Crawl of Fame

by Julie Moss

  “We had just met,” Megan recalled.

  “Which didn’t make it any easier,” Mats said. “We were still new and fresh, and I figured she wasn’t going to stick it out for four months while I disappeared, so I thought we were going to break up when I left. I told her about it, and to my surprise, she said, ‘We can make it work.’”

  She laughed. “The things you men put us through!”

  I met up with Mats near Ashland, Oregon, six weeks into his trip. Along the way, I picked up Megan in Santa Cruz, so she could reintroduce herself to her boyfriend. I wanted to meet him in Ashland because of the incredible scenes I’d watched in the Wild movie, which starred Reese Witherspoon. I could also fully relate to Cheryl’s story, since I too went through some years picking up the pieces and using a powerful outlet to recover—in my case, returning to triathlon. Cheryl’s reconnection with her larger, more authentic self, her inner Wonder Woman, resonated with me. I felt like I was honoring her in a way by choosing Ashland to begin my latest adventure with my son.

  Megan and I found Mats downtown with four or five other PCT hikers. We could smell them before we saw them. I passed around some brownies to the group, which had taken to giving themselves trail nicknames, a quirky but common thing for both PCT and Appalachian Trail through-hikers. They gave Mats the hybrid name “Jorts,” as in “jean shorts.” Their needs were pretty simple: hot food, cold drinks, a bath, and a laundromat.

  We walked around town and found an amazing microbrewery. For the first time, I tried a nitro beer. There is something poetic, almost romantic, about a freshly-poured IPA from a nitro tap. The cascading effect is mesmerizing. The waterfall of tiny bubbles slowly yields to a caramel brew, with a fluffy, white head thick enough to float a bottle cap. While nitro is normally associated with a certain Irish brewery, more and more craft breweries are embracing the nitrogenized method. Several of the hikers filled up their growlers, small jugs that typically carry sixty-four ounces of beer. We headed to our campsite at Hyatt Lake, ate, and slept.

  The next morning, Mats and I hiked around the lake, hoping to find a coffee joint at the nearby resort. No luck. We made a hearty breakfast, but Mats grew antsy with our slow pace. He was used to brewing up a cup of instant oatmeal and coffee and getting back on the trail, not the fresh fruit granola and yogurt buffet I was laying out. Oh well, Mom likes gatherings and conversations around good, nutritious food, and Mom was on the scene . . . I did hear him mention that he could already be five miles down the trail while I finished packing my car.

  Finally, we were ready. Our plan was to hike thirteen miles on the PCT to Green Springs and spend the night. Thirteen miles can’t be hard, right? It’s a half marathon; I can run it in an hour and forty minutes. I found out otherwise when I began hiking on the rugged, steep trail. Running is a much more level energy expenditure, and much more predictable. The steepness made me work my muscles at lengths where they have a lot less strength, compared to muscle lengths used while running. Lifting my body weight up a steep incline, even with a very light pack, proved to be plain hard work.

  “She was this incredible triathlete with her amazing training, so when she first thought of PCT, I thought she had the sense of, ‘It’s pretty easy, right? It can’t be that hard,’” Megan recalled. “After she did the first overnight backpacking trip and was sore, I remember her looking at me like, ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’”

  We spent a great night under the stars . . . until a late-arriving PCT through-hiker pitched his tent too close to mine and snored like a hibernating bear. I threw sticks at his tent, which accomplished nothing: he kept on snoring like a broken metronome, impacting my nerves. I thought of a well-placed set of fingernails crawling down a chalkboard.

  The next day, I decided to run thirteen miles back to the car while Megan and Mats hiked to Callahan’s Lodge, the next stop, where I would drive. My run was a bit different than a normal trail outing; I carried my sleeping bag stuffed into a daypack. Fortunately, Mats decided to haul my tent for me. Once parked at Callahan’s, I walked three miles onto the trail to meet the kids. In our first two days, I’d logged thirty-one miles of hiking and running. Not bad. Mats went inside to check out the lodge, where we would be staying in a few days, and grab his free beer as a PCT hiker.

