Chapter 21. Pacific Crest Trail from North

In Missoula the Siples welcomed me; we hiked and biked in memory for hours. They'd found gravel roads other than the Alaska Highway through Yukon Territory and northern British Columbia, met with tragedy in Mexico when a truck killed one of those cycling part way with them, had a special, expensive touring bike stolen in Central America (and failed to recover it even after a fervent television appeal in Spanish, which they'd mastered by then), shipped around the difficult Darien Gap as almost everyone has to do, and enjoyed the hospitality of far southern ranches as they finished their phenomenal tour of the whole western hemisphere. They thought I'd be in no danger hiking it, but allowed that cyclists have an advantage in being more easily recognizable as tourists.

My walks have been little noticed; in our society, he who doesn't blow his own horn has a quiet journey. But Bikecentennial in Missoula changed that for a spell. Their media man arranged articles and interviews that made the completion of 10,000 backpacking miles memorable. I enjoyed the attention. It was also good to learn that Missoula County's lenient residency requirement would allow me to vote without lying about how long I'd lived there. Like a citizen I passed out leaflets and prepared to cast a deciding ballot in the coming presidential election.

Moreover my mathematical past caught up with me; a classmate from graduate school taught here, at the University of Montana. She introduced me to colleagues who courteously granted faculty privileges in the library. I settled into a rented room near the music department's free recitals, and spent a quiet winter working on poems and reading.

But spring seemed to revive a primal urge. Even in winter the shape of a last, culminating walk in North America had been forming. How about a combined hike of Pacific Crest and Appalachian Trails, made continuous by walking from southern base of one to southern base of the other, a uniting of east and west not with a golden spike, but with a transcontinental horseshoe made of 7,000 miles of my pollen-dusted bootprints? I explained this peculiar idea in all the coffee houses of Missoula (by pencil corrupting many a napkin), but teasingly resolved to leave it on the drawing board where it would be less tiring. Alas, with the blooming of Phlox Missoulensis on Waterworks Hill, the oddity that would not lie down had me taking steps to make it a reality.

However, this walk would have a twist. Usually on the eve of a long one it's clear that there is nothing I want more. But this time there was an interior horizon that also beckoned, a research problem on the border of mathematics and physics that cried to be worked on. Long ago I had made a speculation concerning it, to which no one paid much attention, including me.

Now in a moon-blindness brought on by falling in love (with a waitress who didn't know I existed, what's another hamburger?) I knew with a deep inner certainty that the clue was right, that it solved the problem—plus or minus ten years hard work, of course. I thanked God and the waitress for a great victory, and asked myself many times if I could walk with that waiting in the wings? I could; the clue I sealed melodramatically in an envelope left for safekeeping; then a burden I prepared me. Stuffing a pack is easy, it's leaving your friends that hurts.

Before the walk there was a long bus-ride to see relatives in the South, especially a very ill niece in Birmingham. In your little sailor hat would you care to go roaming the spring yard with silver nuncle? Flutterbys merry flagged and unreasoning roly-polies were our trophies.

With visiting in Seattle and being misled by a forest information service about snow conditions it was a late start in 1977, June 14th. After a good sleep and hearty breakfast at Manning Park Lodge in British Columbia, the seven trail-miles to border went easy. There it was, the sturdy bronze obelisk so sought after by northbounders—Monument 78. Southward ho then, move them wagons! Shanks' mare to Maine; I am, sir, my own Conestoga.

Through Pasayten Wilderness the Pacific Crest Trail is fairly level; first deep snow was at Rock Creek on steep east-facing slopes. Steps could readily be kicked in it, at least when sun-softened, but I was glad to have the ice axe given by a climbing friend in Seattle. It was a couple inches longer than standard, which is useful when cutting steps downhill (makes it a better walking stick too).

Are big-foot prints inevitable in big-foot country? Are you certain to find elementary particles by looking sub-atomically? Never seen any before, says the skeptic. But there they were, big as brass or say two hands, and no claw marks, in the soft trail by melted snow-water. Could a bear leave such convincing toes? Wondering, I walked on to make camp at Granite Pass.

In came a foggy, menacing night. Hang the food against bears or hide it from big-foot in this believer's evening, that was the question. Close by, I reasoned, hoping to sting any unknown intruder with friend ice axe. No visit, even in dream.

