Author: Waitup

Day 43 August 8.

Sleeping in the RV park was revelatory. I had never appreciated how there is a hidden slice of America. Specifically, of the 10 RVs permanently moored there, two contained people that must have had chronic diseases. One told me so. I walked past him and rhetorically asked “How are you?” and he responded with the candid answer “I’m dying.” I tried to think of a witty rejoinder, but he doubled down and said “Really, I’m dying” and coughed up some form of lung or throat. The other one was consistently and quietly coughing all night. Depressing, but economically understandable. I suspect the cost differential between assisted living and RV hookup must be considerable.

I hit up the cafe for breakfast. My expectations were low. It seemed all my town meals recently were a combination of average food delivered slowly with sketchy service. Seeing the operation in person, my heart sank.. You basically went to a backdoor and ordered from a cook who wore her mask flopping off one ear. Dining was outside. I sat down as the warm sun rose and promised another hot day. I was joined by another couple that was backpacking and a hungry Harley biker. I got a kick out of the male backpacker. He was dressed as a poster boy of backpacking: Altra running shoes, dirty girl gaiters, beard, sunglasses, second hand polyester button down shirt under a Melly. If you don’t know what a “Melly” is, that’s OK. It is a Melanzana hoody. There is a trendy clothing company called Melanzana. They are based in Leadville, Colorado. They make outdoor clothing and have a cult following. They use a particular design of fleece and make primarily hoodies that seem to have two features: the hoods are large enough to fit over snowboarding helmets and the designs are ugly. Think of a kindergartner’s color choices stiched on to a garment that would fit snugly over an old fashioned diving suit with the metal helmet. Adding to the mystique, the company produces only a set amount of product that they release in batches, creating a scarcity air about them. As far as I can tell, they sell their batch, buy a couple pounds of weed, and think up designs for the next batch that they will get around to making. Of course, I have two of their hoodies, but don’t wear them outside the house. I am, after all, 58.

My admiration for the complete outfit was interrupted by the chef / cook/ waitress bringing me breakfast. It was huge, delicious, and perfect. I gobbled it down, swilled some coffee, and headed out for the long climb out of Seiad Valley.

The hike consists of a walk along a highway for a mile, then some gradually ascending local roads for a few more miles, and then finally getting in to the forest for an elevation gain of about one mile. It was going to get hotter all day.

Initially, I enjoyed the hike. I found some nice traffic signs that had been riddled with bullets. I also found the home of the world’s toughest ground squirrel or chipmunk. It had dug a hole through the asphalt in the road. I thought that was one way to signal other varmints that they should not mess with your nuts.

The trail jumped off roads and went into the forest at a park. I wandered around the park looking for the trail and eventually got my bearings. For the next five hours the trail gradually climbed along a stream (Girder Creek) that got smaller. There were some impressive bridges built across the stream. I was also surprised to see a bald eagle in the narrow valley. Usually they are in open areas near bigger water.

Climbing away from the creek, it was hotter and water sources diminished. I had an interesting bear encounter. I was rounding a hairpin turn on the trail. It was steep hillside at that point. I heard something in the brush above me. I got close to the hillside and took a peek around the corner. It was a black bear cub. That was both cute and frightening. The cub was about 30 feet uphill from me. I dared to pull back a little further to see if I could spot the mom. There was no breeze, so I was hopeful that I would not be seen or smelled. Sure enough, I was able to see the mother bear leading two cubs across the hillside. All three were very focused on looking for food and not me. I was close enough that I might’ve been considered a threat, but I felt like staying put was the best course. After I few minutes I heard them crunch past and I scooted my way up the trail.

There was one section about a mile long where the shrubs had grown over the trail. It was a chore to constantly push through them in the heat. Then, the trail broke to open country and skirted along a ridge. The view was to the west and there was a bit of haze. I thought it might be a pretty sunset. Forest fire smoke is not good, but it can definitely spice up sunrise and sunset.

At last I reached Buckhorn Spring, a reliable water source. Some of the commentary on Guthook was that the deer around the spring were not afraid of humans. There were a few people camped already. I tried to get a site further away from the common campsites on the hopes the deer would hang out in the heavily used spaces. As a reminder, deer become “addicted” to salt. Once they correlate human urine or sweaty trekking pole handles with salt, they are dauntless in their pursuit. So, as the sun was heading down and I was eating dinner, I had no qualms about throwing sticks at the deer that kept circling closer.

