast and Belgian Waffles with strawberries for dessert. After a walk to the highway, one little piece of Oregon was done, making a total of 473.5 PCT miles for the year.
Chapter 19 August 24, 2009
AT
“A stroke of pure genius”
After family adventures with visiting grandchildren and misadventures on very delayed airline flights, I was dropped off at Delaware Water Gap at 1:00 am. Not too disappointed that my shuttle driver didn’t show up in the morning, I went back to bed and slept until noon. In the afternoon I walked around the tiny town of Delaware Water Gap, mended my hat, and took a short conditioning hike recommend by the outfitter, (an outfitter is a store that sells hiker equipment.) walking south on the AT up Mount Minsie and back.
Happy to be on the trail again, enjoying the warm day, I stripped to sports bra. Twenty day hikers or weekend backpackers were also enjoying the warm day on the trail. A large family of Hassidic Jews might have been a little aghast at the old lady in the sports bra. Eastern US dress standards are different than the west, even for hikers on the trail.
I thought planning to hike all of New Jersey by slack pack was a stroke of pure genius. I may have been old and slow, with bad feet and a herkin’ huge leg brace on my left knee, but I wasn’t dumb. Planning my hike I saw there were roads that crossed the trail, B&Bs, or motels at appropriate distances I could manage. I didn’t have to carry everything, no tent, no sleeping bag, and no food other than the lunch I would purchase at each stay for the next day’s walk.
My shuttle driver took me to a road crossing of the AT 13.6 miles into New Jersey and I walked back SOBO to Delaware Water Gap. Slackpacking seemed hard enough on my feet, though it was a lovely day. Many day hikers were
out and about, including naked sun worshippers and illegal swimmers at Sunfish Pond, the southern-most glacial lake on the AT. As usual, everyone passed me.
The next day my shuttle took me back to the same road, and I walked NOBO, seeing bear prints in the mud as I began. Westerners are surprised to know that the section of the AT through New Jersey is notorious for the prevalence of black bears, not that I saw any of the furry critters. I did see a beautiful, but camera shy, black snake, an eagle and eight Turkey Vultures perched on a snag. I listened to songbirds and the buzzing and chirping of insects. Other than that, I listened to the quiet.
Since hitchhiking is illegal in New Jersey, I had to walk two miles down the road from Culver Gap. I was rewarded with meeting RV, half of a couple of mature age, while having lunch at a little café. They noted my pack, started talking trail talk, and took me home with them. I cancelled my motel reservation.
RV took me back to the AT in the morning, and I continued on, stopping for lunch at a big, shady rock across from the Mashipacong, where I called on my cell phone to check in with my next ride for the evening. Good thing I called. He’d forgotten and had a dinner engagement with his mother, begging me to get to the road by 4:30. It was 2:00, and I still had 5 ½ miles to go. I said I would do my best.
Fortuitously, the night before, RV had told me about an older route of the AT on an easier woods road on which I could move more quickly than the newer trail. I’d been pondering which route to take, but upon hearing the need for haste, the decision was made. I took off as fast as I could go down what is now called the Iris Trail, formerly part of the AT. I made my meeting with 12 minutes to spare, and Mike took me to his motel.
Oops. I made a miscalculation in my plan and realized the next day was going to be longer than I’d thought. Fortunately much of the trail was pretty easy. I walked around a wildlife sanctuary and saw herons. Going up Pochuck Mountain, I had to laugh. In the West, trail builders carefully route trails around or through large areas of rock fall. In the East trail builders say, "Oh, good, a rock fall, less trail maintenance.” They just paint white rectangles on the rocks and that is the trail, straight up the rock fall.
Bob, the proprietor of the Cider Mill B&B, called to see if I was OK, as it was getting close to 6:00, and he hadn’t heard from me. Very considerate. I told him when I expected to be at the road, and he drove up just as I stepped off the muddy trail.
A B&B is not in every hiker's budget, but this was a unique and beautiful stop for me. Picking me up from the trail, he offered to add $10 to the bill and make me a steak dinner. I, of course, was ravenous. Deal.
He served me a scrumptious breakfast at 5:15 the next morning, and he made me a sandwich for lunch, too, as well as delivering me back to the trail at 6:00 am. The food was excellent, but my room was even more remarkable, beautifully decorated and all white. I was afraid to walk in the door covered with trail mud. But Bob just said, “That’s what vacuum cleaners are for.” I took two giant steps in my muddy socks on white carpet to reach the bathroom and immediately stripped for my shower.
Walking on a boardwalk over a swamp on my last day in New Jersey and then up Wawayonda Mountain, it started to sprinkle. Rats. That was the day I needed dry weather to cross very rocky trail into New York. I didn’t get it.
I did get to try out my free umbrella I’d received at the PCT Kickoff. I REALLY liked the umbrella. It was very lightweight, and I tucked the handle under my chest strap and into my sports bra for stability leaving both hands free for hiking poles.
So, why did I like an umbrella? I could hike in my sports bra, using poles in both hands and not be stewing in my own juice with sweat under a raincoat. The umbrella also covered the top of my pack, keeping that pesky area next to my back from getting wet with runoff from the raincoat, soaking into the pack. I really liked the dryness and freedom of movement. It might not be useful in high winds, but on rainy days without winds I decided it would be worth the weight to carry as standard equipment.