  We spent the next few days in Ashland, where I’d rented an Airbnb. We kicked around all kinds of ideas for short hikes, but Mats was happy to hang out and focus on the Big Four must-haves for any PCT hiker breaking from the trail: Hot food. Cold drinks. Baths. Laundry. Fine with me. My legs were hammered from just two days. Plus, Jorts’s jorts were in dire need of mending, so I stopped into an amazing artisan quilt store, Sew Creative, to buy a couple squares of flowered fabric to patch them up.

  Finally, we headed off to Callahan’s Lodge, but not before loading up on supplies at the Ashland Food Co-op, stopping at a post office to ship boxes, and getting a fresh beer refill at Growler Guys. When we arrived, I treated Mats and Megan to a swanky room in the lodge, with its own fireplace and hot tub, while pitching my tent on the lawn and sleeping under the stars with other PCT hikers. We played bocce, and ate one more great meal: rib eye steak with an extra dollop of garlic compound butter, herb roasted potatoes, heirloom carrots, and for dessert, berry cobbler à la mode.

  The next morning, Mats was off before he could enjoy the all-you-caneat pancake breakfast at the lodge. His next big target was the California state line, 113 miles down the PCT. As Megan and I loaded up the car to return home, I was relieved that Mats set off so eagerly. Earlier, in Ashland, he’d confessed he was over it. I feared he might decide to quit, but then he clarified himself. “I’m over it but I’ll finish it,” he said.

  The trek had become hard. Very hard. But he was really happy to see us out there.

  “That was really cool. I’d talked to a couple of my friends, and my parents, about meeting me out there,” Mats said. “I’m so happy she made that happen. I’d done a lot of outdoor things, camping things, with my dad when I was little, but not really with my mom alone. It was special getting to share that with her.”

  Several weeks later, Mats and I met up again at the Kennedy Meadows General Store, a significant spot that represents the end of the Sierras and beginning of the desert. Mats was amazed to see how the environment had changed from the lush, green vegetation he’d enjoyed the entire way. Plants that have regular access to water are so much friendlier to hiker’s legs. It was evident it had become a prickly cactus world.

  We left Kennedy Meadows late at noon and hiked twenty-two miles to a spring, passing the 700-mile marker along the way: 1,950 miles down and 700 to go. We hiked for over an hour in the dark and found the spring. Mats spent the next forty-five minutes filtering water, and then we heated already prepared Indian food with naan bread. We shared the two-person tent that really fit 1.5 people, but it was cozy and I was exhausted.

  At first light, Mats headed to Walker Pass, thirty-two miles away, while I doubled back to the car. My legs felt better than in Oregon and I moved easily, with only a bottle of spring water and nutritional bars for snacking. Since we were late in the hiking season, and southbound PCT trekkers don’t often see others, I didn’t pass a soul on my twenty miles back to the car.

  I drove to Walker Pass, with a quick stop in the tiny Inyokern market for supplies. I gladly paid their inflated prices to buy multiple gallons of water. I didn’t want to filter in the dark again. That might be a Mats thing, but it’s not a Julie thing. I found the designated PCT campsite, and enjoyed being the only camper while I set up dinner and made the breakfast and lunch sandwiches he’d take the next day. Then I hung a lamp, a beacon for Mats, who put in a twelve-hour day that included hiking in the dark the final two miles. Within an hour of arrival, he was out.

  After a quick cup of coffee, Mats hit the trail by 6:00 A.M. for another thirty-five-mile day. He was taking advantage of the more modest portion of the trail to bite off large chunks of distance. I offered to transport what he wou
ldn’t need until the following evening, when I next saw him, but Mats wouldn’t let me transport a thing by car. He was honoring trail integrity, hiking from start to finish without taking any shortcuts. I admired my son all over again.

  After Mats left, I organized the car and then decided I wanted to see what he was seeing on the first few miles of his hike. I followed him down the trail—or should I say, up the trail. I climbed from switchback turn to switchback turn, until I topped the ridge line and beheld a breathtaking view. I could only imagine the spectacular view Mats had already stored. These vistas could change the way you saw the world. A little over a century ago, they seemed to work on the great naturalist John Muir, who first encouraged the creation of a series of national parks to President Teddy Roosevelt. Muir’s own named trail occupies 210 miles of breathtaking Sierra views, 160 miles of which Mats had already walked, since it merged with the PCT for that stretch. Muir saw those vistas for the first time in 1868 and found his home.

