Our instructor was a gruff and weathered former colonel in the Air Force. During his thirty-nine years in the Force, he informed us, he’d taught many raw recruits the skills of outdoor survival and interrogation. To punctuate this point, he pulled a green hat with white lettering from his canvas sack.
“We seized this hat from a Russian soldier. Do you know what it says? ‘Excrement Happens’—and in the woods it does.” The colonel scanned the troops and did not look pleased.
“Let’s get something straight from the start.” Dramatic pause. “The outdoors is not Walt Disney World.” Another pause. “When you go out there, it is not like going to the amusement park for the afternoon.” Longer pause. “The animals you see will be real. They will not be people in fuzzy costumes.”
Satisfied that he now commanded our attention, the colonel gave us the details regarding a series of day hikes, which complemented the classroom instruction. On Sunday we were to meet at a Dunkin’ Donuts near the trailhead. The colonel wanted to make sure that this reconnaissance would go smoothly.
“We will meet at the Dunkin’ Donuts at oh-nine-hundred sharp,” he commanded. “Note I said at the Dunkin’ Donuts.” Nice long pause. “Not in the Dunkin’ Donuts. Now, if you want to go and sit in the Dunkin’ Donuts and have your four-hundred-calorie glazed cruller, you can do that. But I will not, I repeat, will not come to look for you there.” The colonel stopped and slowly spread a glare around the room.
Our gruff leader spent the rest of the evening reviewing hiking clothing and equipment. While explaining the usefulness of 1972 L.L. Bean flannel shirts and blue jeans, he pulled these items out of a weathered bag. Pretty soon there was a large pile of tired clothing on the table, including a musty thermal undershirt, several pairs of thinning wool socks, and two industrial-strength leather boots. He continued unloading a first-aid kit and a pair of wool pants that made my legs itch just looking at them. The whole time I half-expected him to pull out a hand grenade or a bazooka. He didn’t, but it wasn’t long before the subject of artillery was broached. The colonel had gone off on a tangent to explain safety requirements on our weekend hikes and the perils of straying from the group.
“I don’t like people falling behind. I carry a .45 and if you fall behind too much . . . well, as a squad commander, you are allowed a ten-percent loss.” The room went deathly quiet. I think that’s when we decided not to join our classmates on the weekend excursions; somehow filling re-supply boxes seemed quite a bit safer.
For the next four Monday evenings Hiking 101 continued to be an excellent source of amusement. Not excellent enough, however, for Duffy to miss Monday Night Football, so I endured the rest of the colonel’s tirades on my own. Unfortunately, the course didn’t really offer a whole lot of practical information for the aspiring long-distance hiker. The colonel seemed to have a fantastic recall of the outdoor survival techniques he’d taught fifteen years earlier, but he hadn’t completely updated his résumé for the new era of Polartec jackets and ultralight travel. To prepare ourselves for our quest, we were going to have to take matters into our own hands.
“I’m not gonna lie; it concerns me that you’ve never backpacked,” Duffy remarked quietly. We were alone, peeling apples to dry in our food dehydrator, but his tone seemed to indicate that he was afraid someone else might hear. “You might not like it,” he added.
I was floored. Duffy never talked about his fears, especially if they had to do with me—or us. I’d figured he must be nervous about embarking on a three-state hike with someone who was even more of a novice than himself, but if he was nervous enough to mention it, we could be in big trouble. Duffy was having doubts; obviously he wasn’t sufficiently impressed by my conquest of Turkey Mountain.
Somehow, I’d have to prove to him that I could hack it.
It was autumn, just seven months before we were due to depart for the West Coast and the start of our long summer’s walk. Duffy had created a spreadsheet detailing the miles we’d need to cover between water sources in the desert.
“Some days,” he said, “we’ll have to walk more than twenty miles in the sun to get from one soggy creek bed to another.” There was an expectant pause as he tried to gauge my reaction. I shrugged my shoulders and feigned indifference.
I’d read just about every Pacific Crest Trail and backpacking-related book I could get my hands on, including The Complete Book of Outdoor Lore by Clyde Ormond, The Pacific Crest Trail: A Hiker’s Companion by Karen Berger, and Soul, Sweat and Survival on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bob Holtel. But Duffy wasn’t sold. “Sure you read the manual,” I could almost hear him thinking, “but can you drive the car?” It was time for a trial run.
