Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  Descending from Castle Crags, I discovered gnats live in the Oak zone, and they wanted to fly in eyes, mouths, and noses. Grapevine took the short way out to meet David, and I took the long way down to get in trail miles.

  In Shasta City that night, I gorged on a gigantic burger, fries, and the chocolate malt I’d been thinking about as I climbed down the trail. David cooked meals for my zero day and provided transportation to pick up odds and ends I would need further in the hike. Grapevine had hiked as far as she wanted to go, but before they left, they gifted me with one last day of slack packing, and I climbed all the way from I-5 to Cabin Creek with just a day pack.

  I Know Just How You Feel

  After they drove away, I spent a day moving through the crenelated folds of green forested mountains that almost made me think I was on the AT wending my way through a green tunnel of trees. Wildlife liked the forest. I saw two bears, a mother and cub, five deer, one a buck, multiple lizards and little snakes, one with a blue tail, and was serenaded by chattering squirrels and lilting bird song. I rarely see bear on the trail, so the bears were exciting.

  I came over a rise and a little ways ahead and downhill, I saw the bear cub. Baby Bear saw me and immediately scampered up one of the tallest trees I’d ever seen. Mama Bear was obscured by a bush. I started talking out loud as I didn’t want a startled Mama Bear and figured she must be near.

  Mama Bear moved under the tree holding her cub, squalling at it. I had to go by that tree. There was no way to walk around it. I talked to Mama Bear as she crossed the trail and scooted down the ravine into the bushes, all the while bawling for her cub, who refused to come down out of the tree and follow her.

  I kept talking: “Hey, Mama Bear, I know just how you feel. I have kids, too. It’s just the pits when they don’t listen to what you say and stay with you. But your baby will be fine and will probably come down after I go by.” I kept up mommy-to-mommy chatter in a calm voice, walking slowly by the tree with the cub far out of sight in high branches. Upset Mama Bear stayed in the ravine and kept calling her cub in agonized bellows. I made my way safely down the trail, away from distressed Mama Bear, hearing her calls until I rounded a bend in the mountain and could hear her no longer. Now that was exciting.

  The last half of the day the gnats were bothersome. I had to carry both hiking poles in one hand, so the other could constantly wave a bandana to keep the little buggers from flying into my mouth, eyes, nose, or ears. Pesky critters, they were.

  At Ash Camp, while setting up my campsite, two older gentlemen walked over to say hello and helped me hang my way too heavy food bag while I pulled on the rope over a tree branch. I needed to eat some to make it lighter. They invited me to their campfire and offered to take out my trash in the morning. I wasn’t always alone even when hiking solo.

  The pack was still too heavy the next day after breakfast, and I needed another day’s worth devoured before the pack began to feel better. I stopped at Deer Creek for a bath and to wash some socks and undies. Getting clean always felt good, even if I knew clean would be fleeting.

  I had a Garden-of-Eden feeling standing there naked and alone by large umbrella plants. After leaving the fishermen in the morning, I saw no human, but a deer followed me up the trail and stood staring at my tent that night. I told her not to eat my laundry hanging on a bush and to keep the bears away.

  Grizzly Peak was .3 miles and a few hundred feet elevation gain extra off the PCT, but it had a 360-degree view. The old fire tower on top was now a derelict, a victim of more efficient satellite imagery for finding fires. It seemed sad and lonely, falling apart but still standing sentinel over the wonderful view. Shasta had a skirt of clouds half way up the mountain, and I saw a vast amount of real estate all around me.

  “Just wait ‘till we tell Ma.”

  Five miles of trail that day had more bear scat than I’d ever seen before or since. There must have been 75 or more piles in the trail in a mile, some warm piles every 100 feet or less. Berries of all colors and shapes lined the trail: green, yellow, red, black, blue, orange, and white—round ones, flat ones, triangular ones, and spikey ones. The only edible one I was sure of identifying was Thimbleberry.

  I left them all for the bears; judging by the bear scat they really enjoyed them. When I heard a bear in the bushes, I yelled as loudly as I could, and the bears crashed about in the underbrush that obscured them as they ran from my squalling.

