Blistered Kind Of Love

by Angela Ballard

  Upon disembarking from the thru-hiker truck, we made straight for Meadow Ed’s campsite. He pulled up his purple trousers and greeted us with a moustache-covered grin. “Duffy-me-boy!” he exclaimed.

  “Did you eat? Didn’t get to town early enough, huh?” Ed had to get a little jab in before showing his innate generosity. “There’s turkey, roast beef, cheese, tortillas, and cookies. Dig in, you two.” I was surprised. Last time we’d been with Ed he’d talked mainly to Duffy, and now, within thirty seconds, he’d already addressed me, albeit indirectly. Perhaps by making it this far I’d earned something. This was progress and I accepted it as such, along with the makings of a hefty sandwich and a beer from Zach.

  We hadn’t seen Zach since he strode off into the heated haze of Whitewater Canyon eighteen days ago, but immediately he picked up the conversation where we’d left it. “Summer is coming tomorrow,” he said excitedly, “then we’re going to Moontribe in Death Valley. You guys in?”

  Every month, to celebrate the full moon, an enigmatic, anonymous group called the Moontribe throws a rave in a secret outdoor location. Duffy and I were intrigued. Neither of us had been to a rave before and it sounded like a unique experience—sort of the Generation X version of a Grateful Dead concert. Since our pilgrimage was all about discovering America, nature, and ourselves (not necessarily in that order), we rationalized that a Moontribe event fit right in.

  “Maybe we can go,” Duffy responded, shooting me a playful glance, “but we’ve got to see how much logistical stuff we can get done tomorrow.” Ahh, the carrot had been positioned perfectly. Duffy knew me too well. Being a chronic procrastinator, I was apt to let much of a town day go by without sorting through my pack, organizing the food from our re-supply box, doing laundry, or updating my journal. But with a deadline or reward—or in this case both—I could be spurred into rapid, efficient action.

  Bright and early on June 15 (“Ray Day”), we hitched a ride to the General Store. Here, at the “gateway to the Sierra Nevada,” there were over thirty other hikers all making the necessary mountain preparations—strapping ice axes to packs and talking snow depth. “This feels like the end of the beginning,” Toby said. With twenty-five percent of the trail behind us, all the hikers who’d made it this far were giddy with nervous excitement.

  The first order of business was to collect our re-supply box from the small warehouse in the back. It contained the usual stuff—trash bags, film, ibuprofen, vitamins, toiletries, batteries, energy bars, and freeze-dried meals. It also contained some mountain-specific gear—ice axes, in-step crampons (which we promptly sent back home again because, we told ourselves, low snow levels made them superfluous—but really it was because we had no idea how to use them), a fleece blanket, and hats covered with mosquito netting.

  The plan was to carry enough food to make it from Kennedy Meadows to Vermilion Valley Resort, 171 miles away. We hoped to cover this stretch in nine days, which, given that we each needed about a pound and a half of food per day, meant we’d have to haul a total of twenty-seven edible pounds (twelve more than we were used to) over six mountain passes—each more than 10,900 feet in elevation. Factoring in the additional weight of our cold-weather equipment, it was clear that pack weight was going to be an issue. I’d grown pretty comfortable with the weight of my desert gear and wasn’t eager to up the ante, so I borrowed a pair of scissors and employed Ray Jardine’s “cut and whack” system.

  First to go was the comfy mesh lining on my rain jacket. Next, I sliced my quick-drying “pack” towel and our new fleece blanket in half. My sun hat, the bag that once held our cooking utensils, our potholder, “town” toiletries, and a long-sleeved shirt were put in our “float” box and mailed ahead to South Lake Tahoe. Satisfied with my demolition, I went to take my two-dollar outdoor shower. Afterward, I rejoined the throng on the porch.

  Sitting on a hard wooden bench, I read photocopied pages from a mountaineering tome to remind myself of proper ice-axe self-arrest technique. Meanwhile, Toby was holding a self-arrest crash course in the corner. It seemed as if he was the only one among us who’d ever actually practiced it. Trying to be coy, I scanned the porch and scrutinized the collection of ice axes. They all shared the same basic design and looked brand-spanking new. Chris and Stacy’s axes were the talk of the ultralight crowd. They’d drilled holes in the shafts to eliminate a few fractions of an ounce each. I hoped they never needed to find out what such drilling did to an axe’s lifesaving capabilities. “All for the sake of saving less than the weight of a full PEZ candy dispenser,” groaned Casey.

