Red's Meadow to Sonora Pass, Bridgeport, and then Reno, June 27th - July 4th

June 27th

The next day we caught the three buses from Mammoth Lakes back to Red's Meadow.  Mammoth Lakes had been maybe the first town in which I'd just come in, taken care of business, and left again without taking a zero day.  This was mainly because I couldn't take a zero day if I wanted to make it to Sonora Pass in time to make my flight in Reno on the 4th, but I'm going to need to do a lot more town stops like this if I'm going to even hope to have enough money to finish the trail, so the change of styles on this leg was needed anyways. 

Back at Red's Meadow I mixed more shandies and we sat around chatting with other hikers and people out on day trips.  I was lazy to leave but we finally reached a critical mass with five people who knew at least one of the other five and wanted to get a few miles in before dark.  Besides the Man in Black and I there was Pimp Limp, who I knew and who had shared our hotel room the previous night, Sour Cream, who I knew and was taking off from there ahead of his crew to meet his dad in Tuolome, and Bird Dog, who The Man in Black had hiked with on the early part of the trail.  We decided to take a detour route to see the Devils Postpile, and then to rejoin the PCT and hike to the Agnew Campground to camp.  The Devil's Postpile, which you can see pictures of below, was apparently formed when lava cooled into that particular formation, and the rocks are called "columnar basalt."  If you want to read more about it, I've linked to the National Park Service's website above.   

An sign explaining the geometry of the rocks in the Devil's Postpile

On top of the Devil's Postpile

Looking up at the Devil's Postpile

As long a I'm talking about a detour, this is as good of a place as any to introduce the term "purist" and to give my own personal definition of "thru-hiking."  A purist is hiker terminology for someone who walks every single foot of the actual PCT trail.  I'm not a purist, and I don't even think it's probably possible to hike every foot of the trail, but I do think it's possible to walk from Mexico to Canada, so here are my rules FOR MYSELF:

• Detours by vehicle ARE NOT allowed.  If I get a ride off the trail on any kind of transport, then I go back to where I got off to start walking again.
• Detours on foot ARE allowed.  There are many different reasons that you might detour on foot:
• Mandatory detours, such as that for the endangered frog.  I took the detour but heard that some people didn't and were met with a ranger who issued tickets and sent them back.  I and the two others I was hiking with walked two miles on the road and then back to the trail, all on foot.
• Detours that would be stupid not to take, like those around the poodle dog bush.  These were also road detours, I took a couple of them and spent some number of miles (I can't remember how many) walking on a paved road instead of on the trail.
• Detours that allow you to see something cool, like Mount Whitney or the Devil's Postpile.  To hike Mount Whitney we left the PCT and hiked a side trail to a ranger station, summited Whitney and then returned to the ranger station, and then took another side trail to meet up with the PCT about a mile north of where we'd gotten off of it.  We missed about a mile of the PCT, but added about 15 miles summiting Whitney and back.  To go by the Devil's Postpile we took an alternate trail that basically paralleled the PCT for a few miles; we missed a few miles of the PCT but walked them on the other trail.  
• Detours that allow you to resupply, like hiking out Kearsarge Pass.  Leaving the PCT here was a lot like leaving it to hike Whitney - I left on the Bullfrog Lake trail, which meets the Kearsarge Pass trail, hiked over the pass and back, and then hiked the Kearsarge Pass trail back to the PCT, which meets it about a mile north of where the Bullfrog Lake trail leaves it.  I skipped about a mile of the PCT, but hiked about 15 miles round trip to get over Kearsarge and back.  

So, if I make it Canada, I'll be able to say that I walked the entire way from Mexico to Canada, mostly on the PCT.  It's odd, I've actually met more people who have skipped sections using transport than people that haven't, which I find really strange.  It seems really odd to me that anyone would spend the time and the energy to hike the entire trail without actually hiking the entire trail, but I think what happens most frequently is that people get hurt or need to get off the trail for some other reason and they don't want to get behind their friends and be stuck hiking alone, so when they come back they skip up ahead to wherever their friends are.

There's also another issue that I avoided but if I hadn't, I'm not sure how I would have dealt with it.  There were forest fires behind me, and a large section of the trail was closed.  People were simply transported around it by local trail angels (I think the Sauffleys and the Andersons helped with that), and there was no detour since it was something like 100 miles of trail.  I was early enough that I hiked through that area before it happened, but I'm not sure how I would have dealt with it if I'd been hiking through at the time and been told that I had to skip up 100 miles. 

