Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail

by Bill Walker

  The Bedouins, the Moors, the Kurds, and the Indians all felt that to be true to oneself, perpetual motion was necessary. History’s great religious figures maintained this faith as well. Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed all undertook widespread peregrinations at great peril.

  “I know of no thought so burdensome that one can’t walk away from it,” the Danish theologian, Soren Kierkegaard wrote. “The more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill.” The great Russian novelist, Dostoyevsky, maintained that all our miseries stemmed from a single cause—our inability to remain quietly in a room.

  Could it be that this distraction—our mania for the new—was in essence an instinctive migratory urge? Darwin, In the Descent of Man, notes that in birds the migratory instinct appears overwhelmingly powerful—even stronger than the maternal instinct. A mother will abandon her fledglings in nest rather than miss the long journey south.

  I, too, have found great fulfillment in being footloose over the years. Looking back, my fondest memories (if not the most exalted actions!) as a kid are of those times together with friends on foot. But once everyone got cars, we steadily grew away from each other.

  I’ve lived in almost a dozen-and-a-half cities over the years, and there is a clear pattern. I’ve been happiest in those places (Chicago, London, Latin America) where I didn’t have and didn’t need a car. Like most everybody else I just walked.

  In England, I had been surprised to learn that many of the best golf courses didn’t even have golf carts.

  “What if somebody can’t walk?” I once asked my playing partner, a sixtyish Englishman of dour visage.

  “Then you don’t play,” he responded plainly. But to everyone’s pleasant surprise, we all found that the level of fulfillment and bonding was much greater when we covered the course on foot. However, when I returned to the United States after 4 ½ years I quickly became disillusioned when I couldn’t find anybody to play with who didn’t demand a golf cart. It was especially confounding to see people who exercise religiously in gymnasiums, clinging to these metallic wombs on the golf course.

  This is when I became interested in hiking. In 2005 I attempted a thru-hike of the 2,175 mile Appalachian Trail. Like most people who hike the Appalachian Trail, I was so buoyant upon completion that I found it practically impossible to quit talking about it.

  “Why don’t you write a book about it?” a few people finally suggested. What they were really hoping for, of course, was to get me to shut up about the whole thing. My big question was whether I could write enough for a whole book. However, the problem ended up being just the opposite. I remembered every one of the 171 days so vividly that I had to agonize over how to cut the book manuscript down to manageable size.

  That illustrates a basic phenomenon of long-distance hiking. It is an utterly rich experience. In The Cactus Eaters, Dan White described it this way: “Though the trail narrows your choices—hike, sweat, piss, seek water, shit, eat, repeat—somehow it makes your life more expansive.” It seemed like a great bargain. You got perhaps two years of living for every six months you were out there. There had been no other such sustained experience for me where life had thrummed at such a high pitch.

  After the Appalachian Trail, I went back to work for a private company. However, it quickly became apparent I had a different outlook. Deep in my marrow, I now felt that I could get by just fine with less sleep, less utilities, fewer restaurants, less housing, less insurance, less medicine, less money. The irony was that even though I was making less money than before, I felt more secure. This was a welcome revelation, and came about largely because of the intense Appalachian Trail experience.

  Those not in the know might consider long-distance hiking just another form of escapism. But in reality it is just the opposite. Long-distance hikers confront human nature in all its rawness. The immense challenge and deep peace of the wild were irresistible to me.

  The Appalachian Trail was far and away the world’s best known trail, and had been my one and only goal when I set out to become a hiker in my forties. But while hiking it, I kept hearing experienced hikers marveling about a fantastic jewel of a trail on the West Coast. Given the reverence I held for long journeys on foot, it was probably inevitable that I would turn west for another lifetime adventure.

  Chapter 3

  The Pacific Crest Trail

  It should not be denied that being footloose has always exhilarated us. It is associated in our minds with escape from history and oppression, and with absolute freedom . . . and the road has always led west.

  Wallace Stegner

  The American West as Living Space

  “It’s a fabulous trail,” everyone told me. “You will love it.”

  “Unbelievable views,” hiker after hiker gushed. In the years leading up to my 2009 attempt to hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), there was unanimity of opinion. It was a great trail.

  That begs the obvious question—what makes a “good trail”? The Florida Trail, which runs from Key West to the Florida Panhandle, is not considered by most people to be a very good trail (despite game efforts by committed trail maintainers). It has hundreds of miles of road walking. Besides being boring, the hiker constantly has to resist the temptation to hitchhike. The biggest climb is less than 100 feet.

  A good trail, on the other hand, is one with diversity of terrain. By this measure the PCT is not merely a good trail. It is extraordinary. The diversity of its geology is unequaled in any other footpath in the world.

  At first glance, the most notable thing about the PCT is its sheer length. It runs from the Mexican to the Canadian border. As the crow flies, that is only a little over 1,000 miles. However, the way the PCT snakes through lake regions and rivers and winds its ways over more than 100 mountain passes, it ultimately measures 2,663.5 miles in length. That makes it exactly 489 miles longer than the Appalachian Trail.