While I was getting water, the lady who was trying to set a Fastest Known Time (“FKT”) came through. She declared on social media that she was going to set the FKT for southbound. This struck me as odd. Like saying you were going to run the fastest mile on a track clockwise. Anyhow, I felt sorry for her. Basically she would have to hike 40 miles per day every day to set a record.

I tried to get some sleep, but the deer, about six of them, kept crunching through the trees and swishing through the grass. Laying awake, I increasingly imagined them getting ensnared in the lines I use to stake out my tent. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep around 2:00, but the deer were relentless all night.

Day 42. August 7.

I love being an experienced, smooth, sophisticated backpacker. I am confident. I don’t need to impress anybody but myself and then just brag about it a little on my blog. This was going to be one of those days. Set alarm for 4:00 am. Break camp. Hike by headlamp early to avoid heat. Stroll into resupply town early.

The plan worked flawlessly up to the point when my headlamp batteries failed as I was taking down my tent. Fumbling around in the dark, I slowly got everything stowed and got walking. However, I was hesitant to hike very fast for fear of tripping.

Eventually, as the first rays of sun started lighting the way, I was able to pick up my pace. But then I was captivated by the sunrise on Shasta and stopped to take too many photos. Later, I came across a ridge where clouds were blowing up and over from the valley below. I experimented with the time lapse feature on my phone and burned a good 30 minutes.

I was surprised at how much uphill there was initially to get down to Seiad Valley. I was basically going to drop a mile in elevation. After a steady climb in the early morning, I finally started heading down.

The temperature was rising and the tree cover disappeared the further down I went. There was one slow, spring on the side of the hill and it provided an amazing break. A slow dribble of icy spring water is a welcome diversion on a hot day with little shade.

I came across a thistle plant that scared me. It was about four feet high, had red flowers, and was white. To me it looked like a fake Christmas tree at first glance.

I finally reached the valley floor around 3:00. It was flaming hot, around 95 F. In 5th grade science you are taught heat rises. In hiking, heat in a valley is always the hottest.

The Seiad Valley is a land of controversy. There is the new upstart Wildwood Tavern. A former local came back, fixed up the old watering hole and aggressively recruited the PCT backpackers. It featured overnight camping, showers, food, alcohol, and a “cool vibe” according to Guthook. At my age, a cool vibe means the refrigerator is making noise and needs service.

Countering this is the establishment of a cafe open for breakfast and lunch, a convenience store that has accepted hiker resupply packages for ages, and an odd, small RV campsite that hosts backpackers providing showers, tent sites, and a “clubhouse” of sorts.

I walked past the Wildwood tavern and made a bee line to get my resupply package. Entering the convenience store, an ancient lady croaked “backpack outside.” No please, just a command. The store smelled of mildew, decay, and sadness. I think she might’ve, too. I bought a beverage and got my package and left. It appeared I was the only one in town wearing a mask.

The RV camp offered backpackers laundry, tent sites, and showers. I secured a site and explored my resupply to see if there were gaps needing a supplement from the sad store. The shower at the RV park was, alas, sad. I skipped laundry.

Since the cafe attached to the convenience store only served breakfast and lunch, the only dinner choice was Wildwood.

I waddled down with my mask. I was told by a very young person on the porch that the tavern had its license revoked, was operating as a church, and if I wanted dinner I would have to eat it on the porch. Oh, and the dinner choices were vegetarian jambalaya or non-vegetarian jambalaya. It was 5:15 and dinner would not be served until 6:30, so I ordered a beer and sat on the porch, talking to a couple backpackers

A group of wealthy Bay area residents pulled up at 6:15 in a bus-like vehicle. They got out and sat at a big table on the porch. They were served wine, appetizers, and dinner. Off to the side, the other dinner-seeking backpacker and I waited as the Bay area folks got drunker, louder, and less coherent. And they produced a ukulele and started playing all the best ukulele hits which, as you might guess, are none. (To my unsophisticated ear, ukuleles sound like the dwarf love child of a guitar and banjo being played inside a wooden box or small bathroom. I don’t care for it.)

