Pacific Crest Trail Journal

A day in the High Sierras

March means dreaming about all the summer adventures ahead. Here’s an excerpt from my PCT trail journal so you can join me in some escapism!

Happy trails,

Mumble

June 22, Mile 836.5

My alarm goes off for a late start at 6AM. My head still feels heavy and my body aches despite the extra sleep. The elastic in my hoodie presses into my eyes. I roll over on the foam pad, and give myself three minutes to linger, but it’s not comfortable anyways, so I get up, and commence the morning routine. Consolidate all my gear spread out next to me. Ease myself out of the quilt and its warmth. Shove that in the bottom of the bag, followed by my clothes. Everything else in the mesh pocket or my fanny pack. Then I throw it all out of the tent, break down camp, and migrate to the breakfast rock, which is sufficiently far away from everyone’s tent, but who knows which flat spots will be attractive tonight.  

I spread out my sleeping pad on the crumbly granite ground and unpack my belongings again. Stove, pot, oatmeal packets, and peanut butter. The sky is gray, an unfamiliar sight in California, so I prop up my satellite device and request for a forecast. The tramily is starting to emerge now, frowning at the clouds. While I’m drinking my coffee, the message arrives: 30% chance of precipitation. “It might rain, but only a little bit!” I call out. Then it starts to snow. 

I laugh at the flakes twirling down, but still we all pause to dig out the rain gear. Everything that was in the bag comes back out, goes into a plastic liner, and back in. The mesh pocket’s contents migrate into the main compartment, and I wrap up my camera in a ziplock. I chug my coffee and collect my food, shoving today’s snacks in various pockets under my rain jacket. In over 800 miles, this is the first time we’ll hike in the rain. Everyone’s giddy, if not a little apprehensive. Once we’re all cinched, zipped, and laced up, I take a photo of the tramily in their rain gear, smiling. 

All morning we descend the Golden Staircase, following a stream into the valley. The snow turns to mist, hiding the mountains from view. I feel nimble and fast as I splash through puddles. Everything is glistening, and I gulp in the smell of sage. “I love hiking in the rain!” I declare and beam at the gloom. 

Then it’s lunch time, and everything’s wet. Where do we eat? Runway and Starfish are trailing, so we send Tank ahead to find a spot. By now we’re under the trees, but that just means the water collects on the green needles before splashing down on us in bigger drops. Granny and I pass two hikers camped out under a house-sized boulder, dry and warm in their sleeping bags. We wave and keep moving. Food. 

There are more boulders, but none that we can sit under. We keep descending into a valley. The ground gets damper as the soil deepens. I spot Tank huddled under a tree, talking to someone in their tent. Not shelter, but we’re too hungry to care. I collapse under the tree and fish out my snacks. 

We sit there numbly, for a while. I pick at a bar, and allow myself a goldfish every few minutes. The snacks must last for four more days. The girl in the tent is there to stay. She unfurls her sleeping bag, hangs wet socks, and wiggles into ultralight fleece pants. I realize I’m ogling, and ask where they’re from. My friend made them! She responds, and pulls out a bag of crushed potato chips and a spoon. I am desperately jealous that she is dry, and my mouth waters at the sight of salt. It’s time to move on. 

Granny, Tank and I march through the rain, over the now-raging stream and back up towards the next pass. As the chill settles in, I think about the last time I was this cold, when Jeremy came down with the flu mid-bike ride. I think about how easily I sprung into caretaking, trying to keep him warm. Step by step I imagine it: peeling off his cold socks, heating up the shower, pressing his cold hands to my belly. I fantasize about the soup and warm bread, and piles of blankets. I toe the line between torturing myself and finding solace. I keep hiking, up and out of the trees. 

Slowly, the gray begins to shift. I cheer, Tank! I can see your shadow! We all pause, and lift our heads. There are breaks in the clouds. Young marmots chase each other over a boulder. Tentatively, we unzip our jackets, and breathe a sigh of relief. Granny finds a few flat rocks, and we spread out our belongings to dry, and lie down. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not raining. I revel in the knowledge that I can now cook a hot dinner outside my tent, and watch a chipmunk take a dust bath. 

The trail has been quiet for days, and suddenly thru-hikers start streaming by. Tank jokes that they’re coming out from under the rocks. It’s fun to see people, but it’s late in the afternoon, which means the nearby campsites are going to fill up. Our campsite. I can feel the camp legs kick in and my heart beat fast. It’s time to go. But first, we wait for Starfish and Runway to touch base. When they arrive, I’m anxious to leave, and rush out. 

More hikers pass us. My camp legs can’t churn fast enough. We reach a stream, and I’m reluctant to stop, but I need water. Runway already filled up, and sensing the anxiety, she starts ahead to secure a site. I dip my bladder into a narrow, rushing part of the stream and watch it fill, but I wait to filter it at camp. Once the bladder is secured to the top of my pack, I throw myself up the switchbacks. My legs are so heavy. 

My eye starts to twitch, and suddenly, I need to sit down. My cheeks are flushed. Shit. I’m going to pass out. I plop down on the trail and lean on my poles. I have to get to camp. I need more food. 

I’ve bonked.

Starfish hangs back with me, and makes me eat sour candy. The sugar doesn’t scratch my deep well of hunger, but it nudges me up the mountain. Every few minutes I chew on another, rationing the energy. We plan to buy multivitamins in town, just in case. Slowly, we move. 

There’s a crowd of tents at the top of the switchbacks, but no sign of Runway, Granny, or Tank. So we keep hiking. The trees fall away, and we’re back in rocky meadows, ringing with the sound of a mighty pika. I’ll learn they often announce the end of a storm. We find the others nestled between boulders halfway up the pass. I pitch my tent in an awkward spot by the trail, where I shouldn’t. But there’s nowhere else to go. The clouds are rolling in to the south, and we watch the rain stream down miles away while we boil our little pots of water and wait for our food to rehydrate. The Garmin says 10% chance of precipitation, but I sure don’t believe it. But I don’t care, because I’m dry and right now, all I have to do is eat.