Living in Pennsylvania, the natural choice was a weekend on the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest’s older, eastern sister. On one of our many trips to the outdoor gear store, I found a book that listed all the best Appalachian Trail hikes in our area and picked a route along Blue Mountain Ridge, past Bear Rocks and Bake Oven Knob to Lehigh Gap.
A few days later, after hours of loading, unloading, and reloading our rented backpacks, my first overnight outdoor experience started with a spurt and sputter. It took us about two hours to drive to the trailhead, where we parked and then made it as far as the edge of the woods before being greeted by signs saying “Beware of Hunters” and “Hikers advised to wear fluorescent orange.” None of our new moisture-wicking hiking clothing was remotely orange. Soon we were back in the car headed to Wal-Mart.
It was a Friday afternoon around three o’clock, and Wal-Mart’s parking lot was packed. It was as if the only people working in town were the half a dozen Wal-Mart cashiers. Morbidly captivated, we took in all the mega store had to offer—including a high-tech video surveillance system with four cameras in the women’s bathroom alone.
With a gasp of simultaneous relief and surprise, we found an entire aisle dedicated to florescent orange clothing. We tried on hats, shirts, jackets, even socks, but settled on three-dollar plastic vests. By the time we got back to the trail and started hiking it was 4:30 in the afternoon. The light would soon be fading.
Near Blue Mountain Ridge, the Appalachian Trail climbs a rocky knife-edge and weaves in and out of boulders piled high by glaciers. Actually, I don’t think the word trail applies to the route we stumbled along. Imagine a wall about five feet high, pieced together with rocks about the size of pumpkins but not nearly so smooth. Now picture someone tipping over that rock wall and making you walk over the resulting mess.
“During the last ice age,” Duffy read from photocopied pages of a guidebook, “Pennsylvania experienced a climate that frequently froze and thawed layers of rock. This periglacial cycle caused immense slabs of stone to fracture, leaving a ‘sea of rocks,’ or felsenmeer.”
Occasionally Duffy would shift his glance from the rocks underfoot to the meaty packet in his hands in order to give such tutorials, but mostly we just hiked—and hiked quickly. We were determined to reach Bear Rocks before dark. The one-gallon water jugs strung to my pack bounced off my butt with every step. Duffy had insisted that carrying extra water would be good practice for the desert, but I think he was really trying to figure out how much weight I could handle.
We followed the trail’s white blazes for about an hour, but as we neared an immense rock outcropping (the knife-edge) the white marks abruptly disappeared. When we finally located them again, I had to chuckle at the absurdity of the next test.
The white blazes, and the trail, continued directly up the slippery, cold gray rocks—rocks piled precariously on top of one another for as far as I could see. We scanned for an alternate route, but the surrounding terrain was equally treacherous. There was nothing to do but crawl. The sun was dipping low and the wind picking up. We had to make it to the other side of this ridge before it got dark. Hiking over these rocks in daylight was dangerous; add the challenge of darkness, and I was afraid we might leave rural Pennsylvania in body casts. With my heavy backpack leaning one way and the rest of
my body struggling to go another, I dragged myself along ledges, hopped from boulder to boulder, and clung to scraggly, naked trees. When we finally got over the knife-edge (with only a couple punctured water bottles as evidence of our peril), our feet were throbbing and our stomachs were growling.
We stumbled upon Bear Rocks just before nightfall and began making camp. Minutes later, a group of high school boys arrived and eyed us maliciously. I got the sense that they’d had their sights set on our campsite. Feeling uncomfortable, we turned our backs to make dinner.
We still hadn’t mastered cooking on our MSR Internationale, and the pasta turned into porridge. But it was hot and filling, and that was good enough. After eating, Duffy built a half-hearted campfire from a collection of damp twigs and fall foliage. We watched it fizzle out after half an hour and then ducked into our tent to snuggle under our sleeping bag and cuddly soft fleece blanket. This was my first night camping with Duffy, and I enjoyed the romance of the moment immensely—until the hollering and crashing began. Through the thin nylon of our tent, I could see lights bobbing amongst the trees around us. Feet rushed through leaves and brush. Voices called to one another in the coal-black night.