  As I walked, Shasta's skirt of clouds moved up to be a blanket snuggled under her chin, and then it covered all but the very top of her head. I relished the cold breeze, which felt good on the hot and sweaty hiker.

  That night at Moosehead Springs I heard something outside the tent. Again, I yelled loudly. Again, there was a loud crashing noise like the bears earlier in the day. I hoped a bear wouldn’t get my food bag or think 69-year-old ladies were good to eat. Really, I was sure I wouldn’t be as tasty as berries. My food bag was hung, and I’d yelled at the critter, which might have been a bear. I’d done all I could do. Hopefully my food would be there in the morning, and so would I. I was tired and went to sleep.

  Waking up the next day, all was well.

  On the first day of deer-hunting season, I stopped and broke off a long sapling branch, tied my orange bandana to the end, and stuck the branch in the long side pocket of my pack. It looked sort of like a bicycle flag, and I hoped it would convince hunters I wasn’t a deer. Seeing numerous hunters on foot and in trucks on dirt roads, I heard no shots. Smart deer were far away.

  I saw another bear, a scary bear. The only really scary bear I have ever seen. And it was my own fault. Coming around a corner of the trail, I surprised two extremely cute little bear cubs ahead of me. They looked at me and scurried away around the bend. I waited a minute or two and proceeded around the bend myself and found them again, and again they scurried away. They were adorable. Their actions and the looks on their faces seemed to say: "Just wait 'till we tell Ma."

  After they left, I proceeded very cautiously into an ominously quiet forest, and I made a big error. I didn’t make noise. I should have. Bears behave better if they know where you are. Suddenly, a very, very big bear erupted out of the bushes above the trail, dashed across the trail, and crashed into the bushes below. I wouldn’t have wanted to meet that barreling hunk of fur, flesh, claws, and teeth face-to-face. I wouldn’t have had a chance of surviving. Fortunately, she was more intent on getting away than making an introduction. Lesson to self: after seeing cubs, make noise.

  By the middle of September, daylight hours were diminishing, and I’d had a 15-mile day, a real push for me, and I was beat. Although my left foot decided to hurt with each step, I made it. At Peavine Creek, I’d had to wade into the creek to pump water upstream of the dead bat resting in the more easily accessible spot. By yelling, I chased critters—either bears or cows—away from the tent. Both bears and cows snort, whuff, and crash through bushes when yelled at. Hearing hoofs and having seen cow patties in the last quarter mile before the creek, I concluded the crashing critters were cows.

  When Grapevine and I hike together, we say at least a few times every day how blessed and lucky we are to walk these trails and see these sights. In spite of a tired body, hurting feet, and a deep longing for a shower and clean clothes, I felt very blessed as I walked solo in the rain toward Burney Falls. I’d walked through beautiful country. It was Sunday, so I sang church songs softly in my head so as not to disturb any hunters, and I thanked God for the opportunity to hike these trails.

  Unfortunately, I reached Burney Falls half an hour after the store had closed with my resupply box inside. There was no host at the campground. I was on foot, very tired, and frustrated. Finding a retired couple camping and explaining my plight, the woman kindly agreed to take me into town, for which I was very grateful.

  The skies unleashed torrents of rain as she drove me to town, making me even more grateful to be headed for a motel with shower, laundromat, and a nearby restaurant. Soon I was supremely g
rateful to be on a soft bed and not planning to walk the next day.

  Problems were solved on my zero day in Burney. The college-age waitress agreed to take me back to Burney Falls the next morning. And a call to the store at the park resulted in an arrangement to meet me at 8:30 to give me my food box.

  Firefly, the trail angel at Old Station, had trouble explaining water caches to me over the phone, since my maps were still in the box I would pick up the following day. (Water caches are gallons of water left for hikers in dry stretches by trail angels.) However, she just happened to be coming to Burney to pick up Alice, an equestrian on the trail, who had left a vehicle at Old Station. She met me at the McDonalds to explain things. Problems solved.

  Firefly drove to Burney in half an hour. It would take me three days to walk to Old Station. Amazing. An old lady on foot does not move very fast, nor does the trail go in a straight line.