As the loud group was losing speed and diction, the server came by. It was almost 7:30. I asked when I would get my dinner. Taken aback, she asked “You wanted dinner?” I was going to offer a smart aleck reply about how I had answered in the affirmative when she asked me the exact same question two hours ago, but I did take pity on her.

I finally got my dinner. It was a bowl of rice, two slices of “sausage” and one tail-on shrimp. Honestly, I think I would’ve been better off with rice-a-roni and a sliced up hot dog. $15.00 later I was heading back to my tent in an RV park wondering why I look forward to town stops so much.

Day 39 August 3.

Like it or not, waterfowl announce the start of a new day. There were some Canadian geese that seemed to be overachievers and honked loudly as they did laps up and down the reservoir.

I intended to get close to Ashland, Oregon today. I had a resupply package at a lodge near the trail. Also, I had a reservation for a room starting the following day.

Even though I had lived in Oregon, I couldn’t recall ever visiting the Ashland area. Interstate 5 runs through it so I had been through there, but there is an appreciable difference between going by a town at 70 mph versus 2 mph. The terrain was hilly and treed, but there were a lot more open areas than I expected. Water was becoming a scarce commodity, too.

Early on I went by a dam that had been built for irrigation purposes. Now, however, the ditch was in disarray and water just spilled over the top.

Later in the day, I was running low on water and the Guthook guide indicated there was a “faucet” on a hillside. Usually Guthook is very reliable. But I looked where it said there would be a faucet and all I found was a younger hiker sitting in the grass eating her bag of potato chips. “Have you seen the water source that is supposed to be around here?”

“No. I looked and couldn’t find it.”

“OK. Thank you.” I said and braced myself for the 8 miles to the next water source.

“I did hear some running water over there, though.” she said

I guess it was my fault. I made a mental note to ask whether someone has seen or heard a water source in the future.

In and out of mixed pine and oak forests the rest of the day, I was getting closer to civilization. I could hear the Interstate traffic. Oddly, I came up to a gate in the middle of the trail. It served absolutley no purpose. I loved it.

Finally near 5:00 I was approaching a main road crossing the PCT. I intended to camp there and go Callahan’s lodge the next day. But the draw of town food and a bath was strong. I decided to make a go of it.

I hiked around some road construction and got near an off ramp from the interstate. A taxi was more than happy to pick me up, drive me 15 miles, and deposit me at a cheap, clean motel in town. It was centrally located near a grocery store, restaurants, and a laundromat. I checked in and hurried over to a steak joint. I told the cab driver I had been dreaming about fried chicken, my naughty food fantasy when I am hiking, and he thought the steak joint might have what I wanted. Just in time, I was able to order.

It turns out, even though Ashland is famous for its Shakespere festival, prompt service in restaurants is frowned upon. Nobody is more sympathetic in a restaurant than a backpacker. Knowing somebody is cooking fresh food, serving it to you, and taking the dirty dishes away makes hikers more patient than Job. Alas, I was tested.

When I was finally done with my meal and they unlocked the door to let me out, I was able to hit the grocery store. I knew I’d come back in the morning, but my “must have” item was epsom salt. The motel room had a bathtub and I was going to try soaking out some dirt and pain. Sadly, the only brand they had was heavily scented with lavender, a nod to the aromatherapy enthusiasts out there. An hour later I was one of the cleanest, most relaxed, and floral smelling backpackers imaginable.

Day 38. August 2.

The water did a great job blocking the highway noise. I was looking forward to hiking.

I crossed the highway and right away it was lava and boulders. What made it extremely annoying was that somebody had decided to line the trail with red lava cinders. They were about the size of walnuts but odd-shaped and sharp-edged. They were extremely uncomfortable to walk on.

It was one of those situations where nobody stopped to ask "is this a good idea?" Somebody had to buy it then transport it to the trail. Somebody had to level the trail, put perfectly good dirt down and then cover it with lava cinders. Finally, they had to have walked on it.

After suffering through the lava cinders, the forest returned and the trail was just dirt. There were a few raspberries at first. Then, the trail was surrounded by huckleberries. Huckleberries are wild blueberries basically. Overall they were probably about a week away from their peak. But I still found enough ripe ones to eat along the way. A younger hiker going north asked me what the berries were. I was surprised. I told him what they were and showed him how to tell when they were ripe. He was amazed.