  The first 703 miles in California are almost entirely desert. Even there the hiker is in for a surprise. The trail winds up and down various mountain ranges in the high desert, before dropping steeply down to the desert floor and some of the longest waterless stretches in the United States. This includes the western corner of the famed Mojave Desert.

  The Apalachian Trail is primarily a deep-wilderness experience. The signature characteristic of the PCT is broad vistas and wide-open spaces. An aspiring hiker has only one logical choice – do both of them!

  The riddle of the PCT, however, comes at mile 703. This is where the trail leaves the desert for good and enters the most renowned part of the PCT—the aptly named High Sierra. Here, the trail traverses the crests of the very highest points in the continental United States. For 211 miles the trail doesn’t even cross a road, which greatly complicates re-supply.

  The upper reaches of the High Sierra are blanketed with snow year round. However, by June 15th, which hikers refer to as Ray Day, there has usually been enough snow melt to get through the snowy, icy mountain passes of the High Sierra. Even cutting it this close leaves barely enough time to make it to the Canadian border before the snow starts flying up there in late September or early October.

  So it is necessary to thread the needle. A thru-hiker starts in the desert later than is desirable given the scorching heat, and traverses the High Sierra mountain range sooner than is preferable. That challenge—along with the trail’s mammoth length—makes it a very difficult trail to thru-hike.

  Once through the High Sierra, a thru-hiker has a singular mission—step on it. You consistently have to hike more miles on a daily basis than on the Appalachian Trail. Nonetheless, the trail maintains surprisingly high elevations throughout the rest of California as it passes through, around, or over such delights as Yosemite National Park, Lake Tahoe, and the ski slopes at Squaw Valley.

  Finally, the PCT eases up as California’s 1,697 miles come to a close. The trail becomes much flatter in Oregon. Not surprisingly, this is where hikers have traditionally reached deep for their maximum miles. This isn’t to say,
however, that Oregon is bereft of scenic delights. The trail runs right along the rim of spectacular Crater Lake, and traverses across Mount Hood to Timberline Lodge, all of which help maintain an air of anticipation.

  The lowest point on the trail is 140 feet at the Columbia River, which separates Oregon and Washington. Thus, a PCT hiker sees swings in elevation of over 14,000 feet throughout the journey. Once the hiker walks across the Bridge of the Gods into Washington, the trail climbs steadily into the notoriously jagged Cascade Range. The beauty here is rivaled only by the utter desolation the hiker faces.

  All PCT veterans agree on one point—be finished before October 1st. The weather in northern Washington is utterly unpredictable thereafter. It was that salient point that would preoccupy me to the point of obsession for the next several months.

  History is for bitter, old men. Right? Don’t worry readers. I don’t plan to go through an extensive recitation of the factual history of the PCT. However, a few points are notable.

  First, from a preliminary reading of the PCT’s history, one is struck by the story’s similarity to the conception of the Appalachian Trail. In both cases, there was a Harvard-educated, patrician-like figure who envisioned what many considered a utopian idea. In the case of the Appalachian Trail, it was the ivory-tower personage of Benton MacKaye. Likewise, the PCT was dreamed up by a fellow with an aristocratic-sounding name—Clinton Churchill Clarke.

  Both men could be classified as technophobes. “Our youth spend too much time sitting on soft seats in motor cars, too much time sitting on soft seats in movies, and too much time lounging on soft chairs before radios,” Clinton Churchill Clarke lamented. “The nation needs a continuous wilderness trail across the United States from Mexico to Canada,” Clarke wrote in 1932 to the U.S. Forest Service.

  The big difference between the history of the Appalachian Trail and the PCT is very simple. The PCT took a lot longer to complete. The two trails were begun at roughly the same time. Work crews of Boy Scouts played a key early role in carving out PCT sections. Nonetheless, while the Appalachian Trail was fully completed by 1937, the much more isolated PCT didn’t fully connect all its parts until 1993.

  The PCT has seen explosive growth over the last decade. The number of Appalachian trail thru-hikers had begun skyrocketing in the late 1990’s. Many were finding it practically impossible to adjust back to “the real world”, after their journey of a lifetime. These same people began to hear about the wonders of this new trail in the West.

  Specifically, what they heard was how very different it was from the Appalachian Trail. For starters, there aren’t blazes to follow or shelters to sleep in like the ones that dot the Appalachian Trail. This adds an element of uncertainty to each day. The PCT is considerably more isolated and runs through much wilder terrain. It requires more planning. These hiking pilgrims weren’t put off, however. They had gained rock-solid confidence on the Appalachian Trail and lusted after an equivalent or great challenge. Better yet, the PCT is renowned in the tight-knit hiking community for its stunning scenery.

  It has now become a virtual rite of passage, once having completed the Appalachian Trail, to immediately begin thinking about attempting the PCT. Some hikers talked about then doing the Continental Divide Trail to achieve the so-called Triple Crown. Others even mentioned getting into mountain climbing. Not me. The PCT was my lone objective. I honestly felt that if I could just thru-hike this trail, then I would have reached my maximum potential as an outdoorsman. I could then rest in peace.

  As I was soon to learn, however, success on one trail is by no means a guarantee of success on another.