In the morning's bright security a half day was spent going back to see those prints again. Just as big as I thought, but now vaguer from a shower in the night, perhaps they could have been made by a bear, say one who trimmed his toenails. Goodbye, big-foot, whoever you are.

Even in wilderness the most hazardous thing one is apt to meet is somebody else's dog. At Slate Peak I had the trip's first canine incident. Irish setters are usually friendly but this one wanted me so bad it took three day-hikers to keep him off. I waited, meaning to split his skull with the ice axe if they couldn't hold him. A dog is a loaded gun which the owner may uncock, if he's there and wants to. I've grown to fear and hate them, with certain honorable exceptions.

At Stehekin Landing on long, wild Lake Chelan I resupplied. It's part of North Cascades National Park now; the—surprise—friendly park rangers knew trails, and even helped nail lug soles back onto my moccasins.

Another surprise came as I walked again; in a little notebook bought for addresses and poems there appeared first a title, then a theme from Lucretius and a statement of wandering's birth. Will there be a book, can I catch in odd bright morning minutes what has eluded me in restful winters? Perhaps one who lives on the trail must write on the trail.

Climbing up Agnes Creek's trail toward Glacier Peak I relished the season's first blueberries. The snow was still deep around frozen Mica Lake but was otherwise manageable; I forgot about my escape route around Glacier's east flank and stayed west, enjoying magnificent views. This time I soaked every aching bone in Kennedy Hot Springs and camped nearby, sleeping long and deep.

Before Glacier's southwest rampart, White Pass, there comes the lower Red Mountain Pass. On it there'd been a steep snowbank even in August when I finished the trail in '72. Now, five years later, snow fell in an odd morning mist that caused a partial white-out, that I'd heard of but never before encountered. A horizon could be discerned, but nearby I couldn't separate snow-filled air from snow-covered ground. Falling often, I was glad to get over the pass and out of it.

At White Pass I spied a spruce grouse riding out the storm in the lee of a spruce. With my trusty slingshot I tried but failed again (once before, all I'd gotten was a fool feather). The slingshot was awkward to pack and not paying its weight in supper mulligans. I was a better forager, having already found plenty of little potato-like spring beauty tubers.

By Stevens Pass the snow had become rain; it was good to hop a bus for rest and drying out in Seattle. I'd lost eight pounds in ten days, have to eat more. No problem, a distance hiker soon eats like a horse anyway.

After a weekend of blessed un-toil I was back at the pass ready to walk, but disappointed that a just shut-down restaurant couldn't serve me the big breakfast counted on. But hunger is the best sauce; the food on my back sufficed. Up the hill then, and down; some motions are good for the soul.

There is the lean-to where the Californians caught up with us in '72. She'd seen me from afar and was dying of hunger, as the Bushmen say. I had brewed a pot of strong tea with milk; plus cookies we had had a party. It still surprises me how effective communication can be, just gossip over hundreds of trail miles. She and her group had heard of us, meant to catch up and we'd heard they were trying. The chase and party had given a sense of community that was warm to remember.

Lake Ivanhoe is on this stretch, exemplar of alpine lakes. As you walk hushed around its rocky border, seven waterfalls can be counted above, crystal ribbons holding its blue suspended from nearly encircling cliffs. So full of Ivanhoe, I paid little attention to garden-like Dutch Miller Gap that followed.

Over the Gap a way led down toward Snoqualmie River's Middle Fork and Goldmeyer Hot Springs. We'd missed the springs in '72; this time the obscure creek bed, once a carriage road, was before me. A dash up the rooted path, a stunned look at bathing nudists, and into the blessed hot I sank. Later they came trooping past, eyes down. The trouble with seeing a woman's breasts before you know her is that it inhibits conversation.

In a shack below I camped, clean. Another hiker showed up, sharing thick peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches from town. I think his shirt was available too, if needed. You meet such on the trail, and it's like a saint passing.

A steep climb to Snoqualmie Pass completed the section; on another bus I traveled back to Seattle for the last visit with my friends and their berry patch. There I cut off the legs of surplus wool pants to make walking shorts; summer was on me but I still despised the clamminess of wet jeans. A dervish sped the hands of their clock; I don't remember if we even finished the last breakfast crossword puzzle. What is a two-letter word for parting to fit opposite a black and tan Polynesian banana?