  When evening arrived, a large crew—including Chris and Stacey, Fish and Ryan, Casey and Toby, and Duffy and I—piled into the two-cab pickup and rumbled to the Grumpy Bear for dinner. “I think I figured out why the bear’s so grumpy,” Stacey, one of the few surviving vegetarians on the trail, muttered. “There’s only swine for dinner.” The menu consisted of pork burritos, pork chops, and macaroni and cheese with ham. While we sat at checkered-tablecloth-covered booths, our designated driver parked himself at the bar to drink with a couple of cowboys who were coincidentally seated under a sign reading, “If you ain’t a cowboy, you ain’t shit.” Nearby hung yellowed photographs of Native Americans and some skins—including that of a five-foot-long rattlesnake. Sundry decapitated heads also peered at us from around the room—bear, boar, and deer. In the corner was a photo of a man baring his chest to show off a set of raw gashes, courtesy of what must have been a large bruin. The caption read, “Bear encounter at Kennedy Meadows Campground”—our home for the night.

  Fortunately, we didn’t have any bear encounters in the campground that night, and the next day we found ourselves bumping down dirt roads on the back seat of Summer’s rusty car heading toward Death Valley National Park. Somewhere within the valley’s 3.3 million acres, the Moontribe was preparing for its weekend-long desert rave.

  Death Valley receives less than two inches of rainfall a year, making it one of the driest places on earth. While that’s enough to warrant the moniker “Death Valley,” there’s more. Back when miners and settlers were traveling to join the California Gold Rush, so many died while crossing Death Valley that it seemed an appropriate name. As if the name Death Valley weren’t grim enough, sites within the park carry equally morbid titles, including Funeral Mountains, Coffin Peak, Dante’s View, Badwater, Hell’s Gate, Starvation Canyon, and Dead Man Pass. In 1900, a writer for the New York World declared Death Valley to be “the loneliest, the hottest, the most deadly and dangerous spot in the United States.” Arguably, it’s all those things, but mostly it’s hot. From May to September, temperatures in the valley can be expected to be in the triple digits. In July, the daytime average is 116 degrees. The record high (noted on July 10, 1913) stands at 134 degrees. On that day a local rancher is reported to have said, “I thought the world was going to come to an end. Swallows in full flight fell to the ground dead.”

  After numerous hours of driving and half a dozen pay phone stops, Zach finally got specific directions and led us across the desert, first on a nicely paved road and then onto one nameless dirt road after another. Eventually, the dirt roads gave way to a two-laned track meandering across a sea of tumbleweeds. In the distance we spotted large water trucks and a dusty makeshift parking lot. The air shimmered with heat in a rhythm not unlike that of the music already booming from the huge speakers positioned amidst the rocks.

  On the hillside a colony was forming in front of my eyes. Multicolored tents, tarps, and tapestries were going up, many connected by brightly hued fabric tunnels so that the inhabitants could go from tent to tent without stepping into the sun. The surrounding landscape was still and desolate. We set up our tents away from the densest population—in the suburbs, you might say—and tried to nap. It would be hours before the real party began.

  When we awoke, the sun had set and the moon was making its way up into the sky. Hundreds of pairs of headlights were streaming across the plains in a straight, slow line. The colo
ny below had burgeoned and the music was pulsing. Zach and pixie-haired Summer were a few yards away watching two female fire dancers. They swung long ropes with balls of flame on both ends over their heads, around their waists, and through their legs. As one of the dancers slowed, Zach spoke into her ear and moments later he was performing his own pyro routine.

  The rest of the night was a blur of glow sticks and dance music. We wandered the rave amazed at the hundreds—perhaps a thousand—people who had traveled to Death Valley to celebrate the moon.

