Zero Days

by Barbara Egbert

  A few days later, we stayed overnight at Timberline Lodge, and then it was time to head for Cascade Locks, the last stop in Oregon. We were enjoying fairly good weather, for a change, but as we descended the 3,500 feet toward the Columbia River and the Washington state line on Day 145, I began limping. My shin splints were finally catching up with me. I also had a severely aching jaw that I couldn’t ignore, either. But we still had Washington to go.

  CHAPTER 9

  TOWARD THE NORTH STAR

  Day 176: We got over Buckskin Pass and down the other side. We managed a hot dinner. I wish I were Henrietta, warm at home!

  —from Scrambler’s journal

  DURING THE LAST FEW DAYS in Oregon, something changed for me. Gary noticed that I became downright wolfish when it came time to eat, as though my body were suddenly crying out for much more nutrition than I could give it. Chronic calorie deficits are the norm for thru-hikers, but we had recently had more chances than usual to replenish, during our stays at Olallie Lake and Timberline Lodge. So my change in mealtime behavior seemed odd. It worried us.

  At our cabin at Olallie Lake, our trail buddies Nocona and Bald Eagle had dropped by for a chat and admitted that they, too, were becoming discouraged. “Everyone’s dropped out except you guys, us, and Chacoman,” Nocona told us. They especially missed Crow and Sherpa, with whom they had become close friends. Bald Eagle and Nocona had recently made a side trip to buy cold-weather gear at the Portland REI, and it looked as if another shopping trip would be in order if they wanted to continue. “At some point, I have to ask myself: Why are we doing this?” Bald Eagle said. “We’re here to hike the PCT and have fun. But what if it’s not fun anymore?” Gloom was in the air. Quitting was beginning to sound like an attractive option to me, too.

  Gary and Mary would have none of it. We had hiked 2,053 miles and had only 597 to go. Gary made his position plain: “I’ve had enough fun to last me until Canada. What I want to do now is finish.” He announced he would complete the trail even if he had to walk on snowshoes all the way across Washington state. Mary declared her equal determination. “I’m going to finish,” she said, “no matter what.” All I would commit to was reaching Cascade Locks, 102 miles away, the last stop before crossing the Columbia River into Washington. Considering how determined I had been at the beginning to complete the PCT, and even considering the really horrible conditions we had endured since entering Oregon, I was surprised at myself. Unbidden, the thought began occurring to me late at night: Should I get off the trail?

  As we approached Cascade Locks, I developed crippling shin splints in my left leg, so painful I could barely hobble. It was much worse than what I had endured in July in the right leg, and it was accompanied by a severe pain in my upper jaw. When we reached our motel room and I looked in the mirror, I made the shocking discovery that I had a big, bleeding sore on my gums—about the size and shape of a cranberry. Same color, too. I’m convinced that those heretical thoughts about leaving the trail were my body’s way of telling me my left shin was developing tiny cracks that my strong muscles wouldn’t be able to compensate for much longer, and a serious infection was building up in that tender jaw.

  I finally faced up to the fact that we had walked 2,155 trail miles—roughly equivalent to the entire Appalachian Trail—but I personally couldn’t go any farther without at least a temporary break for medical treatment. Suddenly, our situation was totally changed, and all bets for a successful PCT thru-hike were off.

  OUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM was transportation. I had to get to Hood River to fill a prescription my dentist had sent by phone for an antibiotic, and short of hitchhiking on the freeway (legal in Oregon, but hardly safe), there didn’t seem to be any way to get there. It’s only 20 miles from Cascade Locks to Hood River, but it might as well have been 120 miles. Getting by without a car is nearly impossible in small Western towns. I don’t know what small Eastern, Southern, and Midwestern towns are like—maybe they have buses, or each town is self-sufficient, with all services within walking distance, the way I imagine a New England village would be—but way out West, you need a car. In some communities, people are in the habit of driving 45 miles or so to buy milk or go to church or watch a high school basketball game. You want to talk to a friend in town who isn’t home? You get in your car and drive around until you see his car parked in front of someone else’s house, and you park alongside and go in, with a quick knock on the jamb as you walk through the door and shout your hellos. So there we were in Cascade Locks, which boasted bus service to Portland—twice a week—but no other public transit.