The PCT went by another winter warming cabin. It had a handpump well outside. Inside was a trail register and three mice.

I passed a sign showing I had 1779 miles to reach Mexico. Better get moving.

Mid day I crossed a paved road with a parking area. There were a few cars. A burned area in the center of parking area caught my attention. You have to be pretty desperate to build a fire in the middle of a parking lot.

As I got close, I could see that somebody had tried to burn a pair of men’s underwear. Like the last time, my mind reeled with possible explanations, none of which seemed normal.

I ended up walking through some dry Oregon countryside. Rolling hills, brown grass, a few rare streams. I was pushing to make miles to reach Ashland in two days.

Late in the day, I realized I had passed my water resupply point. The tentsite goal was a reservoir that possibly had agricultural runoff, so I needed to grab some water beforehand. There was an RV campground on the way. I walked through and it was empty. I filled up and walked past the Manager’s RV. I shouted out to say hello. A fiery 70 year old lady popped out. I explained I was desperate for water and had helped myself at a spigot. Not sure if she was going to be upset, I was pleasantly surprised when she invited me to stop and charge up my electronics. People are good.

I pushed on through the heat and the setting sun. my goal was a campsite for people with horses. I figured it was a weeknight and there would be few if any equestrians there. My worst fears were horse dung and horse flies. But I reasoned that people who take their horses out for rides are usually very proud of their animals.

I got to the horse camp just as the sun set. It was empty and immaculate. there was cut firewood and even the pit toilet was spotless.

After a long day it felt so good to slide into my sleeping bag and listen to the birds by the lake say their "good nights" to each other. I deliberately blocked out images of burnt boxers.

Day 37. August 1.

To be honest, this was not the most exciting day.

In the morning I heard the clean, earnest hikers ahead of me. Yes, she was going strong.

There were some great views from on top of Devils Peak and the ensuing ridgeline hike. Mt. Mcloughlin was nice.

I also came across these interesting flowers. I had seen them on the PNT and they reminded me of Dr. Seuss drawings.

With the exception of a few bursts of flowers, it was mostly trudging along.

I ended up camping near a highway. I moved back a bit towards an irrigation canal to mute the traffic sounds.

Not all days on the trail are breathtaking.

Day 36. July 31st.

I was grumpy when I got up at 5. I packed in the dark. At the store, I charged my electronics and filled up my water bags. Nobody was stirring when I left at 6:30.

I passed some clean, earnest hikers going the opposite direction. By the time I got done with the highway walk and started on the trail, they had turned around and were following me.

I made pretty good time. The clean, earnest hikers stayed fairly close. It sounded like two men and one woman who wouldn’t shut up. I could always hear her.

Later, I entered a burn area. It looked relatively recent. As the temperature climbed, I broke out the umbrella. It is a luxury being able to create your own shade.

Towards the end of the day, I began an uphill ascent. I wanted to camp higher near water so I would be in a position to tackle a high peak (Devils Peak) early the next morning.

Fortunately, I found a great site that had a stream and great view. I pitched my tent, ate, washed clothes, and was glad to get in my tent by 9.

it was a perfect night. The only mistake was that my tent was in the way of an uphill deer trail so a couple times in the night bewildered deer were shocked to encounter my tent and scampered off. Far better than drunk RVers.

Day 35. July 30.

In my last post I mentioned how I try to avoid camping near roads. Last night proved my point.

Around 12:30 a vehicle came by with loud music and male voices. Somewhere down the road they stopped, made some noise, and then drove farther.

Around 1:30 am, a car drove slowly up the road, killed its lights, and stopped at the trailhead. I listened as one person got out. The sounds I heard were coming from the water jugs. It sounded like the person opened a jug, drained it, and then moved it around. Whatever. Maybe a local just needed some water.

Then the same set of sounds: plastic top off, glug-glug-glug, moving empty jug around. Repeat.

I was laying in my tent and considered the plausible scenarios. It could be a zealot that hates backpackers and was just dumping the water out of spite. I could confront them, but I had no weapon, didn’t want to deal with legal hassles, and could not call 911. Besides, zealots are zealots.

The other scenario I could think of was a local needed money. They were emptying the jugs to return them for the deposit. If that was the case, if they were that poor, then who was I to interfere?

