rather not. There is a store on the highway where I could buy pain killers, but I am afraid that without the constant painful reminder that something is quite wrong with my knee, I would further injure it by overexerting myself in my chemical-induced numbness. Bad idea. Waiting for a few days is possible, but I don’t count on the knee being in any better shape after the rest period than it was when I began this hike only ten miles ago.
This makes me wonder if I really am as absurd as everyone said I was when I announced this project. Did I bite off more than I can chew? Am I really just an underprepared, underexperienced moron who cares more about achieving the impossible than about employing common sense? I’d like to think not, but so far I have no evidence to back that up. All I have is a pack that feels twice as heavy as any pack I’ve carried before and a bum knee. I’m really not a reckless person. Am I trying to prove something to myself, or to others? I feel like a teenager who just totaled his car in a street race a month after obtaining his driver’s license. No forethought, all unplanned action. I didn’t even bring any first aid. What the hell was I thinking? I’m a better planner than this.
I am now lying on my foam pad in my down sleeping bag waiting to go to sleep. I haven’t eaten since BK. It’s eight thirty. Do I really want to violate my food consumption schedule on Day One? That would be a great example of a lack of stick-to-itiveness. Then again, if I depart the trail early, I’ll have plenty of leftover food. In the morning I will continue walking. If I am in agony by the time I reach the freeway, I will not continue, and the trip will be over even before it has really begun. We’ll see tomorrow . . .
I’ve decided that the last ten miles of each day (assuming that this absurdity is allowed to continue) should be followed immediately by sleep, not food. It would be better to eat the one pound of food the next morning so that it can fuel my hiking instead of my sleeping. For this reason, I will deny myself the one pound of food I earned today until tomorrow morning. The BK was my last meal in civilization, and as I was not yet on the trail at the time, I do not consider it to be a violation of the food plan, which strictly prohibits the purchase of any food during this excursion. No berries either, not that I’ve seen any. The only thing I will take is water. We’ll see how long that resolution (and this entire hike) will last. Even as I write my knee is feeling better, but its condition tomorrow morning is what really matters.
8/10/08
When daylight broke, I woke up and immediately decided to go back to sleep. A bit lazy, I confess, but I had decided to ease into the hike until my body was used to the level of exertion that was required. Of course, I could have just trained at home so as to hit the ground running when the hike actually began—but no. As I said: lazy.
When I finally got up, I felt quite sore from the previous day’s hike, as well as from sleeping on the hard ground using a very mediocre pad (I should have sprung for a nicer one, but alas, I had been too cheap). I commenced eating breakfast. It was even more unappetizing than I had imagined.
As soon as I hefted my pack into position, I knew this day would be three times as difficult as yesterday. In addition to the increased mileage, the pack itself seemed even heavier and more cumbersome. My body groaned under the weight, and my sides ached where they contacted the pack’s hip belt. I tucked my thumbs under the shoulder straps in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure there. I already had bruises on my shoulders.
Yesterday’s burger long gone, it was now only my meager breakfast that was fuelling my efforts. That fact was evident in the first five yards of hiking: every foot of progress seemed to require twice the effort needed the previous day. The success of the whole endeavor would have seemed impossible had not my knee recovered so beautifully. I barely heard a peep out of it all morning, and it remained quiet as I passed many sloped meadows and treed hillsides. Apart from experiencing more exhaustion than before, things were looking up.
The day provided me two temptations. First, I encountered a cooler on the side of the trail. It had been placed on a high crest that had a great view. A handwritten sign indicated that its contents were intended for “long-distance PCT hikers.” A stern voice in my head warned me not to peer inside, lest the lure of tantalizing tasties should ruin the integrity of the entire mission. California to Washington on one pack! No restocking! Still, I was curious . . .
I lifted the lid. I saw unopened soda cans. All this could be mine, I thought. I looked around and beheld the panoramic view. I quickly slammed the lid shut and hoofed it down the trail. I had resisted the temptation, but the trial in the wilderness was far from over.
A few miles later, I came to Mt. Ashland Ski Area. The staff had installed a public water faucet for use by hikers. My hydration pouch was nearly dry, and I was a bit skeptical of the small creeklets which my map indicated were farther down the trail. For all I knew, they were merely seasonal trickles observed in months nearly the opposite of August. I realized that I had not actually decided on my stance toward improved water sources. True, it was just water, which I was gathering and drinking already. Then again, it somehow seemed like cheating to accept help from my fellow human beings in this way. I had hoped to traverse the whole state with no assistance. Did a faucet count as assistance? Difficult to say. I decided to forgo the opportunity to replenish water when I imagined myself in mental agony on the north bank of the Columbia River, at the end of the hike, trying to decide if I would have made it the whole way without using that accursed water spigot.
After Mt. Ashland, the going really got tough. The trail itself did not pose any huge difficulties, except for a gradual decline to Interstate 5—a feature that set off the knee again. It had been so peaceful most of the day, but now it was throwing a real tantrum. As I made my way toward the freeway, its moans gradually gave way to wailing and I had to stop for the evening. I was just west of I-5.
8/11/08
Day Three began with a five-mile march on no breakfast. As I had quit on the trip’s twenty-five-mile mark the previous day, it was necessary to hike five more miles before eating my next pound of food. I was tempted to eat the meal early, but decided against that course of action because it set a bad precedent. Departures from the food schedule, I decided, were very dangerous. I certainly did not want to find myself entering the Mt. Hood Wilderness with no food and several more days of hiking to do.
Shortly after setting out, I began to hear the traffic of the freeway. The trail’s descent continued, upsetting the knee. I began to force my right foot to land toe-first so I could use my ankle to lessen the impact on my knee. This tactic seemed to help.
After the decline, I was ejected onto a paved road that goes under the freeway. I had not been able to tell from my map exactly how I would be crossing I-5. I knew that Frontage Road was somehow involved, but I had imagined walking on a bridge over the traffic or possibly making a mad dash across the interstate, narrowly squeezing through an intentional gap in the median barrier.
A couple miles after the freeway, I had gone far enough to eat my first meal of the day. I stopped at a gate just after crossing a gravel road. I was ravenously hungry, but after the first few bites, I seemed to lose my appetite. The salty items, such as the cashews, were the most tolerable. The rest of it made me gag. I was really beginning to regret bringing the marshmallows and syrup. They were a chore to choke down, and the energy they provided consisted only of a short, sugary burst that lasted just a few miles.
The repulsive repast complete, I set out once more. I was nearing a landmark called Pilot Rock, which I could see to my right. This particular area was quite dry, and the heat of the day encouraged me to take long, quenching gulps from my hydration pouch. I just could not get enough of the refreshing, lukewarm water. I continued to hydrate, thinking I had plenty in reserve. Suddenly, the flow stopped. The drinking hose would emit no more water. The bladder was empty.
In a mild panic, I stopped to look at my map. The next water that intersected the