The rain continued all day. Hailing from Washington, I was used to hiking in rain. The slug on the trail made it seem just like home. I climbed from New Jersey into New York in a raincloud, with fog or active showers all the way. Now, when I was a teenager, I’d loved to clamber over rocks. But an old lady with a bad knee and an acute sense of her limitations found the wet and slippery rocks of New York very, very challenging.
Puddingstone Rock, the book called it, large slabs and huge boulders of glacier-polished rock. They were wet, slippery and not level. Sometimes there were climbs that required both hands and a few prayers. It would have been easier on a dry day with two good legs. But I didn’t have two good legs. I couldn’t trust my weight on a bent knee, nor could I take big steps to land on that leg or jump, and it wasn’t a dry day.
I wondered if I would make it to the road before dark. On a particularly difficult stretch it took me nearly an hour and a half to go one mile. I slipped and fell twice, once catching my neck and my umbrella on a sapling. The umbrella became toast. My neck survived, but felt like I’d been clotheslined. Rats. I’d really liked that umbrella. I seemed to have no broken parts, picked myself up, and resumed my trek down the mountain.
Darkness descended just as I made it to the road, and then another adventure began. It was very dark, very wet, and I was on a busy highway. By the way, hitchhiking is illegal in New York, too. I was supposed to meet my daughter at the Belvalle Creamery. Walking the highway in the dark and the rain, blazing headlights passed me at high speed. I was very glad to reach the Creamery, take off my wet raincoat, find my jacket, and have a hot fudge sundae.
Unfortunately, the Creamery was in a cell phone dead zone. I couldn’t reach my daughter. Where was she? The Creamery closed at 10:00, and I had to leave. So I walked out into the darkness and into the rain once again, down the road toward town. I wondered how the day would end.
A car stopped in front of me. Blinded by the blazing headlights and the rain, I couldn’t see who it was, but I would have gotten into a car with anyone to get out of the rain and find someplace dry. Sara jumped out of the car and gave me a big hug in the middle of the road. Was I glad to see her! And also get the hug.
After an uncooperative GPS, a road closure for an hour, getting lost, making a call to Andrew, and a GPS that finally gave us correct directions, we arrived at West Point at 1:30 am. I had one day of rest and fun with my East Coast family before I flew to Maine for a date with Katahdin.
Katahdin, Maine
An airline flight, two bus rides, and a shuttle took me to the campground at Katahdin Stream. On the bus from Portland to Bangor I’d had the good fortune to sit next to Gail, a woman of mature age, a sea kayaker, who had observed harbor seals and whales for 30 years. Cool. We enjoyed conversing about our respective pursuits. She also pointed out the osprey nests on high-tension lines over the road. Unfortunately, I came down with a cold on the way to Maine, possibly caught from my grandchildren.
After setting up camp, I took a short walk to Grass and Elbow Lakes through moss-covered forest skirting bogs, and I ran into a couple day hikers. Hearing my hacking, they gave me cough drops for which I was very grateful. Mount Katahdin was on my schedule the following day.
Katahdin is of near mythical image for those thru hiking northbound on the AT. After walking for months on the trail north from Georgia, it is an emotional moment to stand at the summit sign on Katahdin realizing the end of the goal. For those who hike southbound, Katahdin marks the beginning of the AT adventure, although you have to hike up a mountain in order to begin. For me, it was neither of those, but it was the beginning of my Maine hike and a big challenge for a 68-year-old lady with a bad knee. I’d read other hiker’s journals and was quite aware how hard the climb was going to be. I needed a good night’s sleep.
It took me nearly 11 hours of lying down to accomplish it, but, thanks to the cough drops, I got at least 8 hours of pretty good sleep. I signed the trail register in the dark at 6:08 am, September 1st.
> The trail started off nicely enough. After Katahdin Stream Falls, it became gradually rougher, and I climbed over more and more large boulders. An older couple caught up with me, and our paces seemed to be similar, although they’d caught up to me, proving they were faster. David, Ann, and I hiked together most of the day. Ann was my age, but she looked and hiked like she was on the high side of 50, maybe.
I couldn’t have asked for a better day to climb Katahdin. There was no fog, no clouds, only a little wind, and the sky was blue. We were blessed.
The higher we climbed, the more difficult the trail over rock slabs and boulders grew. I had to use hands as well as feet much of the time and wished for a tail to help. Sometimes rebar was affixed to rocks to help. Most of the trail, including the placement of the rebar, seemed designed for 6’ plus men, not 5'4" grandmas. Much of the middle two miles, climbing 3,000 feet up, were rock scrambles with exposure to steep drops.
I was very glad to be with David and Ann. I was possibly a bit better at the rock scrambles than Ann, and I don’t have much fear of heights though I did notice the drop offs. Ann was better at everything else. We helped each other over the roughest spots. There were at least four or five places I don't think I could have negotiated without a hand pulling me up a boulder or someone to guide my feet where I couldn’t see on the other side of one.
We finally came to The Gateway, the beginning of less steeply graded tableland. At the other end of that plateau, about a mile away, another 500 feet to the top. It wasn’t too hard but it all took time. We reached the summit at 1:30 on a gloriously beautiful day—feeling we could see forever. Amazing.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 15