  Tiring of walking, I found it lovely to sit and listen to the wind whistle through the pines and look at the views. Mount Shasta, with fresh snow, receded; bare-sloped Lassen became noticeably closer. The predominant flower was cheery yellow Rabbit Brush.

  Most of the walk to Old Station was along the Hat Creek Rim, a long, dry, fault line of lava bed. That fault line made life very difficult for wagon train travel going east to west. For me, it made for grand views from Shasta to Lassen and everything in between.

  On this notoriously long, dry stretch of trail, I did see the small reservoir described as a questionable water source. It was very low and scummy, the banks cow-trampled mud. My filter would have had to work very hard to get that water. Thank goodness for trail angels and water caches.

  Instead of retiring and sitting in a lawn chair under an umbrella, sipping Mai Tais, I was under an umbrella, but I wasn’t sitting, and I was sipping tea, Cytomax®, and water, glad I was walking Hat Creek Rim late in fall instead of July or August.

  I reached the highway and campground with just enough time to get everything set up before dark. It was too dark to find the caretaker, but the sign said I only had to pay $5 since I was old. Ha. I love my Golden Age Passport. (The National Park entrance pass for older adults) While the night before, I’d listened to crickets, that night I listened to traffic. A thru hiker would have gone on to Old Station. But an old section hiker with sore feet and an aching knee was happy to stop.

  Before walking four short miles to Old Station, I inspected Subway Cave, a big lava tube left centuries ago when lava flowed from cracks in the ground near Lassen. There was a .3-mile walk underground, but my headlamp was dim again, so I only went in a short way for a quick look. Lunch at Old Station included a chocolate shake, and hot Hat Creek Rim was only a memory as I slurped soft ice cream through my straw.

  The Heitmans were the trail angels at Old Station, and their yard and a delightful tree house was available for hikers. I and two NOBOs, Marmite and Sherpa, gobbled a delicious dinner and breakfast, had showers, and washed our clothes while wearing loaner clothes.

  I’d been fortunate to stay with four of six major trail angels on the PCT. Hiking purists debate whether trail angels are a good thing, or if they take away from the ruggedness of the trip. Sadly, some hikers have abused their generosity and help. I was grateful for each one. Firefly and I talked into the evening sharing Girl Scout stories from our pasts and Holden Evening Prayer.

  A Beautiful Studly Woman

  On the two days to Drakesbad, the weather was hot and cold. The day was up to the 90s. I drank more than usual due to the heat, but the last mile to Hat Creek, I was dry. I washed my feet in the numbingly cold water, washed my socks, and filtered nearly four liters of water, half a liter of which I immediately chugged. I also wet down my shirt, hat, and bandanas for the afternoon walk.

  That night the temperature dropped to 26. The water bottle was still liquid until I poured the water into the pot, whereupon it instantly became frozen slush. My stove turned it into boiling water. Nice stove.

  The cold encouraged fast walking, and within an hour it was 30 degrees warmer. It stayed below 80 at 6,000 feet elevation. 55-degree temperature swings during a day are not unusual on the PCT. If you live in a house, you are not as aware of temperature changes as when you live in a tent or on top of one.

  Arriving at the Drakesbad Campground, some ladies insisted on calling me a beautiful studly woman. I insisted they insert old in the phrase. Funny. The incident reminded me of the guy in the Sierra, who’d called the three of us animals as a complement. I first saw the term studly applied to a woman in a trail journal complementarily describing a young woman hiker. I wasn’t sure how a 69-year-old woman could be called studly, but to be complemented was always nice.

  A dude ranch, Drakesbad Guest Ranch, is well known in the hiker community for their hospitality to hikers with free showers, a soak in a natural warm spring swimming pool, special-rate meals and general helpfulness. I didn’t try the pool, but the shower was wonderful and so was dinner. They gave me my resupply package and, insisting on paying the postage, they mailed a package home for me.

  But walking out of Drakesbad was hard. The pack was again heavy with six days of food. The older you are, the slower you are. The slower you are, the more food you must carry. The more food you must carry, the slower you are. I was approaching the point of diminishing returns.