Back at Snoqualmie there was the trail with its blessed rhythmic requirement. The way led to Stampede Pass amid confusion due to timber cutting, then finally to the ridges dominated by Mount Rainier. But it was hard to believe what I saw; several drought years had reduced the giant to a faded daguerreotype of itself, more blue than splendid white. Perhaps one should learn patience from the hills but I wanted it to snow again, soft relentless blanket that brings our winter sleep.

The Indian berry-friends were lush, the fruit begging not to fall unfulfilled to stony earth. I did my best before reaching the twenty-foot pole that should have been remembered, the one with a warning on top not to pick these berries. To cheat the Indian is habit-forming, it seems. I told myself they meant pickup full, not belly full, but there were no lawyers handy to argue the case.

Rainier country's White Pass would be my last supply point before the Columbia River. This time I used the trail shelter, after buying groceries from the store and receiving a disturbing phone call from kinfolk. One of them needed help that I didn't see how to provide without using money meant for finishing this walk or repairing an ear that badly rang. Back at the lean-to worrying, I was visited by a sleek mink or otter who contributed nothing to the discussion except a bright look. Walk on then, and hope for the best.

Around Mount Adams I met the first thru-hikers up from Mexico, I knew them at a glance, gaunt Don Quixotes all, but they didn't know me, and incredulous grins would form when I asked how they had liked Fuller Ridge (the easiest place to get lost in Southern California).

I'd then congratulate them on their achievement; they usually suggested psychiatric treatment for anyone like me who'd attempt the Pacific Crest a second time. Then we'd get on to whether Ryback really completed the trail, with me on the unpopular side defending him. A dropped lawsuit was part of the brouhaha. Shouldn't I sue the doubting Thomases for causing so much conversation?

The flanks of Mount Adams are wild and lovely; I had an impulse to climb the snow giant again, but fought it. Usually on a long walk such diversions don't even tempt; it would seem like serving two masters. I won; that my feet were hurting from the old heavy boots I'd had sent to White Pass (the moccasin-boots badly needed repair) helped decide it. On to the Columbia!

It got hotter the last day; where the new trail branches west from the Dog Mountain route I had lunch after an appetizer of serviceberries. But my quart of water wasn't even enough for lunch and I hoped to find some soon on the way down. No such luck; the only moisture I found was in thimbleberries.

I ate a ton of them, learning to hate the sweetness which seemed to stand between me and the little water they held. Down, down, down; one of the switchbacks had to have water. But there was none until near the campground; sixteen miles is far on a quart of water in what I later learned was 105-degree heat. That's how careless you can get when you're experienced and competent and know it all.

Next morning, footsore, I was trudging on pavement toward the Columbia River when a family near Carson put me up in their creekside cabin, bringing down from their home a fried-chicken dinner. Thus it was a well-rested hiker who crossed the foamy Columbia's Bridge of the Gods to Cascade Locks. My luck continued; while waiting for the bus into Portland, a passing trucker offered a ride. After a phone call to my son's Vedanta monastery we were together again, with much to talk over.

He couldn't come with me, but could get the boots repaired and send them to me. He'd keep the heavies for logging in the fall—versatile men, these monks. Would I be barefoot? No, there was lying about a pair of his cast-off moccasins, much torn but good oil-tanned leather, and some composition sole left. I patched furiously, paid a cobbler to mend places I couldn't reach and had first class light footgear to last, hopefully, for a month's walking until the others were repaired and mailed.

With vegetables he'd grown himself as the order's gardener, my son made us a tasty dinner. He was progressing in Sanskrit, beautiful as algebra which, as everyone knows, is like a crystal palace. I hated to leave him but was glad to get out of Portland because of 106-degree heat. Portlanders weren't used to this; they hung out of bus windows like dying fish. Goodbye, thermal disaster area; hello, Eagle Creek trail, where waterfalls cascade in a cooling sheen even over the footway in one place.

Out of Columbia River's deep gorge the Crest Trail climbs toward the ribs of Mount Hood. The first part along Eagle Creek is a hiker's alternate (too exposed for horses). Even in a drought year it didn't disappoint; walking behind the waterfall was especially delightful in continuing heat.

Because of the heat, fires were banned. This had me cold-camping, eating sandwiches and crumpets that require no cooking. The rumor was that Northern California was so dry that even portable stoves weren't allowed. The volatility of gasoline is such that I wonder if it should ever be allowed in areas of fire hazard. However, this is a minority position; most hikers think a gasoline stove is safe.

