Serendipity

So we hit the showers and the beds of the motel last Monday pretty hard.  But by Tuesday morning, we were ready to get moving.  We needed to hitchhike around Mt Lassen to catch up to where we should be on the trail.

This was nearly 110 miles; hiking would've only been 45, but that was a straight shot through a national park, and we now had to go around. 

Our first lift was from Rick, a former US Airborne Ranger driving trucks.  Great guy, full of a great sense of life, and duty, if perhaps a little too focused on Obama.  C'mon Rick, it's the system!!   :-)

Rick took us about 50 miles, and we had to wait less than 5 minutes to find Dan DeKock slowing down to help us.

Dan is a sixth-grade school teacher and, as we travelled another 50 miles with him, we realised he has some lucky students.  He described the geological history of the terrain we traversed, taught us the names of our favorite trees, and animals (turns out we've seen antelope and mule deer so far), and was a general source of enthusiasm and wisdom.  Amazing guy.

We stopped in Chester for lunch.  Chester is like going back to America from the 70s.  No strip malls, with all independently run restaurants and shops.  It was heaven, and from what I can tell of the pricing, an incredible holiday destination.  We may be back.

Finally Janice, a wonderful Lutheran lady, took us the last 10 miles to our place.

In all, we hitched for 110 miles, and it took us 3 hours (minus lunch time) to get there!

The St Bernard Lodge is a wonderfully quaint B&B, with Sharon doing her best to make it feel like a home.  They have nice, cosy rooms, a bar, pool table, games, hot tub, and a great view out the back.

The blister meds my dad had ordered from REI arrived (thanks Dad!) and as we tucked in to a couple of really great burgers, we debated whether to get back on the trail in the morning.  My feet were feeling much, much better after only 36 hours, and we'd be able to get 3 days ahead of schedule, instead of one day behind, which would make future delays less of an ordeal.

But the universe had other plans for us.

As we prepared for bed, Dan, the teacher from earlier in the day, had read the previous blog post and decided to invite us to join him, and a bevy of friends, for a light hike up to Rim Lake the next day.

It would be 6ish miles of hiking, and ascending about 1200 feet.  Just enough to test my feet and get us out there without a full-on day.  Perfect.

We met up with them and the day unfolded like few in my life.  I dont really feel I can do it justice here, but I'll try.

There were 6 adults and 11 kids between 8-15 yrs.  Everyone had a wonderful energy and we were soon trekking.  The third little mountain lake we came to was about 3500 ft altitude, tranquil and beautiful, with a rope swing off some boulders to about a 20 ft drop.  The kids were in heaven.  (Photos from this are on other camera).  

We then finished the climb up to Rim Lake, at 4200 ft, which means when standing at certain parts, you can see trees 1000 ft below.  The sheer scale is a naturally made slice of majesty.  We tucked into a picnic, and enjoyed some home made drinks Dan had brought.  

The kids ran around the lake, the boulders, and generally got up to mischief.  

Meanwhile I got to know Dan, Joanne, Scott, Dean & Celeste a lot better, and generally fell into a mood of transcendent gratitude - one of those times you just hope the tape recorder in your brain is working and you hope you'll never forget.  At one moment, Dan looks over at me, in what I can only imagine was an awed expression of peacefulness on my face, and says simply, "Welcome to California."

Indeed.  We went swimming in that heavenly lake just after, and it started to rain, such that the lake was warmer than the air, and the energy of such a group swimming, the warm vibes and positive energy were sublime.  Somebody said these days don't just happen, you gotta make em happen, and I thought how true.

Afterwards, they invited us to go boating, water-skiing, etc, on Lake Almanor.  As if it couldn't get any better!

While I was genuinely yearning to get back on the trail, I was also keenly aware that the point of this trip is Ben's Rite of Passage, and I couldn't help but notice how, as the day had wore on, Ben was spending more time with the two 15/16 year old American girls, who it must be said, seemed to be fawning over him a bit, too.  I watched him deftly flit between casual flirting, and ignoring the girls to play with the boys, then back to being witty and clever with the girls.  Ben is a pretty impressive kid, and it may be I've had prouder moments of him, but if so, I can't remember them. 

To top it all off, for the six mile drive of dirt road down from the mountain, Dan asked/let Ben drive the truck down to, as he whispered to me, help give him a bit more street cred with these teenage girls!  I'm officially starting a Dan DeKock fan club.

So as Rites of Passage days go for Ben, it was a pretty momentous day.  And as a soulful restorative for me, beyond description.

THANK YOU so much Dan and the entire cast of awesome people, including Amy who was so welcoming at her lake house.  We can't wait to show you some London hospitality.