  Trail magic kicked in at the grocery store, where I was buying juice, milk, and doughnuts for breakfast. As the clerk rang up the groceries, I asked about public transportation. “We’re thru-hikers, and I need to get to Hood River to fill a prescription,” I explained. The sympathetic clerk suggested I talk to people at local businesses, in hopes that someone might know someone who might be heading out of town and be willing to offer a ride. That didn’t sound very likely to get me to Hood River any time soon, especially on a Saturday, but I thanked her for the tip. Outside the store, I paused to scan the headlines on the news rack, and a tall man walked up behind me. “I overheard you asking about how to get out of town,” he said, before I could get anxious about a stranger approaching me. “My wife has an Avis agency in Portland and she could arrange to get a car to you.” Sure enough, Troy called his wife from his custom fishing rod business in the next block and, within a few hours, Gary, Mary, and I were on our way, in a bright, shiny, air-conditioned vehicle, gobbling up the miles that had seemed so vast an impediment that morning. We picked up my penicillin in Hood River, and then went the opposite direction to reach Portland, where we bought a two-person tent, cold-weather gear, and food at the REI.

  At this point, I subconsciously understood that I was going to be off the trail for more than a few days. Consciously, we all figured that I would be able to run down to California, get healed up, and rejoin the rest of the family in less than a week to continue walking. But looking back, I can see how my mind shifted gears from thru-hiker mode to helper mode sometime during that weekend in Oregon. I began seeing everything from the point of view of a manager, not a participant. For example: That afternoon, after making the appalling discovery that the Bridge of the Gods over the Columbia River had no sidewalk—in fact, no way to separate hikers from traffic—I used the rental car to hold up 13 other cars and let my family walk across in safety. (I confess I derived a perverse pleasure from holding up all that traffic.) Once across the bridge, I found a motel room in the little town of Stevenson, checked on Gary and Mary (who were taking an alternate route recommended in the guidebook that involved a long road walk), and at dusk picked them up and took them to the room, where I had food waiting.

  The next day, we awoke to a sunny and mild morning. After a large meal, I dropped off the rest of the family at the point they had stopped walking the day before, and headed home to California. Gary and I had agreed there would be no tears at our parting, that it was very important for Mary that I be cheerful. So I put off the weeping and wailing until later. Instead, I stopped the car alongside the road, made sure we agreed on the date, time, and place I would see them again (the following Saturday, early afternoon, where the PCT crosses U.S. Highway 12 near White Pass), delivered quick hugs and kisses, and drove away, waving out the window until I disappeared around a curve. Scrambler and Captain Bligh dutifully displayed good spirits as I left.

  I made up my mind not to spend the entire day worrying about Gary and Mary. I certainly had plenty of other things to worry about. My joints and muscles, accustomed to walking for hours every day, couldn’t adjust to sitting for the 12-and-a-half hours it took to drive to Sunol. They just ached. I also worried whether I’d be able to see my dentist and doctor right away. I had promised to meet Mary and Gary six days hence, and I would have no way of getting word to them if I were delayed. With my aches and pains, a loud radio, and substantial amount
s of caffeine from convenience stores along the way, I got home that evening just before midnight, greeted our two surprised cats, and fell into bed.

  The next morning, the first order of business was to become reacquainted with the cats, Hank and Henrietta. I feared they’d be aloof or even hostile, as some house pets are when the owner goes away for an extended trip. Not these two. Every time I sat down, they’d leap onto my lap, purring loudly and practically wearing their fur off as they rubbed their heads on me.