It was good to see Ramona Falls again, reduced flow but still lovely. Up and down the canyons of Mount Hood the trail went, with no trouble this time crossing swollen streams. At Timberline Lodge I met more thru-hikers up from Mexico. We caught the shuttle bus down to Government Camp for supplies. Expensive, but you don't argue with the only store in town.

After Timberline comes Barlow Pass, named for the pioneer who hacked out a forest route around Mount Hood to avoid paying exorbitant fees to Columbia boatmen. Somewhere between the endless ridges was Little Crater Lake that I'd missed in '72. Easily found this time, it quite surprised me. A huge spring filling an inverted cone, so deep its waters are an unearthly pale blue, it hasn't the darkness of Crater Lake but is in its own way also of surpassing beauty.

Another hiker showed up at the campsite nearby; wet, he had little prospect of sleep with only a blanket for cover (his sleeping bag had been stolen back at Ramona Falls). I lent him a warm cap and sweater and offered some hot buttery mulligan stew (rain and wind had by now made a fire safe and a sleeping bag desirable).

We hiked together a few days; despite his chunky appearance he was a tremendous athlete. Once we hiked from before dawn to afternoon in order to reach Middle Sister Peak which he meant to scale, pitching his tent already in a meadow in case he got down late. I went on seven or eight miles, camped, had supper and was crawling into my sleeping bag when, to my amazement, into camp he came.

He'd climbed the peak and still caught up with me before dark. But I hadn't cooked enough for us both and didn't offer the mulligan saved for my breakfast, which hurt his feelings. And perhaps I was curt anyway, feeling that his awesome strength somehow showed me up as a weakling. Thus ended a friendship, and I began to realize what the long walks were costing me in ability to associate with others on more than a casual basis.

But if that hike to the Middle Sister was a social failure, it afforded a scenic triumph. At one of the passes in early red light, four of Oregon's sentinels lined up nearly tandem: Hood, Jefferson, Washington, and Three-fingered Jack. This view gave more striking proof of their kinship than could any geology text.

The cast-off moccasins served me well; even on the jagged volcanic rock before McKenzie Pass, by going slow, I could manage. But they caused a route change at Devil's Peak; here a driving rain turned to snow too slippery for worn soles. Somewhat dejected I walked around the mountain, but a lucky man finds gold in his shoe.

Mare's Eggs Spring it was marked on my Forest Service map; I turned off for a look. A sign had it named nostoc by Paracelsus and star-spittle by the awed ignorant who couldn't believe it belonged to earth. Finally I saw some in the deep spring pools, baseball-sized globular clusters of weirdly beautiful yellow-green; I agreed with the ignorant.

Technically a blue-green algae, occurring in only a few places of the earth, nostoc was much prized by the Chinese as a culinary delicacy. I thought idly of gathering some for supper, then fear of Arcturus fever restrained me. But I wouldn't have missed that detour for anything. All roadwalks aren't bad, if you're lucky.

By Lake of the Woods I was back on the old trail at least; I anticipated another good rest at the lodge as in '71 when first walking this part. But the management had changed and their rates seemed high for off-season; they then directed me to a hovel of packing crates in the woods.

I didn't feel very welcome, and was especially chagrined upon meeting in the morning a young hiker who'd been invited into their bunkhouse as a kindred spirit. I suppose a philosopher would reflect that many times the shoe would be on the other foot, with grey temples helping me, but there was no Spinoza in me that morning.

There was much roadwalking to Ashland where I expected the repaired boots by mail, but they didn't come. Since the moccasins were now really spent after a month of Oregon trails, I bought a cheap replacement pair. Then after a feast of apple fritters I set off again, accompanied by the hiker who'd been well received at Lake of the Woods.

The trail is ridge road next with deer hunter access; at one point we got lost but regained the ridge and finally a trail. Then comes the beginning of the very rugged Klamath Range, reddish peridotite barrens, and stunted-growth timber having a hard time surviving in terrain that some believe is geologically the same as the Pacific Ocean floor. For the hiker it means unusually wild views and many strenuous ups and downs.

Then Oregon is ended and California begun as the trail descends steeply to a favorite town of hikers, Seiad Valley. There one gorges on ice cream and thick sandwiches, receives mail, and says goodbye to fellow hikers who are leaving the trail. My repaired boots finally came; I sent the replacements away to be stored.

