Blistered Kind Of Love

by Angela Ballard

  Aussie Crawl had become another victim of The Mountains: He was airlifted out of an area called Death Canyon with severe vertigo. Word was that he was also on his way home. There’d been no sign of Ricky Rose (although this bothered no one), and Zach hadn’t been spotted since Lone Pine. Casey and Toby were still on the trail; their frequent and amusing notes in the trail registers were proof of that. In fact, we’d only missed them at Tuolumne by a few hours. But it didn’t appear that we’d be catching them anytime soon.

  From Tuolumne Meadows, the PCT reclaims its independence from the John Muir Trail. While the JMT continues west for twenty-seven miles to Yosemite Valley, the PCT enters a difficult but spectacular section of glacier-carved wilderness. Chris and Stacey had decided to follow the JMT to Yosemite Valley, where a ranger friend offered them an empty house and fully stocked fridge for the weekend. I’d never seen them so excited. We were excited in our own right, but cautious. Angela’s knee was feeling much better, but while I wondered whether this was because it was completely numb from forty-eight hours of icing, she was anxious to test it on the trail. This was risky. We didn’t have another re-supply scheduled until Echo Lake, 150 miles and at least six days away. We struggled with the decision, recognizing the risk, but one does not finish the PCT by being risk-averse. So we decided to set off again toward Canada, knowing that at any moment we might be forced to turn back.

  Our first stop was at Soda Springs, where carbonated spring water actually bubbles from the ground. Mixed with Tang, this minor miracle of nature made for a delicious trail soda. Our first six miles out of Tuolumne were easy walking. The only disadvantage of the gentle grade was that it allowed for a large collection of sun-hat and white tenny-clad tourists. After months of solitude on the trail, their presence made me feel like I was in a shopping mall rather than protected wilderness. And given our hulking packs and trekking poles, I wasn’t so sure that we ourselves weren’t part of the attraction. Catch-23 wrote about this phenomenon in his trail memoir:

  “All day we got inquisitive looks from Japanese tourists and old people in motor homes; it was pretty funny, being a tourist attraction and all. We joked about tour bus narrators giving a speech over the intercom: ‘Ok folks, if you be real quiet we might just catch a glimpse of The Western Long Distance Hiker, they’re known to frequent these parts. Let’s try their mating call, Buffet! Buffet! All you can eat! Look folks! There’s one now on the left side of the coach. Excuse me, sir, in the back, please do not feed the distance hiker.’ ”

  After passing Glen Aulin, the trail reverted to its familiar roller coaster pattern and the tourists were suddenly, magically, gone. Even though we’d started well after ten in the morning, we covered nearly twenty miles that day with nary a whimper from the Wounded Knee Walker. Miraculously, over the next several days, Angela’s knee remained relatively pain free, and we made good progress toward Sonora Pass. On July 7 we crossed a steel bridge over the West Walker River and continued several miles to Kennedy Canyon. This was just another small stretch in a thirteen-hour hiking day, but it contained an important landmark: one thousand trail miles, Campo to Kennedy Canyon. I recalled the words of Fish at Mono Creek, “Once you’ve made it a thousand miles, that’s it, you’re done. You’ve made it. Nothing will stop you.” I didn’t feel that we had quite “made it,” but the sense of accomplishment was palpable. Somewhere out there Meadow Ed was scratching his bald head; he’d lost his bet on us weeks ago.

  The next morning I was up before seven, creating a photo op by drawing a large 1-0-0-0 in the dirt in front of our tent. I was about to snap the shot when the Moaks, Fallingwater and Drip, came charging by, waving cheerfully. This had become a morning ritual ever since we’d left Tuolumne. Fallingwater (city name Ron) and Drip (city name Brandon) were a father and son duo that we’d met at Kennedy Meadows. Fallingwater, a distant veteran of the AT, was, after a prolonged battle with cancer (somewhere in his back) and years of desk-side atrophy, engaging in a Bill Bryson-esque attempt at youthful revival. Drip, sixteen, was joining his dad for part of the trail while on summer vacation.

  Fallingwater had a rough time in Southern California—he struggled with excess waistline and painful blisters—but by the time Drip joined him, he’d shed some weight and rediscovered his long-lost trail legs. Now, this father and son team was flying. For the past few days we’d been playing leapfrog with the Moaks. They would whiz by us at an ungodly hour of the morning while I was still wrapped in a cocoon of all available clothing. Later in the day, though, we would inevitably find them resting up against some rocks, cooking or lounging with their diaries. On we would plow, hiking until near darkness, leaving ourselves just enough time to set up camp before the night sky became complete.

