A Rough Start

That was truly brutal.  I guess from a neutral perspective it included everything we wanted - breathtaking beauty, immense difficulty and simple courage.  But as I lay here off-trail, in a motel room we hadn't booked, at a time we hadn't planned, preparing to hitchhike up to where we're meant to be, the word that sums it best is brutal. 

I'll start at the beginning of the week.

On Friday, we hiked around Redding for some last minute supplies.  This was fun.   My mom had pleaded with us to take a gun, so Ben got into the spirit and considered his options.

As a minor cultural point, it bemused us both to see the royally fixated newsstands of America. 

We then hitchhiked out to Burney Falls.  Whilst most people sensibly ignore hitchhikers in America, the fact you can still hitch a ride, relatively easily, is a true credit to American culture.  We had to travel 50 miles, so expected to need 2 or 3 rides.  It took us about half an hour to catch our first lift.  

Our angel was Luba, a blonde California girl, born in Moldova, and adopted by Americans. She'd had a rough week, and  picked us up to distract herself from these thoughts. We enjoyed a lot of laughs in about our hour together, and learned that Luba is consistently one of those rare souls that, when faced with personal challenges, rather than get self absorbed like so many of us, looks for chances to help others.  She ended up taking us the whole way; if you're reading this Luba, thank you so much.  Keep the faith and come stay in London any time.

We were then on the trail, and after so much talking about it, it felt great to be doing it.  Within just a few minutes, we were graced with Burney Falls itself.

We enjoyed the splendor of that scene for a few moments, and headed south.  Buying supplies had taken a LOT longer than planned - we were starting the hike at 5pm instead of 11am - so were only able to get a few miles before we pitched camp in a secluded glen.

The next day started well - we were making a brisk pace for the first few miles, until the sun really started to shine on us. Ben looked like he might have sun stroke, with a ruddy complection, warm forehead and hazy eyes, so we stopped for a good, long afternoon break - from 12-3, to let the worst heat of the day pass us by.  As we would come to realize in the coming days, this place is just HOT this time of year, around 100 F every day so far. Add strenuous hiking and heavy backpacks, and you have a recipe for fatigue.

However, those factors are not why we're in this motel room.

That afternoon, we hiked about 8 more miles, during which I had a sharp sting on the soles of my feet. Just a few weeks ago, I had hiked about 30 miles in these same shoes and socks, so I knew it couldn't be blisters.  But whatever it was  sure did hurt.  I checked my feet during a couple of breaks, no blisters.  Ho hum, I thought, I'm just a tenderfoot I guess.  Man up and hike on.

Big mistake.  The next morning I woke with two walnut sized blisters, blood red in color, like I've never seen before, at the centre of the sole of both feet.  I didn't think to take a photo of them, but I did call my dad, as I couldn't remember whether you're meant to drain them or not.  He couldn't remember either, so while he did the research, Ben and I had hiking to do.  With Ben leading the way, we hiked what for me were 10 agonizing miles.  Each and every step felt like I had a thumbtack in my boot.  And we were hiking over rocky, craggy terrain, so every step was a little game of Tetris, trying to figure out how to place each foot on the rocks without placing the blisters directly onto a jagged edge.  The plus side - I didn't notice the heat or the weight of the pack at all!

All this while, Ben found his stride and is literally owning the hike.  He speeds off, so far ahead I can't even see him, waits for 20 minutes for me to catch up, repeat.  Experienced hikers coming north, who've just passed Ben, comment on the spring in his step.  

During the last couple of miles, with Ben about a mile in front of me, while I hobbled along on our walking sticks like crutches, I turn my ankle over.  Came crashing down to the ground so hard, in such pain, I saw nothing but white for a few seconds.  Attempting to scramble to my feet, in the blazing heat, with that pack, I felt like an upturned one-legged turtle trying to right itself.  That whole scene was just torture, but if only it was filmed, it'd be a funny YouTube video.

Fortunately, when I finally made it up to him, Ben was at a shaded water cache where we could break for a couple of hours.  There I had better reception, called my dad and found out I should bleed the blisters.  Here is one post draining.

Gotta love the sterile trail conditions, eh? Irony is I've never really had blisters before, maybe one or two my whole life.  And now I get a couple of whoppers.  

We were still behind schedule on our hike, so after a nap and a meal and the application of all the blister/ankle meds we had, we headed off for a 7.8 mile leg.  The first 6 miles of this were much less painful than before - draining the blisters had clearly helped, and whilst the ankle was raw, I managed.

We were treated to some majestic views of Mt Shasta, and the upcoming Mt Lassen, but the greatest beauty to me was seeing Ben.  He was resolute and cheery, quick to help me when needed, but also happy to get on with it. I'd have been inspired by him even if he weren't my son.

It was all going surprisingly well, until the last two miles.  The pain from the blisters returned en force, almost out of the blue, to where every step was a grimaced victory, every mile a personal triumph.  

We arrived at camp, where Ben really did all the work, and I just fell into a heap on my sleeping bag, utterly exhausted.  For the day, we'd hiked 17.8 miles.

That night, I awoke to the musky smell of a bear.  Instantly alert, I grabbed my light and spray, rose out of the tent, and scanned the area, trying not to hobble too much.  I heard the bellowing call of probably a moose or elk, but I don't really know the various sounds (or smells) of these animals, so to me, in the pitch black, I could only think bear.  Whatever it was, it was calling out for a good hour, and even after, I didn't sleep very much at all.

The next morning we had 7.4 miles to the next place where we could refill on water.  The ankle was a bit swollen, having had no ice, but it was walkable.  

Ben was, again, spritely and diligent, packed up camp while I changed bandages, and off we went.

The hike itself was a repeat of the previous afternoon - I was surprised by how little pain I had for the first few miles.  To be clear, every step still hurt, it just wasnt debilitating.  I used various techniques during these miles, found things to be grateful for, sang songs, told Ben dirty jokes, anything I could, and more than a few laughs along the way.

At the end of this leg, when we got to the water source, it had run dry.  Our own stores were already bone dry, and it was 6 miles to the next water.  I knew we couldn't make it without aqua.  I finally cried uncle.  I had hiked over 30 miles on blisters, over 15 on my ankle, but was unwilling to do any without water.  We hiked about two miles down to a road, hitched a ride to the nearest town, and here we are just outside our motel room, looking forward to our showers.

My feet now have three days to recover, (is that too long/short for blisters?) and we have to hitchhike the 60 miles to where we're supposed to be to resume the hike plan.

Some beautiful moments, and a respectable total of 48.8 miles hiked in the first 3 days, but for me, a brutal first leg.