In the morning, autumn and Spanish America were to be walked. The yellow and brown season is fragrant of fulfillment, but also has its winds of apprehension:

Perhaps I'd looked forward to the Marble Wilderness too long, and who could blame the cattlemen for overgrazing in such a severe drought? But I was disappointed even in the quality of the trail and its marking, which was said to be the best in northern California. I fell to wondering why the trail had been diverted over to the coastal range in the first place, and what finally constitutes wildness?

The Pacific Crest Trail in the northwest has a clear geographical intent; it threads its way around, but still among, the snow giants of the Cascades. Perhaps because of the clear impossibility of maintaining a trail over crevassed glaciers on mountain tops it crosses passes instead of summits, which, upon reflection, is exactly what a long-distance footpath should do. The opposite course of routing the trail over every summit in sight, which to casual view is how a crest trail should be planned, is usually a boon only to local mountaineers.

The long-distance hiker after a few hundred miles adjusts to the reality of a nation-spanning trek and begins to seek more natural routes. He isn't after triviality, the bus or thumb would still give that, but neither is he in the game of proving how tired he can get on a given weekend. For the very practical reason that he hasn't a week back in the office to recuperate. That week and the next and the one after that is for walking; if the long-distance hiker forgets this, his weariness increases until he can't take any more, and he quits.

I thought of these things especially when catching glimpses of faraway Shasta, next to last of the Cascade monarchs (at Lassen the trail winds about its side as expected). And I reflected that the old military road taken around the east flank of Shasta in '71 was certainly wilder than the Marble Mountains when overgrazed, although in a normal year they may be beautiful. Even so, the beauty of the Wind River range in Wyoming would be no reason for routing a Pacific Crest Trail there. I suspected that, if ever mad enough to try the trail a third time, I'd again make my own route closer to Shasta.

At Etna, first resupply in California, I wondered if there shouldn't have been less reflection in the Marble Mountains and more tight holding on to traveler's checks. But lost they were; after a Sunday rest in the town hotel, they could be replaced when the bank opened.

At lunch I was reminded that this state also contained Hollywood, for down the counter was movie star Chuck Connors without his rifle, surrounded by admirers. Even without the halo I probably wouldn't have asked him what I wanted to know, if he missed his career in baseball? The Greeks had demigods; we have movie stars. On, Heracles—cut.

In the town of Callahan, I admired the work of movie carpenters busily transforming storefronts to make them more Western. A possible side trip into the Trinity Alps Wilderness tempted me only briefly, then it was onwards to the old Ram's Horn road and real progress south. Some Forest Service personnel on the way were proud of new stretches of trail, predicting completion in three years, by 1980; others were pessimistic. I shook my head at the proposed relocation by China Peak, which would take a southbound hiker many extra miles north.

The going was easy enough by Castle Crags State Park to Castella, where supplies could be bought in a well-stocked grocery, but finding the trail or temporary route southward from there proved a task beyond my powers. I knew the ridge to be on and finally reached it at noon after a waterless morning of only being lost twice. And I'd reached it a mere third of a mile from the right point, which could be seen from a knob.

A few bare places on the ridge gave false hope as I plunged into a hell of manzanita brush and oak scrub. Two hours later I got there, tattered and scratched, grateful that my pack at least wasn't shredded. Now finally a jeep road had Pacific Crest Trail markers in abundance. In fact, the enthusiast marking the trail used up all his signs in a mile or two, so that when the route turned sharp unmarked left, I bombed on unawares down the ridge.

Up knob, around knob I walked that endless ridge, hoping to reach a dirt road which had to be there. It got dark as I continued steeply down, grateful for pine duff that helped me not slip, and praying for an end to the ridge or water for camping. Finally, by moonlight giving up hope of reaching the road, I edged over the nearly vertical side to seek water.

Quick I heard the trickle and glad; I'd had nothing to drink since morning. I leveled out a niche back on the ridge and thankfully put down my burden. If we were right, in the Seattle Mountaineers, to call such days character-builders, then I felt ready, my character unable to sustain any more building. In the morning, a mile or two brought me to the road; I walked out, still hardly believing that the day before had happened.