  Two hours later, I headed back. As the mom/trail angel, I was constantly retracing my steps. How nice it must be, I thought, for Mats to move in one direction, always gaining miles, rather than not gaining and subtracting. I got back to my car with a long day looming, and detoured to the quaint town of Kernville.

  Mats had gone feral, with no change of clothes. His jorts died in Independence, California, so he hitched into town and came back with a pair of women’s running shorts. I had almost purchased the same style. “What size are they?” I asked.

  “Women’s size small.”

  “Mats, I wear that size.”

  He looked at me. “Mom, you’re an extra small.”

  Mats put them on, and they fit. It was weird seeing my tough, fit son squeezing into a woman’s small short. He’s about six-foot-one, and weighed 180 pounds when he began the PCT. Now he was at 150, on his way to an eventual 145.

  The other part of going feral, or ultralight, means not carrying water, and using your filter system. Mats stripped down to the most basic elements needed to survive the final 700 miles. He didn’t carry fuel to heat food, nor did he carry soap, toothpaste, or TP. In fact, he carried nothing but the one set of clothes on his back, a tent, sleeping bag, inflatable sleeping pad, tiny journal and stub of pencil, headlamp, and down jacket. His daypack only weighed ten or eleven pounds, depending on his Pop-Tart, Top Ramen, and instant oatmeal supply. He prepared everything with cold water.

  Sorry, son, but give me Kona any day with its fully catered buffet . . .

  At one point, Mats openly wondered if he should send his tent back. I had a concerned Mom moment, and urged him to keep it to insulate himself from not only the elements, but to feel nurtured in his very own cocoon so he could recharge his spirit. That worked, but Mats was discovering his inner grit, the willingness to sacrifice comfort to finish something. I knew the feeling. Difference was, I held onto it for hours at a time in races and brick training days, not for weeks or months on a sustained 2,650-mile hike.

  Leaving Kernville, I drove along Highway 58 to Willow Springs, then headed nine miles on a dirt road to a ridge, where I spotted a PCT marker. Thank goodness I arrived during sunlight; I never would have seen the marker. I hiked a few miles along the trail, again wanting to see the view. Sometime after sunset turned to darkness, I found my car, climbed in and nodded off.

  A rap on the window. A horror movie moment, for sure . . . a woman, alone, in a remote place, a rap on the window . . . and Mats’s face outside. I exhaled a very deep sigh of relief.

  While waiting, I realized that, despite my many thoughts about hiking PCT, I never would do this trek solo. It’s too disheartening, and I like being around community and support too much. Maybe if I headed northbound with the other 2,000 hikers in the height of the season I could handle it, but to travel SoBo (southbound) with maybe 200 other hikers and be alone mile after mile would break me. I have learned that I feed and gain strength off those around me—friends, family, other racers, the crowd.

  The solitude had the opposite effect on Mats. It strengthened him. Once again, we had one hour to eat, share stories, and crawl into our sleeping bags before Mats’s desire to start early and sheer exhaustion ended his day. I got up before dawn and made sandwiches and coffee by headlamp. We said our goodbyes at 6:00 A.M., and I drove to Lisette’s house in Bakersfield while he headed toward Tehachapi for another thirteen-hour hiking day.

  He had 600 miles to go.

  Two and a half months after I first saw Mats in Ashland, I met him near the San Jacinto Mountain hamlet of Idyllwild on November 1. Set among tall pines, sweet smelling cedars, and legendary rocks, Idyllwild was a wonderful mountain village just two and a half hours from my Cardiff home. When we met up at the Paradise Café, he had 151.9 miles to go. We spent the night in the guesthouse of Sandi Castleberry, the unrelated (to me) niece of my Aunt Bev. Again, we had less than an hour to organize, eat, and prep for the morning before the lights went out.