  I’m not sure how long we stared at the scene unfolding around us. The rising sun and the setting moon shared an azure sky. I could hear a beat but wasn’t sure whether it was emanating from the speakers below or my own heart as I gazed at the rough, gray hills and rainbow of tents. Suddenly, Summer was pouring milky, cool sunblock onto my palms which I watched drip down my elbows before slapping it on my face. Summer’s sea-green eyes seemed to swirl and widen. I touched her spiky auburn hair; it was soft, like rabbit’s fur. Zach appeared and gave me a bear hug. The scratchiness of his goatee on my shoulder sent shudders down my spine. Duffy then had me in his embrace and I soaked in the heat of his chest. “How do you guys feel about public displays of affection?” Summer murmured. I didn’t get it and started jabbering away about how much Duffy and I were in love. Duffy, on the other hand, read the message loud and clear and led me off into the undulating, mine-riddled hills, abandoning Zach and Summer to themselves.

  Later, I was shocked, yet weirdly flattered, when I realized that Zach and Summer may have been propositioning us for amorous relations—group amorous relations. Considering how sporadic sleeping-bag friskiness with my boyfriend had become, perhaps I should have taken them up on it. In October of 2002, Backpacker magazine published the results of a poll that asked readers whether they’d ever had sex with a stranger on the trail. Eleven percent said yes. Others responded with sentiments I could easily relate to: “If anybody can walk twenty miles, cook, eat, wash up, and still have desires other than sleep, I’d like to shake your hand.” Amen to that. There were also responses that Duffy particularly appreciated: “Yes and the darn bear is still calling me for a date.” But one made me realize that Duffy and I were kind of lucky to have received an offer: “No, but I’m reasonably good-looking and legally available, and after many months on the AT, I should at least have liked to have been asked.”

  At about noon, we packed up our stuff to leave. In the midday sun, the rest of the crowd kept dancing, refreshed by periodic showers from the water truck. Clambering over the surrounding hillsides and in and out of mine shafts were semiclad people. They looked like ants. In the distance, cars were still streaming across the desert, and as we pulled away we were driving against the grain. The party would go on for another twenty-four hours, but we’d had enough. The obligations of a thru-hike pulled us back to the PCT.

  Back at our campsite in Kennedy Meadows, we lazed under pinyon pines on the banks of the Kern River and watched beavers swim and scurry about their work. As we napped, Meadow Ed came by to see if we ever planned on leaving. We assured him that we did, and on June 18 we were good to our word. As we left the campground, I felt a bounce in my step, despite the extra weight on my back.

  For the next three hours we weaved among yellow monkey flowers, mountain mahogany, bitterbrush, willows, and wild roses as we headed consistently, albeit moderately, upward toward Monache Meadows, the largest meadow in the Sierra. From there we hoped for our first clear view of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the lower forty-eight. After a couple days of rest and recreation we felt refreshed, energized, and even ebullient. “I’ve got mountain madness!” Duffy screamed as he charged ahead, as if trying to conquer the entire Sierra all at once.

  Cresting a hill, I eyed another rocky climb straight ahead while, to my surprise, Duffy (with his headphones blaring ESPN Gameday) nodded toward a trail branching to the right. “Is that the trail?” I hollered, trying to be heard over a discussion of Tiger Woods’ domination of the U.S. Open. I got a nod in response and then my long-legged hiking partner was off, striding up a steep, boulder-strewn path. A brownish-yellow sign nailed to a tree read “37E01.” Duffy was already fifty yards ahead of me. I braced myself against my trekking poles, gave my legs a pep talk, and started dragging myself up the hill.

  After a hefty climb, the trail skirted a sun-filled meadow. Before us swished a sea of green feathery silk. The blades of grass were as fine as a toddler’s hair and I bent down to run my fingers through them. Our path through this lushness was faint. We didn’t mind, though; it seemed appropriate to tread lightly on such a delicate carpet. Soon we came upon a rusty cattle gate that put up a big fight, but after some struggling (and relief that we’d both had our tetanus shots) we got it open. The altimeter on Duffy’s watch read a few hundred feet above the elevation for Beck Meadows (a finger of Monache Meadows) stated in our guidebook. The watch, however, had been wrong on many previous occasions, so we trekked on toward the South Fork of the Kern River.

  I got into a groove as I glided through the meadow grasses. The walking was easy and while my body trucked on autopilot, my mind tried to articulate the surroundings, soaking in juxtapositions between boulders, flowers, toppled pines, and the close, rich mountain sky. Soon we were descending sharply and I could almost smell the river. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of the waterside bagel and cheese lunch we’d planned. We expected Fish, Ryan, Zach, and others to be there ahead of us, but as I crashed through a thicket I found only Duffy.