Toward McCloud Reservoir but missing the town itself, the route led. At least, I hoped it did; there was a proposed final route (with no way of knowing if it had been completed) as well as a temporary route, neither having a very clearly marked starting point. In disgust I set out on the partly paved logging road where the mountain lion was seen in '71.

To complete my amazement at California trail-marking there were new, branded-in-wood Pacific Crest Trail markers on even this road before it reached the Big Bend of Pit River. California's part of the trail will be finished someday, and will surely be a well-built, graded and switchbacked foot-highway, but until then the hiker needs patience and a keen sense of humor.

There were bear hunters on the road to Big Bend; meeting them and feeling an instant respect between us took away some of the sting of frustrated route-finding. At Big Bend's store I inquired after the family stayed with in '71, but could make no sense of the reply. They seemed to think it wasn't a vagabond's business to ask about real people; I bought my bread and walked on. Sometimes something small in itself will turn a mood around; a redbud bush blooming out of season furnished a nibble that cheered my leaving Big Bend.

But I wasn't quite home free to Burney; by a house with grim warning "BEWARE OF DOG", the owners drove off without nodding as the monster himself bounded out for his pound of hiker flesh. However, this brute would never be elected to the wax museum; with a woof he nuzzled pack and stick, outright begging for a day of rambling company. What do you say to a mastiff that smiles? We had a jolly saunter until noon when after a vigorous brookside shower, involuntary on my part, he loped off to resume his stern duties.

Near Britton Falls I met with more good luck; the caretaker of a power company retreat for employees, after his lift offer was refused, invited me to use a vacant cabin. There was a bathhouse and laundry; I missed supper because he thought me sleeping, but his wife made a hunter's breakfast in the morning while the neighborhood deer assembled for their welfare check. I walked on, clean hiker secure in the affection of his countrymen.

In Burney the only cheap lodging had its tenants loudly accusing each other of theft, and the cobbler, known hiker's friend, had no room. Thus a first-class motel garnered that evening some of my second-class dollars. Resupplied in the morning and leaving, I found the courage to call south.

She was gone, my brother's little girl, leukemia's child. No more butterflies or roly-polies; flowers to the living, the dead too far away. God in heaven, can you be close, if you send our friends so distant? Then the footsteps clang like half-heard bells, scant help but better than nothing.

To Lassen, smoldering end of the volcanic sentence that began with Glacier Peak near Canada, I made my way. Going around Thousand Lakes Wilderness this time led to a choice of waterless ridge or Hat Creek road; I voted with the majority.

At Old Station I had to choose again, eastern trails or western road to avoid fresh snow on Lassen. East was probably wilder; clouds prevented a good view of the peak itself. How can you see a mountain if you can't say it? (A pamphlet had taught me that the natives said "Lawson", but since the natives hadn't read the pamphlet, my first attempts to get directions failed).

At the last, nearly deserted, ranch before trailhead I spied a truck. Water I hoped could be had to camp with, since it was nearly dark. Two dogs made for me but halted at a call from inside, "Hello, come in and welcome; I wore a pack myself a month ago." He put tea on and we talked.

The "Woodsman" had quit a catering business in Utah to become mountain man and hunter. Despite a bad fall that had given him a permanent limp, he still loved his life in the woods and hoped for a bear in this lake country east of Lassen. A side of beef came with the deal to watch over these ranch buildings during winter. This, with some venison jerky he'd made himself, would be his main provision during the snow months.

He said it was enough for both of us; I had to go on, however, despite already shortened days. But we struck a bargain over sleeping bags; he had a fluffy one that he claimed was much too warm, while mine seemed woefully thin for the coming winter. For fifty dollars to boot we swapped, reminding me of the other time in North Carolina when I lucked into a warm bag for the winter.

In the morning I pushed on, regretting the need to make miles before bad weather set in, and envying his roof and fireplace. There was snow up high but the trail could be followed. I saw bear tracks and sent the "Woodsman" a postcard telling him where.

Coming out of the woods near Chester I resupplied, then walked around Lake Almanor onto an old woods-road that led almost to Belden. A snow was coming; I tried for shelter before leaving pavement, but they wanted too much. In forest then I sought the thickest fir, pitched the tarp under it steep to shed snow, cooked supper, and gave my care to sleep. In the morning I brushed off the white and continued, glad to have the old road's two tracks to follow instead of a trail's one.

