Just around the riverbend

Before I started my PCT adventure, I read and was told that the experience would change me forever. For the rest of my life I'd be forced to deal with an itch I couldn't scratch; a perpetual need to be on the move. I half-listened with the cocky ears of someone who always thinks they know themselves best.

356 days ago I ended my first stint with long-distance hiking, completing 900 miles of the PCT and 100 miles of the AT. I have thought about the trail, without fail, every day for the past 356 days.

My thoughts haven't been the same every day. I thought They (you know, the general They) were implying I'd become an obsessed freak who would do nothing but talk about, think about, and dream about the joys of being on a trail. Maybe I'd run off into the woods and live as one with the wilderness. Maybe I'd dedicate myself to some trail-preserving organization. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be extreme. That was not the case.

For awhile my thoughts were, quite honestly, on the depressed side: "You set a goal and it got too hard and so you quit. A lot of other people finished. An 11-year-old girl finished, for heaven's sake. You are weak." Then they became motivational: "Oh, is this run hard? You know what's hard? Walking for 25 miles up and down mountains carrying all your possessions on your back day after day. You did that, so this 5 mile run on a flat road with nothing on your back and nothing to do afterward is pretty much the same as relaxing." Some days they would be fleeting memories of a kind stranger, an amazing landscape, or a particularly tough day completed. Sometimes the thoughts were even a relief: "It's pouring rain and guess where you are? In a nice, warm, soft, flat bed with no reason to get a drop of water anywhere near you." But no matter what those thoughts encompassed, they've definitely followed me for the past year.

Eddy L. Harris said it well in "Mississippi Solo," his book about paddling the length of the Mississippi: "So deep inside me would this thing reside that it would be a part of my soul, and yet with a spirit of its own that would leap to mind of its own accord, being such a part of me that it would enter my marrow and alter the way I think and feel and walk, leaving me with more than memories and smiles, leaving me changed in a deep and abiding way...The Mississippi River offered this to me, promising that if I gave her a try she would be a part of me forever. It wouldn't matter if I finished, if I went for twenty-five miles or twenty-five hundred, six days or six weeks. The desire and the intention were what really mattered. (I learned this along the way). A marriage. You enter it, if it's real, with every intention of seeing it through to the end, till death do us part. You plan to weather the storms and the cold nights, enjoy the sunshine and the warmth and have plenty to look back on when you're old and finished. But sometimes, try as you might, work hard as you can at it, fighting with all the strength that's in you, it just is not to be and you're forced out. Sad and painful but even after it's long over it remains a part of you."

So where does this leave me now? I do have that itch, and I will continue to do what I can to scratch it. Don't get me wrong, I love the life I live on a daily basis and I'm thankful for all the opportunities I've had the past 356 days of stationary life. However, I know I'll always feel restless if I don't break up that daily pattern every now and then with another grand adventure.

I think I hear the Mississippi River calling.....details to come.....

AT = Athletic Training

The Appalachian Trail Conservancy has difficulty ratings for each state along the AT, using a 1-10 scale. 1 = "Flat and smooth," while 10 = "Use of hands required for extended periods of climbing, footing precarious, and leaping may be required - not recommended for those with fear of heights and not in good physical condition. Shorter hikers may be at a disadvantage." West Virginia's four miles of trail and Maryland's 41 miles are said to be the easiest, rated as 2-3. Maine and New Hampshire are the most difficult states. Maine's 281 miles are rated 3-10, while New Hampshire's 161 miles are rated 6-10. This is where we began our journey.

I heard many times on the PCT that the PCT is the more mentally difficult of the two trails, while the AT is the more physically difficult. I'm still not fully sure of what "mental difficulty" encompasses, but the physical difficulty of the AT is no joke. Based on my week on the AT, I've created the following training plan to prepare future hikers for this trail:
1. Play "The Floor is Lava." The rules of this childhood favorite are simple: climb through rooms touching anything but the floor, which, of course, is lava. This will prepare you for all the time spent on rocks and roots and not actually touching the ground in any way.
2. Paint a 2"x6" white rectangular blaze on the most obscure surfaces possible: up the side of a cliff, on the ceiling, on the roof of your house, etc. Then put on a pack and go to that blaze. On the trail I acquired the skill of knowing where the trail was headed by picking out the most difficult route possible and then looking for the blazes there.
3. Record the most annoying sound you can think of and play it over headphones non-stop. I find a symphony of mosquitoes, black flies, and gnats to be effective. For an added bonus, ask a friend to poke you in the ear with a blade of grass every few minutes to mimic one of these bugs exploring a little too closely.
4. Run laps in a sauna. Make sure to include climbing up on benches and surfaces in here, as well. Then, try to sleep in the sauna.
5. Find a hard object (e.g. a baseball bat) and hit yourself repeatedly in the knees and on the bottoms of your feet. This will mimic the constant pain these body parts will feel from climbing on sharp surfaces all day.