  From Kennedy Canyon we climbed up over exposed slopes toward the crest above Sonora Pass, passing into and out of the Emigrant Wilderness. The change in mountain landscape was striking: We were now on the volcanic slopes of the Northern Sierra. Glacier-carved, glowing-white granite walls were replaced by gentler but more barren brownish-black slopes. Winds blasted us from the west as we walked the panoramic crest alongside Leavitt Peak. We could see the Moaks several hundred yards ahead of us, also buffeted by wind.

  The 1,200-foot vertical descent to Sonora Pass and Highway 108 was initially steep and snowbound. Deep steps were already in place, but it was slow going. Soon, the trail became a meandering series of switchbacks through groves of lodgepole pine—twisted and turned like tree Gumbys. From above I could see the Moaks taking the turn of a long switchback. Directly ahead of me was a split in the trail with a less-established tread heading due north. It looked, smelled, and tasted like a perfect shortcut. I have to admit it; I’d grown to relish shortcuts, especially if they involved cutting switchbacks. Cutting a switchback could be pretty exhilarating sometimes.

  I know what you’re thinking—that this is a violation of trail ethics—and you’re right. But on some occasions, I just couldn’t understand the utility of the switchbacks we encountered. Recently, the trail had led us on numerous switchbacks across pure granite slabs—the only trail markings being stones placed in curves across the rock. I’d often cut across these curves, figuring that my steps posed no real threat of erosion. I suppose that over millions of years we hikers could wear down those granite slabs, but by then a big old McDonalds will be sitting there anyway.

  There was certainly no threat of erosion at this junction; ahead lay a direct and defined alternative trail. “Ahh,” I thought, “we’ll beat those Moaks to Sonora Pass.” So down the path I went, and Angela, not really paying attention, followed along. Soon our “shortcut” steepened, and we were standing on top of a precipitous 100-foot glacierlike snowfield. Straight ahead the snow pack leveled where it met a flat volcanic ridge, but to the left it continued down a steep canyon. It looked like we’d have to glissade down.

  Well, Angela didn’t like this suggestion, not one bit; her nose wrinkled and her eyes tightened as they often did whenever we discussed an alternative route. Ever since we’d taken that misdirected and adventurous path from the Kern River to the Olancha Pass Trail, she’d suffered from a severe allergy to my creative shortcuts. But I was not to be denied and slid rapidly down the snowfield. It was quick and fun, like a cheap amusement-park ride, and I hit the lip straight on, gliding to a stop well before a collection of rocks. It seemed easy enough, so I gave Angela the “okay” sign and shouted lots of encouragement. It occurred to me that an ice axe would be a useful adjunct to this slide, but since we’d just sent them home from Tuolumne Meadows, that wasn’t an option.

  Angela apprehensively sat down, inched her way to the edge of the slope, and after a long pause pushed off. Immediately, she did two things. First, she screamed, and second, she dropped one of her trekking poles. Down she came, making no attempt to direct herself. Soon it became apparent that she was heading for the leftward canyon.

  “What the hell? Where is she going?” I thought, and then, “Uh-oh. Why did I make her do this
? And without an axe . . . oh, crap.” She was still barreling along to the left and nearing the end of the snowy slide. I took a step and jumped at her, grabbing her pack and trying to pull her toward safety. She dug her remaining pole into the ice and we tumbled to a stop.

  We were both a little scared but unharmed. We could see the rest of our descent to Highway 108, and there were no more snowfields in our way. There was just the matter of an abandoned trekking pole. Back up I went, taking three steps forward and sliding back two until I reached the pole. Then I glissaded down again, staying well away from the treacherous canyon to my left.

  The Moaks had barely beaten us to Highway 108 and looked relieved to see us.

  “Are you guys okay?” asked Drip.

  “Fine, just tried a little shortcut.”

  “We heard Angela screaming and looked over to see you jump at her, and then you both disappeared from sight. We were worried.” Ron was still concerned

  “Yeah, another one of Duffy’s little side routes gone awry,” Angela said. “I didn’t even realize he’d tricked me until it was too late.”