  I was on the phone for hours on that brief visit, and conversations would go like this: “Hi, Liz, it’s me. The endodontist—Ouch! Get off my lap, Hank—sorry about that. The visit to the endodontist went fine. I’m going to take the antibiotics for a few more days—Henrietta, stop chewing the phone cord. What? Oh, it’s penicillin. Yeah, and I got some Vicodin, too—Stop that, Hank! What? Oh, I didn’t mean you. It’s the darn cats; I should have put them in the bathroom. I—OK, Henrietta, you can get on my lap, sheesh! I hardly have any pain. Just took one before bed last night—Hank, are you going to try to fit up here, too? Oh, all right. The Forest Service? Yes, I called the ranger in Stehekin. She says everything’s pretty well shut down this late in the—Ouch, don’t claw!—this late in the year, and … What? Oh, yes, I’m running up to State Farm this afternoon. She’ll have the Canadian insurance form for me. What I really need are copies of our birth certificates, but I can’t—Off! Get off! Darn cats, they can’t both fit in my lap at once, I hardly have any lap left! The weather? Yeah, it’s good up there right now, but you’d be surprised how cold it’s getting at night already—hold on a minute. Come here, you two. Dang it, now I’ve got you, you little pests! (Sound of me walking down to the bathroom with a cat under each arm, tossing them inside, closing the door, and running back up the stairs.) Where was I?”

  My dentist was able to fit me in the very morning after my return, and he sent me off to the endodontist that afternoon. The next day, I returned the rental car and saw my doctor, who told me to get off the trail and stay off until the shin splints healed—and if I didn’t, a stress fracture would follow. I didn’t cry in the doctor’s office, although I felt like it. I saved the tears until that evening, when I called my sister, Liz, with the news. “It wasn’t supposed to end this way!” I blubbered.

  I felt like a big wimp, leaving the trail just because of severe pain and a serious infection. I felt a little better after I met Liz, her husband, Marq, and their younger son, Michael, at a Mexican restaurant in San Jose. My dental visit had confirmed that, indeed, I had an abscessed tooth. The endodontist had opened up the tooth to let it drain, and I had a return appointment scheduled for just a couple hours after I met my relatives for lunch. Marq looked at me closely. “You don’t seem very nervous for someone who’s going in for a root canal,” he remarked. After a pause, he added, “I guess after what you’ve been through …” That was the best laugh I’d had in weeks. And it was true. After five months of the Pacific Crest Trail, the dental procedure that summons up fear in the hardiest souls had struck me as nothing more than a minor annoyance.

  During my four days at home, I resolved that upon my return to Washington, I would be the best trail angel I could be, while I took time to heal up. By meeting my family at road crossings, mapping a better route around the portion of the trail destroyed by floods, and otherwise supporting them, I would help Captain Bligh and Scrambler get through Washington in spite of the bad weather they were almost certain to face.

  I prepared for my trail angeling before I returned to Washington. I borrowed some car-camping gear from Liz, continued the endless series of phone calls, visited the grocery store, and did a load of laundry. The night before I left, I gave the cats a final burst of affection, loaded the car, and went to bed early. The drive to Packwood, Washington, took 16 hours, and my legs and joints ached just as much as they had on the drive home. The Cowlitz River Lodge had left the key in the door as promised. I staggered into my comfortable room and fell into bed.

  The next day, I embarked on one of the strangest periods of my life. I became Angel Mom, the super trail angel, shepherding my two precious backpackers through Washington state, running errands, picking up supplies, providing rides, arranging accommodations, and charting itineraries. First, I met them at White Pass, where I gave them the bad news that I wouldn’t be continuing on with them—at least for now. The good news, of course, was that I’d be able to help them in many important ways.

  While I emphasized the positive, the fact remains that losing me was a serious impediment to Scrambler and Captain Bligh as they headed farther north through Washington. Although I was the weakest link in the chain, I was a link, nonetheless. I was the one who got them up and moving in the mornings, who sorted and rationed and prepared the food, who set up the tent and arranged the bedding. Gary simplified the food arrangement in Washington so that boiling water was all it took to fix dinner, and Mary became an expert at erecting the tent and laying out the pads and sleeping bags. Three days after I left for California, she described her newfound task in her journal:

  Day 151: Today we walked quite close to Mt. Adams. We camped near a lovely waterfall. I only made one mistake getting the tent up all by myself: I got the rain fly backwards! Daddy showed me the moonlit mountain.