Anyways, the guys and I left the Devil's Postpile, rejoined the PCT, and hiked to Agnew Meadows, which had a campground accessible by car.  Mosquitos started swarming us, and they all pulled out their headnets.  It hadn't even occured to me to buy a headnet, and I hadn't really been bothered by mosquitos until now.  I'd carried a couple of deet wipes from the border and a full package of deet wipes through the high Sierras, but had only used them a couple of times and hadn't realized that the mosquito situation was going to change.  We reached Agnew Meadows, which was littered with huge, uprooted trees from a windstorm.  One of the campground's bear boxes lay crushed under a tree, and one  of it's two restrooms had had its roof destroyed in the storm.  A sign warned against a slew of infectious diseases borne by rhodents, and we stood in awe of just how unromantic a campground could be.  We set up our tents and the guys got a roaring fire going, and we sat around it in blissful escape from the mosquitos.  Pimp Limp recited a poem for us that he had memorized while hiking, which had us all wrapped around his finger while he was telling it.  I enjoyed it so much that I'm putting the entire text here, which I copied from the webpage of the Poetry Foundation.  It's called The Cremation of Sam McGee, and it was written by Robert W. Service: 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

I just reread it and it's a great poem to read, but imagine how cool it is to have someone recite it from memory in the dark in front of a roaring fire.  Well done, Pimp Limp!  :-)

June 28th

In the morning we had coffee together, verbally abused Spiro Agnew for the state of his namesake campground, and left in pairs or alone for the day's hike. 

This sign at the Agnew Meadows campground led to endless jokes...

 

The day's accomplishment was Donohue Pass, where we laid by a lake before walking a few more miles down to a comfortable campground where we could make fires. 

Sour Cream (background) and The Man in Black (foreground) in my first attempt at using the iPhone's panorama feature - I'm not sure what I did wrong...

The lake on top of Donohue Pass

Looking down from Donohue Pass

June 29th

The next day Bird Dog, Man in Black, and I set off for the store at Tuolome Meadows.  Man in Black had a resupply package there and needed to pick it up before the post office closed mid-day, and Bird Dog needed to buy some food at the store.  I was carrying a week's worth of food bought in Mammoth Lakes, but the prospect of a cheeseburger and a few shandies had me as motivated as anyone else. 

On the way there we passed a horse and mule train carrying supplies.  I initially assumed that it was a similar deal to what I saw going over Kearsarge Pass, which was going to resupply hikers, but he huge fuel cannnisters suggested otherwise.  By the time I realized this the lady leading them was well past us and I didn't want to shout across the animals to her, but we would get the answer to my question that night and the next morning.

A horse and mule train carrying resupply

The store at Tuolome Meadows had picnic tables infested with a horde of hikers, laughing and joking and buying cheeseburgers at the cafe. 

Gourmet, who had thru-hiked last year and was doing some trail magic at Tuolome

This was also the place to get off the trail if you planned to detour to do Half-Dome, and there were hikers setting out for it and hikers returning from it.  Pimp Limp was really excited for Half Dome and was in disbelief that I'd never heard of it - he even marched me into the store and made me look at pictures of it on the postcards there.  I have to honestly say that it just looked like a big rock, but I'm glad that other people were excited about it. 

Pimp Limp, who was very excited about Half Dome, in the store at Tuolome

I managed to drink three liters of shandies before Man in Black and Bird Dog got me out of there (Sour Cream and Pimp Limp were staying to do Half Dome and then were each meeting their dads).  I started out pretty slowly but walked it off and was in decent condition by the time we reached the campground we'd planned to stay at, which was called the Glen Aulin Camp.  The three of us would hike together until I got off the trail at Sonora Pass.  I've already introduced The Man in Black, but Bird Dog is an engineer from Nebraska, and the most important thing in his life is his 25-year old daughter.  Like Man in Black he was fun to hike with - laid-back and fun and not into any kind of PCT social scene - and I would miss him too when we went our separate ways. 

The Man in Black (background) and Bird Dog (foreground)

Bird Dog vs. the mosquito at the Glen Aulin Camp

The waterfall at the Glen Aulin Camp

Now, I forgot to get any pictures of it, but this was the deal at the Glen Aulin Camp:  As you can see by the bench in the photo above, it was fairly civilized, but it was segregated into two parts.  The lower classes, which were the hikers like us, had free access to the standard tent sites, and there was a public bathroom that we could use.  The upper classes slept on fully furnished cots in tents of the thick white material used to make booths for selling stuff at fairs, outdoor pavillions for functions, and the like - basically, temporary houses.  Their food was served at dinner tables in another large tent, and they had a private bathroom in another tent, complete with a sign explaning to the lower classes that they were not allowed to use it.

June 30th

On our way out the next morning I chatted briefly with one of the staff.  He was friendly and listed a number of such camps, maybe eight of them.  I asked if all of the guests had hiked in from Tuolome Meadows and he said no, that there were shorter ways to get in and that some had hiked only three miles to get there.  He also said that the staff stayed at the camps the entire summer and were resupplied by mule train (One of the other camps was where the horse/mule train we'd seen the day before had been headed), and that guests paid $180 a night to stay there.