“It’s those kids,” Duffy whispered. When they finally quieted down, Duffy fell asleep. Not me; I heard every leaf rustle for the next eight hours.
It started to rain. The leaves rustled louder, twigs snapped, and I thought I heard footsteps. Convinced those high school kids were coming back to play tricks on us, I lay on the hard ground as stiff as a corpse. The corner of our tent started to leak, and my toes became cold and wet. I couldn’t figure out where the noises were coming from. Suddenly, something brushed up against the tent just above my shoulder. Terrified, I stared at the patch of nylon, waiting for a hand to press against it or a knife to come slicing through.
Finally, as early morning light illuminated the tent, I caught some snippets of sleep. When we awoke, the source of my terror was revealed. Scattered around the perimeter of the tent was a dusting of granola. We’d left our trail mix outside and a squirrel or chipmunk had a fine feast—hence all the nighttime rustling. And that soft touch, the ghostly hand running its fingers along the tent wall—that was our rain fly flapping in the wind.
“Did you sleep at all?” Duffy was still groggy.
“Oh, yeah,” I said cheerfully. “It’s so peaceful out here.” I was determined not only to pass this exam but to get bonus points for optimism.
A cold rain appeared to be settling in for the weekend, and Duffy suggested we cut short the rest of our trip.
“Whatever you want,” I said with a smile. My fingers and toes were going white and numb from standing in the bone-chilling drizzle. Soon, I knew, they’d turn blue and start to throb. For the past few years, I’d suffered from Raynaud’s phenomenon, sometimes called Raynaud’s Disease or simply Raynaud’s. Raynaud’s, named for the French physician Maurice Raynaud who first recognized it in 1862, refers to a cold- or stress-induced interruption of blood flow to the fingers, toes, nose, and ear lobes. For reasons not completely understood, some people’s blood vessels hyper-react to cold. This means that anything from snow flurries to an iced drink can lead to painful and sometimes debilitating symptoms. In severe instances, ulcerations and infections can occur, leading to gangrene. Nine times more common in women than in men, Raynaud’s affects approximately twenty-eight million Americans.
Usually, Raynaud’s was just an uncomfortable inconvenience for me, relieved by holding a steaming cup of tea or taking a hot shower. But in the wilderness, I worried about how I would bring feeling and blood back to my hands and feet, especially at 12,000 feet. What if I couldn’t? Would I develop frostbite? Or gangrene? I’d sought medical advice (from both Duffy and a fully licensed M.D.), but because people don’t really know what causes Raynaud’s, there aren’t many known treatments. Taking medicines usually used for high blood pressure can help (I’d been taking them for more than a year and found only mild relief), but mostly physicians recommend preventing exposure to cold conditions and objects. Well, it was too late for that now, so I shoved my hands under my armpits and hoped for the best.
“These are hypothermic conditions, all right,” Duffy remarked. He was jumping up and down around our campsite. “Rain, wind, and temperatures just below fifty degrees. It’s not worth the risk.” Whatever the reason, I was happy to get out of the miserable, wet weather as soon as possible. My nose was getting raw from wiping away the runniness.
We hiked purposefully the rest of the day, determined to move fast enough to stay warm and to make it back to the car before we were thoroughly soaked. With lighter packs (we dumped our “training” water) and thoughts of central heating to inspire us, we made good time. When we got home we took long, hot showers, huddled over bowls of soup, and slept soundly. We hadn’t completed our proposed route, but we’d survived our first thirty-six hours in the wilderness.
Months later, the sweet, sharp aroma of tomato sauce oozed beneath my apartment door into the cramped stairwell. I’d been dehydrating spaghetti sauce all week, trying to add at least one stretchy tomato “leather” to each of our re-supply boxes. In a few weeks, we’d be so sick of those slimy, salty roll-ups that we’d throw them out or give them away. But for now, the whir of my dehydrator was a constant companion.