We're now heading back on the hike, still managing to leave half a day ahead of schedule.  We've amended the itinerary a bit - instead of stopping in Belden we'll be staying at Buck's Lake Lodge on Tues or Wed of next week.

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.

Here we Go!

So it begins.

We're just so excited to get going...with a tinge of sober awareness.  Any true adventure should have a bit of danger.  This one has some, but for all the ballyhoo, in the history of the PCT there has never been a death from a bear attack, or any animal*.  Our dangers are more likely to be down to lack of available water, poise or stamina, and I'm certain we'll be strong in two out of those three areas. 

The weather forecast has a heat wave and drought hitting California.  Over the next three days of hiking, we'll spend two days hiking in 41 C / 100+ F degree weather, during which we'll hike 34 miles between water re-supply points.  So that's almost literally a baptism by fire to start the hike, and hydration will be key.

While that makes me nervous, I also marvel at our modern world, and how we're able to know, and prepare, for this before we embark. 

We're ready.

Of course, that's not going to stop the achingly beautiful nature of a mother's worry, wishing farewell at the airport.

Today was a big travel day, 19.5 hours in planes and airports.  The last leg from San Fran to Redding was my favorite - there's something romantic about those smaller prop planes.

I'm now having a beer in the Hilton, and if I have another one, or a blog post, in the next 6 days, something's gone wrong.  The hike starts in the morning, with a little supply shopping, followed by a little hitchhiking out to the trail.

Night.

*When bears and other wild creatures realize what easy prey we are, they head to far more populated areas than the PCT to enjoy their easy pickin's.  

The Hike Plan.

Stock photo, just getting into the spirit...

We board a plane for California 3 weeks from today, so the plan is coming  together.  Today, I finalised the miles we hike each day, the extra time required to climb the steep bits so we know when we'll finish each evening, so I could book where we'll be staying on our rest days, all that sort of thing.  

About every 7 days, we're coming off the trail for a shower and a nice cold beer.  Today I called every lodge/ranch, just to make sure the reservation was confirmed and that they stock cold beer.  Thank goodness I did.  The original plan meant we would arrive in a town called Belden during the same evening as a Techno Music Festival.  Can you imagine?  Taking your son half way around the world to connect with him, to bond, to, as Thoreau said, "live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if we could not learn what it had to teach".   Can you imagine, in the midst of that, arriving to the repetitive percussion of a mind-numbing rave?  

To be fair, a rave in the Sierra Nevada Mountains would probably be pretty amazing, but not the sort of Rite of Passage we had in mind, so I changed that part of the plan.  Everything else has gone pretty smoothly.

Until, that is, I looked at the handy chart that Craig's PCT Planner creates for you once you've finished working out all the details.

The profile for elevation gain of the specific section of the hike we'll be doing.

Over the 26 days, we will hike 38,000 feet of elevation gain, or nearly 10,000 feet more than the height of Everest.  Or put another way, to the height that planes fly.  Or more than 7 miles of vertical distance.  Groan.

Here's the plan summary for when we'll be doing which part of the hike.

So you can see, from the 11th of August to the 20th of August if you think of us, just know that after climbing nearly 2,000 feet a day during that stretch, we're probably sleeping pretty well.

Ben on the Campaign Trail

This last weekend, Ben was asked to speak during the 'Values in Action' slot at our church, Rosslyn Hill Unitarian, and share details about the Big Hike.  The church has generously offered to donate half of this month's collection plate to the Prince's Trust, on Ben's behalf.

Afterward, Patrick had a few words to say about Ben.

The incredible camera work is down to the sensational artistic talent of Ben's father.

Three Day Trial Hike

At the start of the hike, in North Carolina.

With just 3 months and 3 days left before the real thing, Ben and I embarked on a little tester hike on the Appalachian Trail (AT).  The plan was to test all the gear we’d bought or borrowed, and to give our legs a little reality check of what is in store.

Fortunately, we had a guide.  During the confusing consider-your-gear stage, I was overwhelmed by the options for every type of gear you can imagine.  Literally dozens of tents, bags, shoes – even socks!  Whatever happened to grab a tent, a sleeping bag, and just hike?  At this stage we'd met Cullen Cole at REI, who is great.  He’s hiked the AT, the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and the Great Divide Trail - the Holy Trinity of long distance hiking pilgrimages. He not only helped us get the right gear from REI, but in a few instances recommended other gear he felt was better than REI’s – a rare breed.  I’d asked him to join us on the trial hike and he planned the route, so we had a guru with us.