In Belden I remembered the cheerful lodge where we'd had a big supper while the crew recounted Ryback stories. But now the lodge lay in charred ruins, and Belden town seemed lifeless; I wished not to have come back. Moreover the letter from kin with promised repayment (of the loan I'd finally made in Portland's heat) wasn't there. Learning by telephone that there'd be no repayment any time soon, I left more low-spirited than ever before on a journey. I go happy always, even if I start blue. But not this time; in California I found despair walking.

After Bucks Lake I trudged east to Quincy for supplies. Near there a family took me in for the night, which warmth was welcome indeed. I gave them a sleeping bag just found in a ditch; the husband warned that if winter was severe the high desert route east of the Sierras would be almost as bad as the mountains. He advised the "gold road", State 49, which runs along the western foothills where gold was first discovered in1849; I began to seriously consider it.

There was more snow by Gold Lake as I tramped to Sierra City where the important decision had to be made. Really deep snow hadn't fallen yet but I smelled it coming. The high country in compacted spring snow would have been bad enough; fresh winter snows daunted me. With thousands of miles still ahead, daring deep new snow in the Sierras seemed out of the question. That left walking around, either by Owen's Valley to the east or by the gold road in the west. Others also advised west, but what tipped the scales finally was not having seen the oaklands before.

To the west then, and, as I walked the gold road in rain, reports came of tremendous snows up high, breaking California's drought, piling up man's greatest treasure for the farmer, the baker and the candlestick maker. I'd lost my bet to cover the Sierras in winter drought, but it didn't seem to matter as the grateful earth received its gift from heaven.

Some of the old mining towns on State 49 were still interesting; others seemed to have adjusted too well to tourism. At times there were hotels cheap enough to stay in; often I camped. At a campground after Downieville I had a feline encounter.

In fact the cat was clearly starving, desperately scraping about the ashes for charred remnants of dinners past. As my sparse mulligan (peanuts thrown in for the sake of protein) bubbled, the mind found itself impaled on dilemmas. If I feed the thing, can it possibly be kept out of the remainder put aside for my breakfast? Am I my sister's keeper; what hold have abandoned cats on me, orphan myself of the long road? Hell, you have mice, dummy, wee slickit dinners that need no matches.

I thought to have won but mid-meal saw myself turning an ultimate spoonful (my spoon is big) onto a cardboard on the ground. I looked away not to embarrass the ravenous but when I glanced, that beast had scorned my mulligan! Talk about critics, have you ever been rejected by a starving cat?

Later it did nibble, although shunning the foreign peanuts, and we achieved an uneasy truce. It even licked my finger and I learned what everyone but me always knew, the sandpaper tongue. A cold night it was; I drawstringed my sleeping bag up tight. She bunked I knew not where, until a furry suffocation threw me bolt upright. It seems my nose was the warmest stove in town.

I got back to sleep, and woke up in the morning wondering how a cat would be to hike with, would she object to my not taking rides? But it was a one-night stand; the lady split, and some of us had only a pack to waltz with.

Thanksgiving is coming, the rain falls. One wet evening when I should have negotiated for shelter, I camped instead and congratulated myself for starting a fire with wet wood. Too soon that congratulation—for the eyes smart, and by Thanksgiving dinner in an Auburn restaurant they have bleared and begun to close. There was no doctor now, but I knew what had to be done. Some of that wet wood had been poison oak; to see again I'd have to get cortisone shots as in Fort Bragg years before.

Next day in a clinic the shot was administered, but not strong enough since they didn't believe what a jolt it took to bring down the swelling in one who had taken the stuff over a time for asthma. Thus I had to come back, but not to walk it twice; someone brought me the second time in a car. This shot worked; a young medical staffer sheltered me with his family, and taught what dormant poison oak looks like.

What a horror to realize that I had at times even tied tarp lines onto the evil whips; my fear of it grew so great I wanted to return to Sierra City to walk all that over, around by the high desert this time instead of accursed oaklands. But it's cruel work going backward on a long walk; I kept on, praying to know it well enough now to avoid.

Angels Camp, in Calaveras County where Mark Twain had the frogs jumping, was a pleasant interlude: an automobile club gave good maps, in a grocery line I was invited to dinner and shelter, and a reporter followed up street to ask me into her office for an interview. She wore tweeds and spoke of Portland, her hometown, the city of roses.