  We sat with the Moaks for a while by the side of the road. Why the side of the road, you ask, with all of this gorgeous wilderness north and south of us? Well, we were secretly hoping that a good-hearted car camper would gift us a beverage or two, and indeed, Ron was able to “yogi” several beers for us and a soda for Drip. It was about two in the afternoon, and having finished our drinks we were preparing to tackle the climb out of Sonora Pass when we saw Fish, at a full trot, Wiffle bat strapped to his pack, covering the last hundred yards to Highway 108.

  “What time is it? What time is it?” he asked urgently. His face glistened with perspiration.

  “Fourteen-hundred.” Drip was eager to please.

  “Shit, I’m early. Grandpa won’t be here for another hour. Fish be flying, baby.”

  Fish had covered over twenty-five miles that day, before two. His grandfather was picking him up at three for some R&R, and he didn’t want to be late. Ryan and Daris were somewhere behind. We didn’t have the time to wait and see how far.

  Energized from our roadside break, we wound our way up to a saddle high above Wolf Creek canyon. Here, at 10,500 feet, we took our last footsteps above 10,000 feet on the PCT. We were 1,016 miles into our journey, 73 miles from Echo Lake, and 1,643 from the Canadian border. The hiking terrain was becoming noticeably easier, and the miles passed quickly as we continued our cat-and-mouse game of “I’ll catch you, can you catch me?” with the Moaks. It looked as though we would make it to Carson Pass, just twelve miles from Echo Lake, by the night of July 10.

  But as evening approached on the tenth, I stupidly took us down a wrong trail. Again. This trail wasn’t an ancient Indian route or a steep icy slope. It began innocently as a rather gentle descent over an exposed mountainside. But as we descended toward a forested canyon, overgrowth began to snare and punish us, and I realized that I’d made a mistake. I optimistically pushed forward, confident that I could figure out a way for us to jump back onto the PCT without backtracking. We lost three hours, six miles, and 1,000 precious feet in elevation before I finally acquiesced to Angela’s repeated, near-tearful, pleas that we turn around.

  I was extremely frustrated. I’d let my competitive spirit get out of hand and led us down an easily avoidable detour. If only I’d taken two minutes to consult the guidebook I would have seen that this was the Summit City Canyon Trail, not our beloved PCT. Weeks before I’d vowed not to fall into another speed trap, but clearly I had. I sat, head in hands, on a boulder and nearly burst into tears. Just in time, I remembered Meadow Ed’s words at Kamp Anza, “You’ll cry . . . you both will.” I wasn’t willing to give him the satisfaction of being right—at least not yet—and not over such a stupid mistake. The only option was to get up, change directions, and keep walking.

  Early the next morning, my Rockport boots were bothering me. They’d developed the traction of bowling shoes and I kept slipping on the gravelly trail. When we finally made it to Carson Pass, I jettisoned them into a trashcan and donned my Teva sandals for the last sixteen miles to town. Having carried me over 1,000 miles of tortuous terrain, my Rockports probably deserved a more proper burial, but if they weren’t going to be of use, there was no reason to carry them. The sandals were a marked improvement, and we cruised into the Echo Lake Chalet at two that afternoon. The Moaks had beaten us again and seemed proud. I tried not to let it bother me.

  Our arrival at Echo Lake filled me with mixed emotions. I was happy that we’d soon be frolicking in Lake Tahoe and ecstatic that Wounded Knee Walker had managed a tough stretch of trail so ably. I was melancholy, though, about our impending departure from The Mountains. There was a lot more trail left before Canada, but I didn’t expect any of it to match what we’d already seen.

  Food Fight

  SITTING ON A TREE STUMP in front of the Echo Lake Chalet, I peeled off my once-white, now brownish-gray knee brace. When we’d left Tuolomne Meadows six days earlier I’d taken five ibuprofen tablets with breakfast, popping them in my mouth while Duffy wasn’t looking. Being a medical student, Duffy exhibited some concern for my stomach and kidneys whenever I went overboard on Vitamin I. But I was more concerned about being able to walk and didn’t want to bicker about it—hence the surreptitious self-medicating. Besides, I was pretty confident that my internal organs could handle the pharmaceutical strain. During my college days, a field hockey opponent relocated my nose to the right side of my face, I fractured my tibias and a metatarsal by running too much, and broke my cheekbone in three places—so I was no stranger to pain or its companion analgesics. But back then, I only had to “play through” injuries for two-hour practices or hour-long games; hiking with an injury for twelve to thirteen hours a day, day after day, was another story.

