So, the total weight of all the previously-mentioned items, plus the weight of the food packaging, stuff sacks, and other seemingly negligible items I’m sure I forgot to record, is just about eighty pounds. I don’t own a scale, so I used objects of known weight to estimate the weight of my gear by comparison. Still, I think that the eighty-pound estimate is good to within plus-or-minus five pounds.
It is worth mentioning that I no longer plan to hitchhike to the beginning of the trail. My father, who is just a tad bit worried about my safety, invented a reason to go to Ashland so that he could drop me off at the beginning of the trail. I will still have to hike south a bit to get to the border, but he will get me close. Also, my friend Ty, a resident of Lake Oswego, offered to pick me up at Cascade Locks and take me at least as far as his place. Getting back to Eugene from there is still unknown in terms of transportation. My sister might be willing to pick me up.
Yesterday, I planned a trip in the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area with my friends Andrew and Guy. Our plan is to begin that hike immediately after my return from the ridiculous hike. I wonder if I will feel up to the challenge.
Here my preliminary entries are concluded. If you’ve deduced that I was a reckless, under-experienced, foolhardy individual, you’re probably right. Nevertheless, I was determined to prove to myself and to the rest of the world that I could successfully complete this absurdity. It became almost as much a matter of pride as a matter of enjoying the outdoors. Failure was not an option. I had played up the whole thing to so many people—most of all to myself—that an incomplete journey would be humiliating. I departed for the adventure convinced that only death or a severely debilitating injury could stop me. I simply had to do this.
Trail Narrative Part 1
8/9/08
I awoke at my parents’ house at five thirty. It was the first time in my life I had ever been anything but annoyed when hearing an alarm clock. This time, I was actually excited. I exited the house and tossed my pack into the back of my father’s Jeep. We then began our half-day drive. Throughout the morning, my small doubts grew larger and larger. I had fully expected the undertaking to be difficult—perhaps the most difficult task of my life—but with a time buffer of several months or even just a few days until my departure, it had still seemed distant. Now, it was here. As the hours in the Jeep went by, my drop-off point getting ever nearer, I almost wanted to laugh at myself for even attempting such a feat.
I had not asked my father his opinion of the hike, but had merely informed him of my intentions. That particular morning, as my doubts began to get the best of me, I wondered what he thought of the whole thing. Did he think it was crazy? Probably. Was he worried about my safety? Almost certainly. And he’s right, I admitted to myself.
We stopped for lunch at a fast-food joint in Ashland. I knew it would be my last warm meal for a while, and I intentionally pigged out in order to store as many calories as possible. Flame-broiled ground beef is a great backpacking fuel.
Just south of Ashland, we exited Interstate 5 and progressed toward Mt. Ashland Ski Area. I had printed some internet maps of US Forest Service roads in the area, and I now had a pretty good idea of how to access the trail just a few miles north of the border so as to limit backtracking. As we distanced ourselves from the freeway, the road became quite rough. We bumped along, advancing very slowly. I had not expected the drive to take so long, and I began to worry that we had somehow taken the wrong Forest Service road. Just as I was ready to throw down my map in frustration, we spotted a Forest Service employee walking down the road. What he was doing there, by himself and with no vehicle, I could not imagine. But he did have an extensive knowledge of all the roads in the area, including their USFS numbers. He recited, from memory and without hesitation, the fastest way to get to Road 2025, and where that road would intersect the PCT. The California border, he explained, was only a quarter-mile south of this junction. We thanked him and followed his directions to the intersection. It seems that the internet, with its immeasurable amount of information, is still sometimes less useful than a few words of advice from an experienced individual.
We stopped near a signpost with a small plaque. “Pacific Crest Trail,” it said across the top, with “National Scenic Trail” in smaller lettering at the bottom. The middle of the plaque depicted a tree and some mountains—the trail’s official insignia. We had arrived. I unloaded my pack. After a few pictures, I thanked my father for the ride, hoisted up my pack, and turned south.
I descended for a bit, and soon encountered some obvious signage indicating important mileages. “WELCOME TO OREGON,” the south-facing sign began. It then went on to note that I-5 was 28 miles away, Hyatt Lake was 51, and the Washington border was a whopping 498 miles down the trail. This last piece of information was about forty miles more than I was expecting, and led me to question the reliability of my seven-year-old maps. Perhaps the route had changed recently. Perhaps the sign was way off. I had no way of knowing. Great.
I activated my SPOT GPS device and waited at the edge of a patch of manzanita as the apparatus worked its magic. The recipients of the emails were family and friends, as well as Mike Stahlberg, the Eugene Register-Guard outdoor columnist. They would all be getting an “all’s well” message and a Google Map indicating my location.
The communication session done, I proceeded to hike north on the PCT, back to the road and beyond. In the first three miles, I gained about 800 feet of elevation as I made my way into the Siskiyou Mountains. Though not a terribly steep climb, this test of my endurance was far more trying than I had expected. Eight hundred feet in three miles is no big deal—unless you’re burdened with a gigantic pack containing a month’s supply of food. I began to curse myself for not having hiked with it before I left civilization. Apart from a stroll around the block in Eugene, this weight was new to me. I soon became soaked in my own perspiration. Reaching a crest, I glanced to the south. Mt. Shasta loomed in the distance, its peak covered with snow. I wondered if I would encounter any snow on my route.
The trail rounded a large, dusty-crimson hill (appropriately denoted “Big Red Mountain” on my map) and then began to decline as I approached Siskiyou Gap. At first, I was thankful for the break from climbing, but thankfulness was soon replaced by well founded fear. My right knee began to ache with every step. This downhill segment made it hurt in exactly the same way I had experienced when descending from Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. What I had blamed on the sandals in my August 6 entry was apparently something else entirely. I did not know the cause of this pain, but I did know that it was getting progressively worse and could ultimately mean the end of the trip. If I could not hike one day without my joints threatening to fail me, how could I hike across the entire state? I reached a flat spot near a road (one of the roads by which we had arrived, I thought) and called it a day. I had only gone ten miles or so. My knee ached. I was disgusted by this turn of events. Writing in my journal for the evening, I weighed the pros and cons of continuing:
. . . I managed to pull off ten miles today, starting at noon . . . but by five o’clock it was clear that continuing farther today would be unwise. All I can do now is lie in my sleeping bag and hope the knee feels better in the morning. If it continues to get worse, I could depart the trail