So, I laid there and did nothing. It lasted almost two hours. It was depressing. Either it was a nut job or a desperate person. Society was not such a good place. I was frustrated at the situation and my inability to do anything.

In the morning, I went to see the damage. Guess what? All the jugs had been replaced by fresh, new jugs. It was the good samaritan who replaced all the water! In the middle of their night, they came out and put out at least 25 five gallon water jugs. Now my guilt was over not dragging my butt out of bed and helping them.

With my spirits raised, but my eyelids sagging, I started up to Crater Lake. It was going to be hot and the uphill started gradually.

I think it must’ve been the anticipation of seeing Crater Lake, but the walk seemed to take forever. I did see lots of backpackers coming down.

When I finally made it to the Lake, I was a little disappointed. Part of it was the usual shock of going from being a self-contained backpacker and encountering huge RVs where the people are so lazy they just drive up to the viewpoint and snap photos and drive to the next spot. The other part of the disappointment was the smoke that partly filled the crater.

I hiked the Rim Trail. My attitude changed. The wind picked up and blew the smoke out. Views improved. Crater Lake became a jewel.

If you have never been to Crater Lake and have the chance, definitely take it. Yes, it is just a collapsed volcano that created a crater. It is filled with water and there is an island. That is the description but it does not describe the beauty. It is huge. It is deep. It is the most unusual shade of blue. It is marvelous.

I got in line to get a cruddy hot dog at the cafe. Very crowded. I was out of place. I then hiked downhill to Mazama Village. This was a developed campground for vehicles that also had a section for backpackers. There was a store, restaurant, laundry, and showers, too. I had a resupply package.

It was about 4 when I arrived. I got my package at the store and got a spot in the backpacker area. It was $8.00. I was told there were no showers and no laundry due to covid. I tried to be as polite as possible and asked what exactly my $8.00 was buying since I could walk 100 feet to the forest and put my tent on the ground. The grumpy guy said a tent site and indoor plumbing. It seemed to me this was just like flying sometimes: you know you are getting screwed, but fighting it just makes it worse.

I set up camp, met some amazing people, and generally had a good night. One lady was from Portland and said she knew many of my high school classmates. Another guy from Portland opened a small bottle of Knob Creek bourbon and shared it. I was eager to go to sleep after that.

Well, just like the night before, sleeping around motor vehicles was a mistake. One set of campers in the RV section decided drinking and being loud after the 10:00 PM quiet time was a good idea. You know the inevitable: the later it got, the more they drank, the louder they got, and the less sense they made.

$8.00.

Day 34. July 29th.

I actually slept amazingly well. I got up early to a wet, fresh, sunny world. My goal today was reach the edge of Crater Lake National Park. It would be my longest day yet, 28 miles.

The downpours left rain on the trees and mini-canyons on the trail. The forest smelled great.

Most of the day was head-down hiking. There was a lot of ground to cover. Water sources were getting a little more scarce, so planning was getting to be more important.

A high point for the day was reaching the highest point on the Oregon & Washington PCT. Since marijuana is legal in both states, saying I was the highest person on the trail was really saying something.

Another personal highlight was going past Diamond Lake. My late Uncle Paul liked to make an annual fishing trip here. We always had to look at the photos. Always.

The day was clear and hot. Around 6:30 I came up to Mt. Thielsen. It seems like it’s Oregon’s forgotten mountain. It is a sharp spike and very impressive by itself, but just a little shorter and skinnier than some of it’s famous peers. There was a wonderful cold stream coming down alongside the steep slope. I was tempted to camp here. Instead, I drank up and moved on as the shadows grew long.

Cruising along in the shadows, I made good time. At last, around 8:00, I reached the trail head at the edge of Crater Lake National Park. Like Windigo, it had lots of 5 gallon water jugs. A local good samaritan kept plenty of water on hand to resupply backpackers in this long stretch. They dated the water bottles, too. I drank at least two liters. I would fill up again in the morning after the water cooled off overnight. I set up camp across the dirt road about 200′ behind some brushes.

There was one camper parked about a 1/4 mile down the road with some guy sitting outside. There was also a VW camper at the trailhead, but it was unoccupied. I sent a couple photos of it to my Dad.

Normally I don’t like to camp near roads. You never know when drunks or freaks are going to be around. This was an isolated road so I thought it would be ok.