  Despite my best efforts to grin and bear it, I’d found myself limping and slipping farther and farther behind with every passing mile, until finally Duffy had to sprint ahead without me in order to retrieve our re-supply box from the Tuolumne Meadows post office. That’s when it crossed my mind that maybe it was over. Walking into Tuolumne Meadows, I’d covered only one and a half miles an hour. At that rate we’d be lucky if we made it to Canada by Easter. Deep down, I guess I never really believed I could walk 2,655 miles anyway.

  During the ensuing two days I tried to mentally prepare myself for going home a failure. Duffy and I didn’t talk about it, but I knew he was scared. Like me, he feared that my bum knee signaled the beginning of the end.

  As if my newly acquired limp wasn’t enough of a bad omen, our arrival at Tuolumne Meadows was perfectly timed to witness the final hours of Bald Eagle and Nokona’s hike. After sixty-seven days, 784 miles, and a cornucopia of lesions and afflictions, these AT veterans were going home. I’d shared only a few words with Nokona and knew little about her other than her trail travails, but still my heart ached for her. Physical misfortunes had ended not only her hike but her boyfriend’s as well. Later, I read Nokona’s Internet diary and was further moved by the details of her summer of injuries and illness. This girl had sampled liberally from the all-you-can-suffer buffet.

  In the beginning, she was optimistic in the face of adversity, writing, “One great thing about being ill or injured and off the trail, is that it gives you a greater appreciation of how lucky you are when you finally return.” But as the maladies mounted, the couple was forced to skip trail and spend more and more time resting in motels. Soon, injured egos and bitterness were added to their list of woes. “I know some people think we’re planning on getting off the trail,” wrote Nokona, “but we won’t let it beat us.” That was before an incessant hacking cough, suffocating congestion, and a strange tingling in her face, hands, and feet robbed her of the ability to hike and carry a pack at the same time.

  As Nokona cried on the other end of the phone, an emergency room physician told her that her hike was over. Given her symptoms, it seemed likely she had mild pulmonary edema, which meant fluid
was collecting in her lungs and preventing her body from getting enough oxygen. At high altitudes, where the air is thin, pulmonary edema equals suffocation—hence the tingling feeling. The only treatment is rehydration and resting at sea level for six to eight weeks. If she returned to high elevations, she would run the risk of more serious—possibly fatal—health problems.

  Seeing Nokona in those dark sunglasses, sitting alone in the front seat of a rental car, depressed me profoundly. It appeared that the PCT had dampened her spirit and destroyed her pride. Wasn’t this supposed to be an uplifting experience? I grieved the death of her dream while feeling a dark shadow pass over mine. I did not want to be the one donning those sunglasses. Not here in Tuolumne Meadows—not anywhere. Gulping down more ibuprofen, I put a fresh ice pack on my already red and purple mottled knee and propped it up on a picnic table. Bald Eagle and Nokona drove away, leaving a heavy silence.

  For the next forty-eight hours I vigorously iced, elevated, and rested my wounded knee. Vigorously resting is an oxymoron, I know, but my reclined pose was more tense than restful; my mind was at work, simultaneously worrying and willing my body to heal.

  Remarkably, unbelievably, it worked. When, on July 5, we began walking again, my pain had eased from a nine out of ten to a four out of ten (Duffy insisted that I quantify pain in this fashion), and by lunch it was nothing more than an annoying twang. It was magical, and Duffy, despite his medical training, couldn’t offer an explanation. I like to think that the soothing medicine of mountain scenery played a role. And later I convinced Duffy of such by reading him the results of a medical study suggesting that mountain landscapes can ease pain. In the study, researchers from the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine found that scenes of mountains and sounds of babbling brooks cut patients’ pain in half during unpleasant medical procedures. The scientists call the phenomenon “biophilia” and hypothesize that it works by distracting the part of the brain that interprets pain and, in essence, taking the mind’s focus off the discomfort and putting it on something pleasant instead. So, perhaps getting back on the trail (in combination with massive doses of ibuprofen and hours of icing) was just what my knee needed. And, thankfully, for the next six days and 154 miles, that mountain medicine kept right on working, allowing me to hike resolutely to our next re-supply at Echo Lake Resort. From Echo Lake we hitchhiked ten or so miles to the glitzy, neon-lit banks of South Lake Tahoe.