The water was an ugly, brown, almost mud-like substance. I could not see my toes six inches below the surface. As I scrubbed the sweat out of my clothing, it was replaced by brown silt—only a slight improvement. When I tried to fill my hydration pouch, I had to stop twice to clean the filter element in my water pump.
I returned to my camp spot and ate dinner, thinking that I had made a full twenty miles that day. Rereading my map, I noticed during the last few bites of food that I had only gone eighteen miles. Oh, well.
Making sure to hang my pack before nightfall, I nestled down in my sleeping bag right at dusk and began to write in my journal by flashlight. I paused when I noticed two pairs of eyes staring at me in the dark. I could not tell what sort of creatures they belonged to. My thoughts turned to my poorly-hung pack, and I began to see prophetic images of the thing lying in the morning sunlight, torn to shreds. To acquire peace of mind, I flashed the light in the direction of my nighttime observers. The eyes turned away and flitted into the bushes, and in the moonlight I saw the white rumps of two blacktail deer.
8/13/08
I awoke feeling very refreshed. Going to bed on a full stomach probably had something to do with that. As the sun climbed in the sky and the temperature rose, I consumed my breakfast with great haste. I wanted to make some serious miles, and I knew that my surprisingly high energy level would not be enough to achieve that. I would need to get an earlier start.
Much of my day was spent hiking in forested areas. I was glad that I could be in the shade, as the day proved to be even warmer than I had expected. I stopped for lunch at a highway that my map referred to as “Dead Indian Road.” Despite the unpleasant name, the area was quite charming. Shortly after this road, I passed a camping shelter with a hand-operated water pump. I briefly debated in my mind whether this pump counted as a developed water source. True, the water flowed through a man-made device, but I had to use my own effort to obtain it. What a dilemma. Although I was nearly out of water, I decided to skip the pump in favor of replenishing at a stream depicted on my map. I would only have to walk a mile or so. I headed down the trail.
What I found when I arrived at the stream was nothing but a dry bed. Vexed and thirsty, I continued hiking, making for another stream not far off. I soon discovered that it, too, was dry. The next known water source was about seven miles away. I was not looking forward to hiking that distance with nothing to drink, but I cringed when I thought of the inefficiency of backtracking to the pump. I pressed on.
Advancing through the trees, I scanned my surroundings for any sign of water. The vegetation was all green here—a spring would not be marked by a color variation like the one I saw in the drier region near Pilot Rock. Just as my mouth started to become parched, I spotted a ditch to the left of the trail. Squatting down to peer into it, all I saw were broken sticks and forest clover. As I stood up again, preparing to move on, I thought I caught a glimpse of something reflective. Taking a closer look, I spotted a tiny trickle under the debris in the ditch, the product of a small, obscured spring that surfaced about a yard from the trail. I celebrated as I unpacked my water filter.
The next big landmark on the trail would be Brown Mountain. I could tell it would be somewhat large, because its image on my topo map occupied about half of the map’s surface area. Judging by the contour lines, it looked to be almost perfectly conical (and probably brown). As I came nearer to it, I noticed that it was largely covered by lava rock. The trail circumscribes the mountain at the base of its western face, and as I walked around it I crossed many large lava flows. I was impressed by how the trail retained its definition in these flows—the rocks below my feet had been firmly packed together to form an obvious track. I was very appreciative of the trail volunteers who had spent many hours moving the igneous stones.
The PCT began to descend a gentle downgrade. I was nearing my intended stopping place, Highway 140. This downhill segment caused the knee to begin whining, and by the time I reached the highway (twenty-three miles from my last camp) it was very sore. What had been a great day would now end on a sour note.
I walked across the pavement and found a small clearing by a stream. I would once again be hanging my pack in the dark, in manner humorous to any bear that saw it.
8/14/08
The noisy semi trucks on nearby Highway 140 could do nothing to prevent a sound sleep. After twenty-three miles, I was out like a light as soon as I rested my head on my right boot—my makeshift pillow. The next morning I rose with plenty of energy, eager to approach the majestic Mt. McLoughlin.
The first five miles of the day were uphill. I trudged for about two hours without stopping. The PCT eventually met the Mt. McLoughlin trail, which starts at Lake of the Woods and proceeds to the northwest until it reaches the summit of the mountain. Staring at my map with some confusion, I decided to turn right at the junction, thinking I was following the PCT. After a pleasant ten-minute descent (with no knee ache!), I realized that I was headed for Lake of the Woods via the Mt. McLoughlin trail. Apparently, the PCT and this other trail run in conjunction for a short while before diverging into separate paths once more. This, along with my poor sense of direction, had led me down the wrong track. Miffed by the waste of time, I burned many precious calories making my way back up the slope.
Finding the PCT once more, I continued on my northbound trek. As I drained the last few ounces of water that remained after the morning’s strenuous uphill climb, I decided to take a side trail to Squaw Lake to refill. This proved to be a longer diversion than I was expecting. As I made my way down the side trail, I began to wonder if I had taken a wrong turn. Finally, Squaw Lake appeared through the trees and I was reassured. I sat down and began briskly pumping my filter, the water pouch placed between my knees to catch every drop. To my alarm, the pump was not drawing any water and offered frighteningly little resistance to my pumping efforts. Something was awry.
Afraid that this could mean the end of the journey, I hurriedly disassembled the device so that I could troubleshoot. Using the pump lever with the filter element removed, I perceived that the rubber reed valve at the base of the pump assembly was not seating properly, causing it to suck air. How this had come to malfunction, I could only guess. I suspected that my habit of pumping the unit dry to save weight while hiking might have been the cause. I’d previously noticed that doing this created a strong vacuum in the filter housing, where typically there should be only pressure.
Having diagnosed the problem, I tried to deduce how to remedy the situation. I submerged the entire pump, minus the filter and housing, under the surface of the lake. I pumped several times, not really sure if this approach would help. Removing the device from the water and reattaching the filter assembly, I tried once more to procure clean water. When I felt the pump provide the familiar amount of resistance and saw pure water trickle from the unit’s output, I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen again, I thought.
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