We joined the AT near the Georgia – North Carolina border, via a steep incline up to Deep Gap.  That first 3-mile leg was a vigorous ascent – at its steepest climbing over 2000 feet in under 2 miles.  To put this in context, we climbed to the top of a 160 story building in 2 hours.  We both felt our legs burning – Ben looked at me anxiously with eyes which groaned, “You wanna do this for a month – no friggin' way!!”  It was a low moment to start the trip.

After the drive from Atlanta in the morning, it was already 4pm, so we decided to look for a place to camp.  We hiked 3 miles southbound, which was full of the gentler, rolling hills one hopes for in a hike, to Muskrat Creek Shelter, and found the hut full of AT thru hikers.  They were a friendly bunch, if not exactly determined.   Everyone we spoke to had been hiking for 14+ days, and averaged about 5 miles per day – less than we had hiked since 2pm that day.  We bade them well, but I secretly felt that instead of hiking the AT, they were there to escape their own personal challenges, rather than face them, or those that the AT presented. 

Cullen proposed we go for Crooked Tree, a nice camp area that was 3 further miles through steeper terrain.  It was already 6pm, and as sunset was 830pm, we knew we’d have a challenge in front of us.  I was worried it might be too much for Ben, after the earlier climb.  I looked at him for the decision.  His eyes narrowed with resolve as he declared, “Let’s get going then.”

Ben roared off with a strong pace, even though the hills were both longer and steeper than the mid-section of the day.  The previous night’s temperature had been below freezing at 22 F (-5 C), and it had been snowing a couple of days before, so we now felt a biting wind cutting across the ridges we traversed as evening approached.  Ben seemed not to notice as the miles swept by; twice, I pointed out other options to camp.  I worried we’d arrive only to find the camp area taken, and have no light to find another, pitch camp (it’d be our first time testing all the gear in the actual woods) or gather fire wood. 

At the 1st camp, Ben pitched the tent while I lit the fire.

Before long, my fears were squashed, as we arrived to find the empty camp area with an hour to go before sunset.  Ben had led the way and we'd found a great place to camp.

So just a few notes about the gear:

• Tent – Big Agnes from REI, was easy to set up and take down, and light, if a bit expensive.  Hopefully, we'll get years of use out of it.
• Backpacks - the biggest winner of the trip, the ULA backpacks were awesome.  Light, durable and affordable.  And for the first time in 20 years of backpacking, Cullen taught me how to wear one - putting the weight on the hips instead of the shoulders!
• Sleeping bags - mixed bag here (pun intended); I had a super-light one, as I'm carrying more stuff, and had got Ben a cheap (heavy) one.  But I was feeling some fatherly guilt about this... I'll have to upgrade him.
• Air mattress - the neo-air was the biggest let down.  It's just too smooth and my sleeping bag kept sliding off it.  I'll be down-grading.
• Hiking poles - surprise hit.  I thought they'd be a waste, but we both liked using them.  I'll have to get a second pair.           

On the 2^nd day, we woke up a bit late, and started hiking about 1030am.  Again, Ben led from the front for most of the day, and it was this day Ben refers to in this video.

Mostly, we got into a nice rhythm, and just enjoyed the miles as they went by. Again, a few times we passed by AT Thru Hikers whose heart didn’t seem in it.  By then, I started to wonder how we would feel and act after two weeks without a soft bed or hot shower.  I felt bad for feeling critical earlier, and just full of admiration they were here, regardless of their purpose.

Toward the end of the day, as we climbed to the summit of Standing Indian Mountain where we hoped to camp after a short, 12-mile day, two things happened.  First, I had my own low moment, of the why-in-the-heck-am-I-doing-this variety.  My knees were aching, and I knew this was nothing compared to the PCT.  As I watched Ben leading the way up yet another switchback, I felt a little like groaning myself, until the second thing happened.  

Glad we missed the hosts!

We smelled a bear.  Of course, Cullen was the first to notice the odor, having seen, and smelled, many bears in his travels.  It was a lurking, musky scent, and permeated the air.  Ben and I waited for instruction – what does one do about the scent of a bear?  Should we retreat?  Which way?  We waited for a few moments, until Cullen decided the bear had passed this way not long ago.  I have no idea how he knew that, but he said we should just keep hiking, and for some reason my knee stopped hurting just then, which was nice, and we scampered up the rest of the mountain quite quickly, thank you very much.

