Goodbye California, Hello Oregon!

At some point during a long-distance hike one's admiration for nature and awestruck eyes become somewhat numb to almost everything.  Not only is this an indication of how long one has been immersed in thick forest, it is also an indication of how many miles one does on an average day.  The mere pronouncement of "five miles" normally doesn't draw much from the mind; we normally associate it with a five minute drive on the highway.  Thru-hiking is done without cars though and there are only so many hours in the day to work with.  A hiker that is in good shape can easily do twenty miles before five in the afternoon; and this will include a nice lunch break, ample time to turn one's head for views, and the ability to take a picture whenever the opportunity arises.  Twenty-five miles, just five more miles, becomes a whole new beast.  Unlike the quick drive that is forever ingrained in our minds when thinking about distance, five more miles for a hiker means two more hours.  Finishing the day by seven in the evening doesn't sound so bad, but if the terrain gets the best of a thru-hiker's feet then seven quickly becomes eight.  Then there's also thirty-mile days but I'll leave those for the time being to your own imagination.

In addition to the limited amount of time in any given day and the limited amount of a abuse one's feet can take each day on a thru-hike, there's the cruelty only a thick forest can produce.  At times some amazing views will dart in front of one's eyes and these views offer periodic breaks from trail induced madness.  A lack of regular views of something spectacular, or at least something different, often place one in a condition of watch-checking and mileage-counting.  This can be a dangerous thing to think about too often and I try my best to force myself to think about something; anything that can break the monotony.  A break usually ends with myself looking at where my next water source is at and then thinking to myself "hmmm... seven more miles, that's two and a half hours.  I just need to think about six or seven different things."  It becomes a time of self-reflection.  I sometimes argue with myself, I find myself filled with regret from my past, disgust from wrongful actions I've taken, I think about what I've done with my life, I recall random acts of kindness, I think about friends that no longer walk this Earth, I think about where I might go to work on a masters degree, I think about how grateful I am that I'm not still dating this or that person, I try to calculate the cheapest way to keep my truck running for another year or two when I'm done with this hike, sometimes I just flat out work out long division that relates to miles to water or to a known point every few minutes--I'm 1/36th of the way there, I just have to do this 35 more times... I'm 1/18th of the way there... and so on and so forth.

This awkwardly essential task of keeping one's mind busy isn't always necessary though.  After leaving Dunsmuir, the forest thinned out somewhat and a distant Shasta returned into view--still generously coated with snow in mid-July.  In this same area is Castle Craggs, a mountain range that looks like a fortress where giants from an H.P. Lovecraft novel must have made theirselves at home and tossed large boulders down upon their enemies.  These giants are long gone, but their boulders are still scatted along the trail and their fortress still stands and rarely fails to impress my eyes.  This area is also riddled with numerous lakes, each perfect whenever one is both willing and able to hike off-trail for half a mile to a mile at the end of the day.  When I went through I had no reservations descending down for a mile and several hundred feet down to enjoy Upper Seven, Bull, Big Marshy, and Statue Lakes.  These lakes are full of all sorts of fish that absolutely love jumping out of the water to eat unsuspecting mosquitoes.  These fish and I got along splendidly whenever I settled down to camp near their homes.  Statue Lake, like the other three, is also off trail, and well worth the visit.  It rests just behind Statue Mountain, home to a famous naturally occurring statue that resembles a short and corpulent little Batman.  The statue (along with it's less interesting friends) is quite a treat when one can view it from its front and rear in the same day.

After finishing this wilderness area I hitched into Etna--the friendliest town thus far on the Pacific Crest Trail.  The farther south in California one is, the more awkward and uncomfortable hitch-hiking can be.  People will find any excuse to look away; they often will stare with expressions of disgust; they may accelerate when passing one by; and sometimes they may just flat out gaze at you with raised shoulders, flailing arms, and an unusual expression of rage.  Do this long enough and eventually a kind soul will offer one a ride.  Going into Etna, this little ritual was not necessary.  I was passed by three cars going the opposite direction on a rarely traveled road, each car's occupants smiled and waved.  When a car did drive my way, I was instantly picked up, and my brain picked by a cheerful mother, son, and several curious dogs (their poor little noses must have been in overdrive mode).  In Etna I took the remainder of a short-mileage day off and enjoyed each and every one of my little trips.  It didn't matter where I was--at the hostel, the brewery, the grocery store, one of Etna's delicious dinners--each and every person I met was extremely friendly.  Most people who come across PCT thru-hikers mistake us for homeless degenerates or just poor fellows down on their luck.  The residents of Enta know who we are and absolutely love us.  It felt great.  When I needed to hitch out of the town I thought my hitch wasn't going to happen anytime soon--Reststop, Dude, Viper, Not a Chance, and the Croatian Sensation all were hitching when I was.  Instead of our mass becoming an impossible hitch it become one of the most suspiring.  City employees drove by us in a work truck and said they'd come back with a van.  All of us got a ride in a matter of minutes via the City of Etna's Police Activities League van.  It's almost like I wasn't in California any more and in some state called Jefferson.

It's amazing what even a short stop in a friendly town can do.  Etna was refreshing and the remainer of California felt like it went by entirely too fast--Razor Ridge, Fisher Lake, Marten Lake, Marble Valley and Mountain Grider Creek, and Seiad Valley.  The trail alternated between quick climbs and quick descents, between dry and cool, between rocky exposed sections and pine needle-laden trail below shady canopy.  What a relief, especially Marble Mountain, with its rich mixture of red volcanic colors and green ferns, it felt like Christmas in July.  The thought of being so close to Seiad Valley was another morale booster as well.  This little town is much more proud of its Jefferson State heritage than Etna.  In Etna I didn't realize I was there until I read it on my bottle of beer.  In Seiad it is posted on CalTrans signs, on the Post Office, on the trash truck, on the local diner, and in all other sorts of seemingly random places.  It's technically part of California, but its unique disposition always makes it exciting to visit.  My stomach was eternally grateful for the opportunity to swallow copious amounts of food at the local diner as well.

The final few miles of California went by quickly.  It's almost 1700 miles from the California-Mexico border to the California-Oregon border.  The mileage alone is in itself quite an accomplishment.  It's also a very meaningful milestone because the most difficult and largest section is over.  We only have two states remaining and they are going to feel like cake compared to California--they're smaller, they're cooler, and at this point I couldn't be in better physical shape than I am now.  Arriving at the border was a sweet moment and one in which I had no qualms carrying a little extra liquid weight from Seiad Valley to, so I could celebrate with friends.  Oregon already feels much cooler and the elevation profile for this state is exciting my knees, they should be getting a nice 457-mile break from endless climbing and descending.

One state down, two to go.  Time to conquer Oregon.