In Jamestown, money was short and my credit union late in sending more; thought of what was owed me added to the depression of short days and rain. After several days waiting, a draft came from the credit union. I could go on, but in spirits so sunken as to wonder if I would try hard enough to avoid careening trucks on the narrow road in fog and rain. But somehow it got done, and each day inched me farther south on the map of California.

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. Please to put a penny in a poor man's hat. Not iron, I hope; it would rust. The season of joy caught me at Auberry. Having no intention of walking with hung head among the carolers, I negotiated a basement room in a bar-hotel, chose in the grocery a cream cheesecake that nobody doesn't like, and expectantly hung my stocking with care.

I'd like to report that all this bravery netted me a happy yuletide, that for once the green god of the waxing year cheated his dark destiny. But alas, in a basement bed, brought low by short days, cold rain, and dreary disappointment, the knight reflected on his broken lances. How could he sink more?

You're not going to guess this now, don't even try. To cheat me even of the sublime relief of self-pity, the goddamned bed broke! Crash! To the floor then fell spoon, cheesecake, and hiking hero. I suppose if one can't be sorry forever, he can at least thank Providence for rotten timbers.

Other days come, the dawn doesn't wait. Already there is more light; you can't measure it, but faith in the honest calendar assures. The oaklands ended finally; I came to Lemon Grove and celebrated by buying an orange.

The transcended sun in it promised a new year, to be named 1978. Before Bakersfield there were more oranges, stolen now from abundant groves as new light emboldened the thief. If water can't be found for lunch, love of three navels will do. This was a good stretch; I tried an untreated olive, spat it out, and the farmer laughed. I could even forgive the alien corn of oil pumps, black in the green grove Eden.

But there was a lapse at 80th Street. I'd walked a mile off the route to visit a reporter's family, enjoying roof and children's laughter. They drove me back, not to walk twice the extra, to where I'd left the highway. But in the flattery of having my picture taken, I didn't notice they'd put me off on the wrong side.

That gap, the width of a two-lane road, was to be the only break in my footsteps from British Columbia to Maine. I regretted it, but think: no smaller flaw might have served to avoid hubris, which sin could have gotten me struck by lightning or washed away in flood. Anyway, it is confessed.

In Bakersfield I treated myself to a belated Christmas gift of new old clothes from a thrift shop. I walked refreshed to Tehachapi, and then by Oak Creek Pass down into the desert before Rosamond. Here the temporary Pacific Crest Trail had to be near, but there were no markers to be seen. The camp was under junipers; their dead branches in my supper fire made a fragrant welcome to new lands.

The next day a six-dollar motel was a pleasant surprise in Rosamond. Then came Lancaster, big town to hike across; from it the desert road over Saddleback Butte gave good walking to Adelanto, where I camped under a Joshua tree as jets from the nearby air base roared overhead.

In Victorville came vacation, side trip by bus to visit old friends in Claremont and to see an ear doctor in Los Angeles. This surgeon's otologic group had been recommended as one of the world's best; he advised an operation in the left ear and made the astonishing offer to do it for no fee if only I could come up with enough to pay the hospital for two days there.

I gratefully accepted the surgeon's offer. He didn't fool around; the next day I heard them through a local anesthetic as they expertly cut and rearranged ear parts. Too noisy, I don't advise it as a spectator sport. Then the last joke was told, and I slept.

In three or four days, since no dizziness developed, I could take the bus back to Victorville and resume walking. But there was the drawback that while it healed the ear shouldn't get wet. This necessitated staying down in the desert rather than walking highlands where winter rains were more likely. So again I deviated more from the Pacific Crest route than I wished. I consoled myself with the thought that California, until the trail is finished, gives everyone a lot of roadwalking, and that on the first walk, because of a wet spring I had been able to stay on trails more than most, who walk roads for dependable water.

Through desert towns then I hiked, by grapefruit plantations and date groves, around the Salton Sea to Brawley and Imperial. The nights were cold with stars; rain fell only once and I managed to be inside then. Sometimes the wind was harsh, but I had bundled the ear warm as a new baby.

Then came Heber where I bought Mexican pastries, and finally Calexico, foot in the foreign land, eight and a half months work done, as the first part of my long walk came to a tired end. I had hurried to finish by the end of February, but was confused—it was the 27th on arrival. A hotel rest and grand meals were my victory treats before a bus ride back to Los Angeles to have the ear checked.

Email the author..