There, we enjoyed the best views of the trip – a glorious scene over Lake Hiawassee and the Blue Ridge Mountains.  The camp ground itself was surrounded by soft grass, there was a fire circle of stones already assembled and there was plenty of firewood around.  And best of all, we had it to ourselves.  It was far more perfect than one can generally find in the woods, but just the type we all optimistically imagine is the norm.  I sat back, enjoyed the Long Island Tea I had brought with me, and felt like I was in heaven.

Pure majesty, as we enjoy some mac/cheese and watch the sun set over the Blue Ridge Mountains.  

Perversely, at the same time, I was aching all over.  My right knee was still sore, and I was just tuckered out.  Whilst these miles had been a good little trial, the AT is a lot easier than the PCT, as these altitude profiles help illustrate (AT vs PCT).  Ben and Cullen volunteered to hike down to the stream for water (thank goodness!), and I took a few moments to think - this is going to be tough.

That evening, we talked about the plan.  We have two options for the PCT this summer.  We want to fly back from Lake Tahoe, so we're either hiking southbound from near Redding, or northbound from near Bakersfield.  The pros and cons seem to be:

• Northbound, pros - arguably the most beautiful stretch of hiking on this planet, just legendary; cons - more crowded, steeper, harder, and more bears.
• Southbound, pros - still amazingly beautiful, less crowded and, of course, less bears.  Cons - if we don't do the other stretch now, will we ever??

The next morning we hiked back down to the car, just a quick 4 miles of descending.  Ben led the way, and I found myself feeling comforted by his enthusiasm.  After his initial wobble, he had approached every incline with determination.  Not every 13 year old boy would embrace the hardship of 'roughin it', but Ben was proactive and fun, and a joy of a companion.  As I consider the challenge in front of us, I'm not sure if we'll make 500 miles - just a few days on the AT made me realise what a gargantuan challenge that will be in just 28 days.  But I know the journey we travel together will be far greater than the miles, or the month we spend on the trail.

Ben builds the fire on the second night. 

Last morning, enjoying a mountain sized cup of coffee.

Just before the finish, alongside a gorgeous mountain stream.

The Magnitude Sets In.

 It’s five months and 10 days until Ben and I board a plane and fly to the Pacific Northwest on this mad adventure.

I’d like to share that this whole idea was a reflection of my life-long experience in the outdoors.  That I felt a quiet confidence in my ability as a father to guide my son in this Rite of Passage.   That I was a regular viewer of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls survival programs, and that, at the very least, I know all the theory.  But the truth is I don’t, and it’s beginning to scare me a little.

Sure, I’ve been hiking before.  Throughout my childhood, my father took me hiking, and fishing and hunting, all quite regularly.  I’ve built campfires in damp conditions and I’ve pitched a tent in complete blackness.  I’ve caught fish with nothing but some line and a hook, and fileted it into boneless shanks to fry into the most succulent morsels of fresh bass.  But mostly that was nearly thirty years ago, and I’m not sure how much I remember. 

And I’ve had some fairly mad adventures; I once hitchhiked across Africa.  I’ll never forget walking alone on the highways of Kenya, as the screaming local busses tossed themselves along the undulating roadway, passing by just inches from me, while I thumbed for a ride.  But I was the only one taking a risk there – if something bad happened it was only myself that could get hurt.

Hiking 500 miles in the Pacific Northwest is a different beast.  We’ll be in one of the remotest parts of America and, as Ben’s last post revealed, hiking with some very wild animals, a long way from shelter and water and any sort of realistic aide.  And most critically, my son's well-being largely depends on whether, to paraphrase the Boy Scouts, we're prepared.

With less than six months to go, the gears are creaking into motion to make sure we’re prepared for this thing.  We have dates.  We have plans.  We have recruits and volunteers into ‘Team Hike’ (thank you Dad and Olivia!).  And I guess we have that healthy level of fear brewing, which tells me this is definitely outside my comfort zone - we have a lot to do before I'll feel ready.

So it makes me nervous.   From the idea's beginning, I guess that’s been part of the point of this thing.  It's about transformation.  If I were a well-seasoned outdoors-man, this would somehow become a lesson in outdoorsmanship.  But I’m not.  I have just as much to learn over the next six months as Ben.

And whilst I’m in ok shape I am now a City boy and I have, according to anyone who’s ever seen it, the flattest bottom you can imagine (like, it’s concave), which is a pretty important muscle group for hiking 20 miles a day for 25 days.  So it’s going to be just as physically hard for me as it is Ben, if not harder.

So this Rite of Passage is going to ask a lot from both of us.  We’re both going into new territory, trembling from both excitement and nervousness, but preparing for whatever comes our way.  And if I don’t manage to light the campfire very impressively each night, at least I’ll be living by an important life principle I hope to teach my son: to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.