"$180 a night?  I'll use the plebian bathroom!" 

 We wished him a good summer and set off for Benson Pass. 

The Man in Black and Bird Dog crossing a creek

We met a hiker named Fats who was on a five-day hike in the Sierras, part of which was on our trail and part of which involved some other trails.  Fats had spent a lot of time in the Sierras and gave us reports on conditions and general advice, and we were sorry to see him go when we got to his turnoff point.  He also wore Dirty Girl Gaiters, which you can see below:

Fats!

This is Benson Pass, and these photos crack me up.  The first two are just me, and that's Bird Dog hiking up in the background in the next three: 

A shot of Fireball

Chased with a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup

Followed by some general ridiculousness...

It looks like I'm kicking Bird Dog in the head here - sorry Bird Dog!

We camped at Smedberg Lake.  Fats had advised us to hike a little further and camp a little ways off of the trail at what I think was Benson Lake.  He said that it was known as the "Riveria of the Sierras" and we all wanted to see it, but by the end of the day we were just too tired and Smedberg Lake was also gorgeous:

Smedberg Lake.

Smedberg Lake

July 1st

Bird Dog and a cool-looking tree

There were loads of cool flowers in this section, which I largely failed to photo-document.

Grouse use the PCT too.

The next day, in hopes of distracting myself from the mosquitos, I made up a song about them and sung it to the guys (to the tune of Knoxville Girl):

I set out from Mammoth Lakes

I was with The Man in Black

I had no idea then

Just what I should have packed

We caught the bus to Red's Meadow

Where we met up with Bird Dog

And I sat in blissful ignorance

Drinking shandies on a log

We set off in the afternoon

We hiked by the Devil's Postpile

The mosquitos started swarming us

Before we had gone ten miles

In our group I was the only one

Who didn't have a headnet

And this was a decision

That I would soon regret

I bought one in Tuolome

And I also bought some deet

But I had no idea then

How many mosquitos we would meet

They swarmed and swarmed the whole day through

Those bastards wouldn't quit

They even swarmed around my ass

When I went to take a shit

I ran out of deet the 3rd or 4th day

And then things really got worse

I started to sincerely wish

To be carried off in a hearse

So hear my story you hikers all

If you're on the PCT

You'd better carry a fucking gallon of deet

Or else you'll end up like me

We camped somewhere, swarmed with mosquitos.  I remember getting up in the middle of the night to pee.  It was pitch black out, and the mosquitos were still swarming so thick that while I was peeing, one of them flew down my throat.

July 2nd

The Man in Black and Bird Dog

At Dorothy Lake Pass we left Yosemite, where we read a list of rules for the park.  I think we had followed most of them but had broken some, like the one about where you can camp - maybe a sign on the southern entrance to the park would be helpful.  We did all carry bear cannisters, though, because we had known about that and cared enough to respect the rules.  This marked the end of the section where the cannisters are required and I hadn't seen a single bear or even a footprint, so at the time of writing my bear cannister is no longer a part of my hiking gear.   

Coming out of Yosemite we got to read the rules of the park.

Getting ready to toast Dorothy Lake Pass

Toasting Dorothy Lake pass

A few miles after Dorothy Lake pass we reached 1,000 miles, which I think was a pretty big deal for all of us.  The entire Pacific Crest Trail is about 2,650 miles so this is far less than half way, but it's over a third and it's A THOUSAND MILES.  Seriously, I just walked 1,000 miles...

1,000 miles!

The Man in Black and Bird Dog at 1,000 miles

Toasting 1,000 miles

July 3rd

We camped at Kennedy Canyon Creek, and set off in the morning with the goal of reaching Sonora Pass early enough in the day that I could comfortably hitchhike into town that day and Bird Dog could comfortably make it to the resort where he had a package waiting. 

Looking back on the switchbacks we'd just hiked up on the way to the junction with the Leavitt Lake Trail

Bird Dog and I at the junction with the Leavitt Lake Trail

The Man in Black and I at the Junction to the Leavitt Lake Trail

Bird Dog crossing a snowy patch

After climbing to where the Leavitt Lake Trail branched off, the trail bounced up and down a little but stayed near 10,500 feet for about six miles.  During that stretch we came across a field of signs prohibiting snomobiles, which seemed strange.  Firstly, I would think that a sign would be more appropriate at a trailhead - once people are already up at elevation, then they've either gotten there on a snomobile or they haven't, and a sign is't going to change that.  Also, none (or close to none) of the signposts were actually standing (see them scattered about three photos down), and very few had the actual sign on them but rather were mostly just signposts.  In reaction to the sheer ridiculousness of the situation I took one of the only remaining orange plastic disc signs from its post and strapped it to my backpack, it now belongs to my nephew who is an avid skiier and thinks it's funny.  