  Yellowstone doesn’t have all the geysers. Boiling Springs and Terminal Geyser are geothermal hot spots near Lassen. I passed them as another hot afternoon turned me into a wilted daisy. I saw a carload of hunters as I passed the first road, a gun sticking out the back window. It made me nervous. Is it sport to drive down a road and shoot from a car? I was glad they didn’t mistake me for a deer.

  I also was glad for a short day. I reached the river about 4:30, which gave me time for a bath and to wash out socks and underwear. The very dry-and-dusty trail had covered me with trail dust. The North Fork of the Feather River was the last sure and abundant water source for a while, and I was glad for the time and opportunity to be clean and to rest.

  It was hard to complain about such good weather. I was grateful for good weather and cowboy camping, but it was hot. At Stover Spring, I found an unexpectedly running brook and some nice hunters in an RV, who offered me a soda and a camp chair. Wonderful. Trail magic comes in many forms, even hunters. The dusty trail showed me clear bear and cat prints, but I saw nothing about which to be alarmed, only prints.

  A hiker commented that I must be tough. Interestingly, I have never thought of myself as tough. Persistent, maybe. Stubborn, certainly. Grapevine also said I was tough. When on the trail, I do not feel tough.

  Some days the trail makes me feel young (usually in the mornings.) Other days I feel old (like 102.) Usually I just feel like any other hiker, albeit a progressively slower one. It is all in the eye of the beholder. I was concerned that I seemed to be very tired in the afternoons and knew there were still hard days left. I would have to search for that toughness others saw in me.

  A falcon flew above me, circling a couple times, as if to say good morning. I saw a new flower, a fairy trumpet with fringes. Three days of hiking later I was at Beldon.

  There were climbs up and down, flowers along the way, spires and crags and eventually a bubbling stream with delightful waterfalls. The descent was helped by handfuls of ripe blackberries from the bushes lining the trail, but my knee was very glad to make it down. My knee was having a hard time getting started in the mornings, and the day I walked into Beldon, it wasn't happy for the whole day. I hoped it would last a couple more weeks.

  Beldon itself was a resort, not a town, but the shower and laundry were welcome, and my resupply box refilled my pack with food. After shower and dinner, I retreated to the camp spot at the end of the road.

  Going south out of Beldon requires a 4,000-foot climb in five miles. Going north is not a picnic either, but I was concerned about the southbound climb. I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. The air was hot and noisy trains kept chugging by. It was 67 degrees at 7:00
in the morning. I didn’t even bother to put on my shirts. Climbing uphill would produce more heat.

  Surprisingly, everything went very well. I kept steadily moving upward past trees and bushes turning yellow and red along the trail, and the weather slowly got colder. Colder meant I moved better. At about 3,000 feet up, I came out into a clear area of low bushes to see low clouds hiding tops of the highest mountains nearby. Views of the rugged, steep canyons were magnificent. I could see rain squalls around me, and the temperature had dropped to the 50s, still not really cold when carrying a pack uphill.

  I saw a small plane flying below me in the canyon. Those shifting clouds of fog and rain looked very unpredictable, and I hoped the pilot didn’t have far to fly. Appropriately garbed now in rain gear, I hoisted the umbrella and marched into wet clouds and the smell of wet forest.

  The rest of the day was wet, either rain or fog, but I covered a bunch of miles, stopping to camp somewhere in a cloudbank going downhill. In the morning I woke to find the cloudbank partly lifted and my campsite in a very pretty place on the rim of glacially carved granite overlooking a lovely little tarn. There was open space between me and other mountains, some partially obscured by banks of fog or low-hanging clouds. It wasn’t raining, but most everything was damp. Well, when you sleep in a cloud, things get damp.

  Lovely walking, the first few miles were especially beautiful granite valleys and lakes. I looked down on Silver Lake and Gold Lakes, nestled in granite, as were a number of tarns (little unnamed lakes). The forest was mostly mature Red Firs that smelled just-washed.

  Descending to the road I met Rob and Michelle, a delightful young local couple. I learned they were from Meadow Valley, and Rob led 6th-grade camp on trails nearby. They offered to be of assistance while I was at Buck's Lake, but I failed to get a contact number, not thinking I would need assistance.