  But that still left them without a morning person to get them going. That is my job, no matter where we are. At home, I get up with the alarm clock, roust Mary, and make sure she eats breakfast and gets dressed in time for school. Gary keeps a clock radio on his dresser so that as soon as I wake him up, he can turn on National Public Radio and be goaded into action by the sound of his least favorite politicians being interviewed first thing in the morning. In Washington, they had to get up in the dark in order to take advantage of the dwindling amount of daylight, so they couldn’t rely on the sun to awaken them, either. Gary had two wristwatches with him, an ordinary waterproof digital watch and his fancy altimeter watch—and both had alarms. At first, he tried setting one and relying on Mary to hear it and then to rouse him. But that didn’t work out so well. As Mary reported in one journal entry:

  Day 162: The tent was surprisingly dry this morning—partly because we slept two hours past the alarm!

  As Gary recalls, they often had to get up at 4 or 4:30 in the morning to keep their 20-mile days going. They would get up, eat frozen Pop-Tarts in the dark with ice on the inner walls of the tent, and often it was still dark when they started walking. After the first time they slept through the alarm, they began exploring other ways to get themselves up. First, they tried using both the wristwatch and the altimeter watch, with one near each of their heads. But they slept through even those alarms most of the time. Since Gary slept with earplugs, the noise wouldn’t wake him, so it was up to Mary. They figured they had to get the source of the sound as close to her ears as possible, so they hung a spare piece of line from the inside top of the tent and tied a watch to the other end so it dangled just inches from Mary’s head, like a spider descending from a web. They placed the other watch on the floor between their heads. At first, they set both watches for the same time and hoped for the best, but even then they occasionally slept right through the noise. Finally, they learned to set the second watch a minute or two later, so Mary couldn’t go right back to sleep after the first one woke her up. It was her job to shake Gary until he could start talking, and then he was in charge of keeping them both awake.

  Our original plan at White Pass, the first resupply point in Washington, was to get to a little resort called the Kracker Barrel in time to get our box there, camp somewhere nearby, and then proceed on to Snoqualmie Pass. We wouldn’t be able to mail anything back, and we would have to carry five days’ worth of food. With a set of wheels, however, I was able to pick up the box early in the day, take it back to the motel and sort it, then meet the rest of the family at White Pass in mid-afternoon. I took them to the motel in Packwood, fed them, did their laundry, and returned them to the trailhead the next morning. I camped i
n Mt. Rainier National Park that night, but when I met them the next afternoon at Chinook Pass, the weather was threatening, so we spent one more night at the pleasant Cowlitz River Lodge.

  I spent the next night back at the Ohanapecosh campground in Mt. Rainier National Park and then moved my base of operations to the Summit Inn at Snoqualmie, a ski resort with a motel, restaurant, and gas station right on Interstate 90. The day before, on a pleasantly warm afternoon with just a few clouds, I had driven up the well-maintained, dirt Forest Service Road 54 to Stampede Pass to scout out the PCT crossing near Frog Lake. When I picked up Gary and Mary the following day, the weather had turned cold and rainy. They were glad to be indoors for the night. The next day was infinitely worse. I took them back up to the pass for 18 miles of slack-packing, with just enough food, water, and clothing for the day, while the tent, sleeping bags, and backpacker stove stayed in our room. From the motel, I could see a big sign over the highway that gave the temperature—I presume so that drivers could decide if they were likely to hit icy conditions farther on. It never rose above 42°F, and the rain never stopped falling: ideal conditions for hypothermia. But they made it, and spent another warm, dry night with full bellies. The next day, I saw them off again, and prepared to move my base of operations farther north.