  Chapter 4

  The Mexican Border

  The only certain freedom is in departure

  Robert Frost

  “Looks like you’re headed the same place as me?” I inquired. Sounds like a pickup line, huh? Well, in a way it was. But what I was looking for was a hiking partner, not a paramour.

  It was April 24th, 2009, and I was on a packed bus that was chugging south from San Diego towards the Mexican border. Specifically, I was trying to get to the border town of Campo. But I kept getting conflicting information. Nobody seemed to speak much english. I tried chatting with a couple of these obreros (day workers). But none of them had any idea what the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) was, or exactly where it began.

  Fortunately, an Anglican-looking man in his late thirties had come striding to the back of the bus in desert-attire and a new pair of trail running shoes. My mood had lifted, and that’s when I had popped the question.

  “Yes, mate,” he answered pleasantly in a British accent. “There’s another fella’ up front with a rucksack (backpack), as well.

  “I’m Skywalker,” I said, using my old trail name from the Appalachian Trail.

  “St. Rick, here,” he offered. As we chatted it became clear that St. Rick was quite a worldly man, having hiked on trails all over the world. He had a polished style, and exuded confidence.

  Soon, the other Anglo-American joined us in the back. He was just the opposite from St. Rick—wide-eyed and unsure of himself. He was a marathon runner, but had never hiked. His name was Ralph, and he appeared to be about my age. Before the sun abruptly set on us in the desert that night, it would seem like I knew his entire story.

  “My wife just left me for another woman,” he lamented.

  “Nice-looking?” I wondered. I know that’s not the most helpful thing I could have asked. But whoever said empathy is the strong point of us males?

  “You should have heard my father when he found out I was gonna’ do this,” Ralph recounted incredulously. “The minute my wife picked up the phone, he started screaming, ‘What’s he doing. We’ve got to stop him. He’s gone crazy.”

  But at the end of the day, Ralph was like any other mortal. Once the idea of hiking the PCT gets lodged in a person’s head, sooner or later that person will find himself or herself at the Mexican border.

  The bus dropped Ralph and me off in the dusty border town of Campo, California. (St. Rick got off early at Lake Morena County State Park to attend the annual PCT Kickoff Party). Again, surprisingly few people knew much of anything about the trail.

  “What’s with this damn place?” I wondered.

  “Maybe we’re the problem,” Ralph offered. “Not them.” Once we started hoofing up a large dirt road to the border fence, we learned more about just who we and they are.

  Scores of heavily-armored vehicles rushed in and out of a huge border patrol building on our left.

  “Man, I’d always thought our border patrol just made a token effort,” I said to Ralph. “Kinda’ like ‘You can’t come over, you can’t come,’ while through winks and nods we were practically waving ‘em in.”

  “Yeah, same here.” Over the next few days, as we saw trucks filled with hawkish-looking officials speeding by, and illegals running like their lives depended on it, we’d realize just how mistaken we were.

  Finally, at the top of the top of the hill we saw the PCT monument which marks the trail’s southern terminus. Just behind it was the double-fenced border.

  “About all I can say is let’s remember to walk north, not south,” I said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Ralph replied dryly.

  It was an especially bright day with a dazzling blue sky, as we stood there looking through the fence out into the Mexican desert. It was nothing but barren terrain dotted with tough desert bushes as far as the eye could see. Actually, it didn’t look any different than our side of the border. Of course, that shouldn’t come as a surprise given that the exact spot we were standing, as well as several hundred miles to our north, were once part of Mexico.

  We didn’t see any Mexicans, however. That shouldn’t have been a surprise, either. Border crashers are like snakes, mountain lions, scorpions, and many other creatures found in the desert—they prefer to travel at night when it’s cooler and stealthier. The number of people illegally crossing each year has been estimated at over a million.
This is despite an immigration quota of seventy-five thousand.

  “How far are you looking to go today?” Ralph asked.

  “Well, it’s over twenty miles to the Kickoff Party,” I said. “This late I’ll probably just try to get in 12 or 15 miles before dark.”

  “Yeah, that’s kinda’ what I was thinking too,” he said, which was music to my ears.

  “I think the trail goes over that mountain there,” I pointed to the left. But ten minutes after starting we found ourselves on a dirt road that didn’t appear to lead anywhere except sticky desert bushes.

  “Is this right?” I asked.

  “Let me go check it out,” Ralph said helpfully. He dropped his backpack and started trotting at a brisk jogger’s pace through the bushes. A few minutes later he came running back, appearing unwinded.

  “Yeah, there’s no trail this way,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I offered.

  “No worries,” he consoled me.

  He sure seemed like an agreeable fellow. But we seemed to have two followers and zero leaders in this particular contingent.

  Hikers may be the nicest folks I ever met. You actually have to look pretty hard to find an asshole. The deep wilderness, as well as the desert, are bound to attract a share of misanthropes to be sure. But even these are not usually inflicted with the urge to grate, dominate, condescend, or calculate, which can make humans so unpleasant at times. So I instinctively got a quick lift almost every time I saw other hikers, especially in the back country.