  At 5:30 A.M., Mats hit the trail, focused on covering the final 151.9 miles in the next four days. I marveled at his determination to close like this, which reminded me of how his father operated at Kona. I drove the ninety-eight miles home, knowing I would later meet Mats for dinner in Warner Springs, making a 130-mile round-trip from Cardiff after wrapping meatloaf and baked potatoes in foil to stay hot. All of this for the twenty-minute visit we would get at a tiny roadside intersection where the PCT crosses Highway 79. He ate quickly and then hiked another eight miles to a water supply at Barrel Springs, completing a fifty-mile day. WOW.

  Three nights later, on November 4, I arrived in Campo and parked on the side of the dirt trail, about a mile from the terminus. Several border patrolmen, quite busy men in this section of the border, had checked in with me on their rounds, accustomed to seeing late-arriving PCT hikers. They made me feel safe in the pitch dark.

  Finally, I saw a headlamp coming toward me. Mats! From the way the light bounced and danced on the trail, he appeared to be running. “Mats, I’m here, honey!” I called out. “I see you’re running the final miles.”

  “No mom, I’m not running. This is my walking pace.”

  Thoroughly amazed, I now saw how he covered fifty miles a day for the past four days. “Do you mind hanging back for a few minutes until I finish?” he asked.

  I understood completely. This final mile would become a touchstone in his life, like my 1982 Ironman. The final mile is where I discovered so much about myself, and I wanted Mats to embrace the enormity of what he had accomplished and absorb it quietly and undisturbed.

  After what felt like an eternity, I drove the final mile to join him in celebration. He arrived at the southern terminus of the PCT on the Mexican border, near Campo, at 9:38 P.M. on November 4.

  Mats wrote this entry into the PCT Log Journal at Campo:

  (July 10–Nov 4)

  Well, here’s to 2650. To the months of total solitude, unforgettable friendships made, the unimaginable kindness of utter strangers, breaking up and reuniting with my girlfriend, the unimaginable love and support of friends and family. To endless suffering which is only exceeded and overshadowed by the boundless bliss and serenity of the PCT. This has been a journey whose hardships and rewards can only be comprehended by those who have lived it. In the words of an unnamed NOBO, “Sometimes I just want to shake them and scream . . . You don’t know what we’ve been through!”

  I started this thing on my own and so have I finished it. Now time for a well earned champagne celebration on the brink of Mexico. Here’s to my predecessors and those still to come. Welcome to the fucking coolest club on the planet!

  —Jorts

  Later, Mats reflected on our time together on the PCT. “It’s one of those experiences where, when people ask you about it, you have to say, ‘Well, unless you want to sit here for a day and a half while I tell you about it, I can just tell you it was really cool . . . or you can experience it,’” he said. “But having my mom out there, she’d helped me plan it; she wanted to do it an
yway. It was really cool to share part of the hike with her, because there are some experiences you can’t put into words. It’s like any other peak solitary experience: it’s so important to you that you want to share it with others.”

  Mats’s peak solitary experience, and his reflection afterward, sprang into something that caught both his father and me quite off guard. “Triathlon, and especially the Ironman in Kona, has felt like a bucket list item to me since I was a kid,” he explained. “After finishing the Pacific Crest Trail, I had this place in my life where I really didn’t know what I was doing next. The more I thought about Ironman, the more appealing it was, especially since [finishing] the PCT left a big hole. On the PCT, you’re out there pushing yourself every day, that’s the main focus, and it’s especially rewarding when you’re doing it in all these beautiful places.

  “Then there’s the mental side of PCT. Some days, you have to really will yourself into walking, or push into things you didn’t really feel were possible. You might wake up at 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. and say, ‘Today, I’m going to push as many miles as I can,’ and that’s the mental challenge. One day, I did sixty miles. You don’t go that fast, but you stay up late and use a headlamp and just keep going. You’re isolated and only pushing against yourself. You’re by yourself. There’s no one else. You’re not racing, there’s no competition. It’s a pure form of challenging yourself.

  “That’s what attracted me to Ironman. I was searching for something to fill that hole of ‘the next great personal challenge.’ Especially where I’m at right now. I’m sure that the more you do a sport, the more competitive you get, but for the time being, I’m just going out there to see what I can do for myself. It’s an opportunity for me to challenge myself physically and have a goal I’m working toward day in, day out.”