  He looked perplexed. “There’s supposed to be a bridge here.” He shook his head and half-scratched, half-rubbed his scalp.

  “Huh?”

  “I said there’s supposed to be a bridge here, but we must be too far down the river.”

  I looked up and down the rocky shores. There was no bridge in sight. My heart sank. I knew exactly where we’d gone wrong.

  “The sign said ‘South Fork Kern River’ this way,” Duffy explained. I hadn’t seen that sign, but what I had seen, we both now realized, was the PCT veering off in the opposite direction.

  If only we’d referred to our guidebook earlier, we’d have read about “. . . a T junction with Haiwee Trail 37E01, which follows an ancient Indian path east to the river and through Haiwee Pass to Owens Valley—a route that almost became the eastern leg of a trans-Sierra highway.” We were heading east, toward Kansas, rather than north, toward Canada. We ate lunch in silence. Our foray into the Sierra was off to a misdirected start.

  We knew the PCT crossed the river upstream somewhere, so if we followed the river’s bank we should eventually find it. Well, that worked for about two hundred yards, until a faint riverside trail petered out and we were forced to scramble through thorny shrubs, crawl over wet boulders, and slosh in cold pools.

  Still optimistic and determined not to backtrack (when you’re walking to Canada, forward momentum is everything), we struggled along through heavy brush. Soon it became impossible to continue; the thick brambles, roaring torrent, and slick rocks were impassable. The only acceptable way out was up—two hundred feet up. Looming above us was a massive pile of granite, but beyond that was a tree-lined precipice, taunting us with flat earth.

  Without packs, I suppose the rock climb would have been enough to get the adrenaline pumping, nothing more. Maybe the tomboy kid I once was would have loved the knee scrapes and tinge of danger. But the woman with the forty-something pounds on her back did not. Duffy had it worse; his pack was pushing fifty-five pounds. About fifteen feet from the top we hit a wall, literally—a six-foot, smooth face of rock with just the tiniest gravelly crack as a foothold. Duffy took off his pack and while perched with one foot wedged in the narrow crack and one hand clinging to the top ledge, hoisted Big Red over his head and onto the shelf above. Next went my pack, then Duffy, then—with a few heart palpitations—me. The final few feet up brought more of the same, but we made it, and celebrated our mountaineering skills with some deep sighs and gulps of Tang.
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  No longer game for bushwhacking, we decided to follow a whisper of a trail up a number of steep switchbacks. Finally, on top of a ridge, we plopped down, exhausted. Admitting defeat, we pulled out our compass (for only the second time in forty-two days) and learned that we were still traveling east. As luck would have it, our map showed an unnamed trail heading northwest and connecting the Haiwee Trail with the Olancha Pass Trail, which in turn came to a junction with the PCT. We changed course in the hopes of finding it and within a half mile had discovered a faded path—this one heading in the right direction.

  Three-thirty in the afternoon found us thrashing through brush, constantly losing and regaining our little trail as it rocketed up and down every hill in sight. As the afternoon slipped away from us, so did our hopes of getting back on the crest before dark. We pitched our tent on a tiny patch of rock-and brush-free soil. I think I can safely say that no one had ever camped in that exact spot before, but while I could appreciate the beauty of our pristine surroundings, being so far off-course overnight made me nervous.

  “What if we never see the PCT again?” I thought. “No one will ever find us out here. No one even knows we’re here. What if we run out of food, or a bear steals it?”

  The next morning we jumped out of the tent at six o’clock, eager and determined to find our way back to the PCT. At nine that morning we came to the junction with the Olancha Pass Trail, and an hour later we hit the PCT. Finally! Duffy fell to his knees and kissed the tread. I plopped down and ate a Snickers. Our celebration was short-lived, however. We’d covered just fifteen PCT miles since leaving Kennedy Meadows the previous morning, and our carefully planned itinerary of miles and food per day had been disrupted. At the very least we’d face twelve provisionless hours at the end of the 171-mile stretch to Vermilion Valley Resort. As we continued to climb into The Mountains, it seemed that we were also climbing toward greater and greater adversity.