Alone in my tomato-scented apartment, I packed my personal belongings and made room for my subletter. Soon I’d have no job and no rent to pay; everything I needed to survive would be on my back. Surrounded by wilderness, there’d be no traffic to fight, no ringing telephones, no emails, and nobody to answer to but my hiking partner. It sounded like freedom—so why did I feel so trapped? After quitting my job, alienating my family, and spending my savings on equipment, I felt frequent flutters of fear. If this didn’t work—if Duffy and I didn’t work—I had no Plan B.
Under the strain, I started grinding my teeth in my sleep but otherwise kept quiet. I didn’t want to discuss the worst-case scenario with anyone for fear of it becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Could I hike alone if I had to? And if so, how would we divide equipment, funds, and food? Should I be insisting on the long-distance hiking equivalent of a prenuptial agreement?
We finally touched down at the San Diego International Airport on May 7. We had made arrangements, using a Pacific Crest Trail email forum, for an ex-Navy commander named Bob to pick us up. He was to be our first “trail angel.” Trail angels are sometimes said to be the “unsung heroes” of the PCT, helping hikers with food, water, rides, laundry, showers, and much more. During the dark times, when hikers waver between continuing on and giving up, the support, encouragement, and “magic” provided by a trail angel can make all the difference.
Often anonymous, trail angels help thru-hikers for no other reason than, in the words of one angel, “the satisfaction of helping another human being . . . making their journey better and in the process becoming woven into that journey.” Frequently, trail angels find spots where hikers are liable to run into trouble and then, like magic, solve the problem—for instance, by providing water in the desert. In this way they seem like guardian angels, appearing just when they are needed most.
In Bob’s case, this meant picking up hikers at the airport, giving them a place to stay, and then driving them to the trail’s southern terminus, near Campo.
We rescued our packs from the strap-eating conveyor belts at baggage claim and, exhausted from the previous day’s preparations as well as the cross-country flight, staggered outside into the bright southern California sunshine. Bob was already parked at the curb, his minivan sporting a Pacific Crest Trail placard.
“Welcome to paradise!” Bob exclaimed when he spotted our bulging packs, trekking poles, and Duffy’s Lawrence of Arabia-like sun hat. Beckoning us, he grinned and shouted, opening his thick arms out wide to reveal sweaty armpits and a sumo wrestler tummy.
At Bob’s bungalow we made ourselves comfortable on the patio, spread our gear around us, and began to meticulously we
igh the pros and cons of each item one last time. Pieces of gear deemed worth their weight were carefully positioned in our packs. Discarded stuff went into Bob’s “hiker box.” Hiker boxes, we learned, could be found at popular re-supply locations up and down the trail. Although they were always called “boxes,” they often weren’t boxes at all but rather barrels, bags, or buckets. Though their shape and size varied, their contents quickly became predictable—discarded hiker junk. Heavy, tasteless, and mysterious grains, socks, old shoes, used paperbacks, multi-vitamins, and leaky sandwich bags filled with more anonymous grains. Bob’s hiker box contained all of the above as well as shampoo, candles, and corn pasta.
“I couldn’t find this stuff anywhere!” I exclaimed. “And they’re throwing it away?”
“Must taste terrible, ‘cause everybody leaves it. Do me a favor and get it outta here,” said Bob.
Duffy gave me a look that said, “Don’t you dare.” He’d never been very enthusiastic about corn pasta, and he’d seen me cry over the weight of my pack more than once. Sitting in the hot tub with his pony-size golden retriever, Nugget, Bob watched our preparations.
“Don’t be scared of illegals,” he said suddenly. “If ya run into any, just grab your camera, pretend it’s a cell phone. They believe three things about America,” Bob gestured to the southern horizon. “The cops are always around the corner, everyone has a cell phone, and that those phones always work. If they think you’re calling the border patrol on ‘em, they’ll skedaddle.
“Also, you should know that there’s been some talk of killer bees coming up from South America.” Bob was stroking Nugget’s big wet head and seemed to be talking more to him than us. “But no hikers have been stung yet, so you should be okay. Watch out for the rattlers, though; there’s a lot of them out this year. I’ve always wanted to kill one and eat it myself; heard it tastes like chicken. By the way, what would you like for dinner tonight? Last real meal for a while. . . .”
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