The Man in Black put this sign up so I could take a picture of it - I don't think any of them were still actually standing.

Bird Dog making use of a sign by stretching with it

Most of the signs were gone, and most of the posts were scattered around on the ground.

Our last photo together before Sonora Pass, where Bird Dog would hitch west, I would hitch east, and The Man in Black would keep hiking north

I took this picture hoping it would explain why the area is called "Emigrant Wilderness," but I can't read the writing in the picture.  Wikipedia says that it's named in conjuction with Emigrant Gap, a pass crossed by wagon trains emigrating from points east to California.

Sonora pass didn't look overly promising as a place to hitch from.  The Man in Black, who wasn't going into town, went looking for a trail angel that was set up in the park somewhere feeding hikers.  Bird Dog got comfortable on the westbound side of the road, and I on the eastbound side.  I could see two other hikers a few hundred yards away, but thought it would be easier to hitch alone and decided that I wasn't doing anything wrong by standing a few hundred yards after them rather than in front of them so that I wasn't cutting them off.  It turned out that was the right decision - Lisa, who stopped for me, had barely enough room in her car for one person.  She had two big friendly dogs and and assortment of supplies for them and for camping, and had to fully rearrange the car just to fit in me and my pack.  Lisa was from Oakland, was headed to meet friends for a camping trip of her own, and was generally full of good energy.  She had read Wild, the book by Cheryl Strayed, and pushed a box of cookies at me.

"I can't eat your cookies."

"I read Wild," she said, laughing, "I know about hikers!"

I ate the entire box before we reached Bridgeport, where Lisa and I hugged and I ventured into the hotel said by the guidebook to be the cheapest in town. 

Sonora Pass!

Bird Dog resting while he waits for a hitch

Lisa!

The Bridgeport Inn had a wing of old-fashioned rooms with no outlets and a shared bathroom that went for $60 a night, but that was on normal nights, not on the Fourth of July weekend.  I sat at the bar and had a drink while I called every place in town and found that not only was $120 for the old-fashioned room the best I would get, and if I didn't get it soon I'd be camping on the sidewalk.  I also called Eastern Sierra Transit and found that the bus wouldn't be running to Reno the next day, so I'd have to hitchhike.  It also started hailing.  I paid for the room, walked through the hail to buy a proper bottle of conditioner, showered and spend a half-hour working a comb through my tangled hair, walked to the laundromat to put my laundry in, and then walked to the nearest bar to order a cheeseburger.  I think it was called the Sportsmen's Bar, and I chose it because it seemed a little seedy and I was in the mood for that, but ironically it ended up having great service and really good food.  I had a few drinks and chatted with other people at the bar, and gained a better appreciation for quite how big of a deal the Fourth of July is in Bridgeport.  At the far end of the bar there were cowboys in town for the rodeo, according to the flier I saw there would be a watermelon eating contest, an arm wrestling contest, and a greased pole contest (I'm assuming that contestants have to try to climb up it) among other things, and 3,000 people from out of town were expected to congregate there for it all.  I was wondering how exactly I was going to get out of town and into Reno when I started talking to Dennis, another out-of-towner who was waiting for some friends to finish a hiking trip.  Dennis felt sympathy for my cause and after an hour of talking he said

"OK, I'll crash on the floor of your hotel room, and I'll get you to Reno in the morning."

"I have two beds!"

I gave him the name of my hotel and my room number but was a little nervous, since I'd met him in a bar and didn't know him or anyone else in town.  And he may have been a little nervous too, because an hour later when he was done at the bar he came and looked in the room before going out to his car to collect his things.  But neither of us was dangerous, and in the morning we he drove me to the Reno Airport as promised.  He even took me out to breakfast and gave me some money towards the hotel room, which I told him makes him an official sponsor, and reminds me that I want to make a list of sponsors on the main page of my blog. 

July 4th

Bridgeport getting ready for its big 4th of July celebration

Dennis and I spent a lot of the ride to Reno discussing what has been one of the main themes of my trip - how much of your life do you spend in front of a computer for financial security, and how much of it do you spend outside?  Why didn't we think ahead and choose careers where we would be working outside?  What are our options on that front now?  We were currently located on opposite sides of the whole thing, too - Dennis is in charge of teams of people who install phone systems for businesses, he has a steady job and has money and wishes he spent more time outdoors.  I live hand-to-mouth, mostly in a tent, and would have some serious problems if it weren't for the kindness of people like him. 

Dennis!