To be fair, the trail isn't ALL bad. We saw lots of beautiful lakes and streams, and saw three moose and four bears in under a week. We ate wild mountain blueberries. We also pushed ourselves hard, walking 15-21 miles each day on terrain that allows most southbounders to walk 10 or under on an average day. We successfully completed the (absolutely terrifying) climb of Mt. Katahdin (remember the part about not being recommended for people with fear of heights?) and the rugged 100-Mile Wilderness of Maine. However, our trail has come to an end. For real this time.

During the last week Nolan and I both realized that we were doing the AT as a substitute for the PCT, and it wasn't an appropriate substitute. The two are very different trails. We set out on the AT with a week of preparation and no real goal. We weren't committed to it. We were spending time and money just to fill a void, and we decided that time and money would be better spent in other ways.

I'm officially announcing the close of our 2011 hiking season. I learned a lot about myself and Nolan. We had amazing adventures and saw beautiful sights, and I might write more about some of these every now and then.  Thanks again for all the support from everyone out there. Who knows what adventure awaits us next.....

Mail time!

Below are our scheduled resupply addresses for the  AT. Thanks to everyone who has sent us love on our adventures so far!

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Monson, ME 04464
ETA 7/22

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Stratton, ME 04982
ETA 7/27

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Andover, ME 04216
ETA 8/1

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Gorham, NH 03581
ETA 8/4

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Woodstock, NH 03262
ETA 8/10

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Rutland, VT 05701
ETA 8/18

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Manchester Center, VT 05255
ETA 8/22

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
North Adams, MA 01247
ETA 8/26

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Lee, MA 01238
ETA 8/29

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Stehekin 9/1
c/o General Delivery
Salisbury, CT 06068
ETA 9/1

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Fort Montgomery, NY 10922
ETA 9/7

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Delaware Water Gap, PA 18327
ETA 9/14

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Port Clinton, PA 19549
ETA 9/19

Csilla Tabor and Nolan Barry
c/o General Delivery
Fayetteville, PA 17222
ETA 9/28

The next first step

My first morning home I sank into a deep depression. Despite all the updates about awful snow conditions, stories about deadly creek crossings, and my own stressful experiences, I could not get past the thought that I had become one of the huge majority: the PCT thru-hiker failures; that it got hard and I gave up and THAT'S WHO I AM.

I turned to moving meditation. After a two-hour walk, I felt better. Even though it's humid here and the "wild" animals are too unafraid and most of my family is off on their own adventures, I'm home and I'm safe and it was my decision to be here. Yes, my plans changed and I'm not where I thought I'd be at this point.....but when has that ever happened anyway?

However, the following facts still remain true:
1. I hiked 837 miles in the past two months and I'm very capable of doing more.
2. I have a desire to be in the woods with nothing on my mind but my aching body and my seven snacks a day.
3. I have about 30 boxes of pre-packed food still sitting in my room.
4. I have an amazing hiking partner who is equally determined to wear out a few more pairs of shoes this summer.

Because of the above, Nolan and I are switching our adventure to this side of the country and heading out on the Appalachian Trail next Friday. We're starting at the northern end at Mt. Katahdin in Maine and plan to end in Harper's Ferry, WV by the end of September (about halfway through the whole trail). I will go back and finish the PCT some day.....just not today. "I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul."

The lucky penny (part 2: the part that's actually lucky)

After a brief respite from the rain under the roof of the Grider Creek Campground outhouse, we continued our optimistic stroll (Nolan) / miserable plod (me) toward Seiad Valley. All that remained between us and at least a roof under which to stand was a short six-mile road walk. Less than a mile in, Nolan stopped short, distracted by a beautiful shiny penny laying in the dirt road. "Should I pick it up?" he asked, as if this was a matter for serious consideration. "No," I grumbled almost immediately, without even looking at what the potential treasure may be.

To give a little more detail about how I was feeling, I want to illustrate just how much I hate being wet. If I wash my hands and cannot immediately find a drying surface, my mind begins to panic. I once read a story by Ray Bradbury about a planet where it never stopped raining, and it gave me nightmares. When canoeing (which was a major part of my job the past three and a half years), I obsessively sponge every drop that strays from my paddle to the floor of my canoe in order to keep my feet dry. I currently own four rain jackets, two rain ponchos, and two pairs of rain pants, most of which were purchased during my quest to find a completely waterproof outfit for my hike. I. hate. being. wet. And what I hate more than anything else is having wet feet.

Getting back to our scene: It had been raining for the past 16 hours. My impenetrable rain outfit had soaked through hours prior. My pack was sopping wet and weighed an extra million pounds. My shoes squished out water with every pitiful step. Five of the six pairs of socks I had with me on the trail sat, unused, in my pack, because I knew they'd soak through within minutes of putting them on. What I had to look forward to after our six-mile road walk was a roof outside the post office under which to stand long enough to collect myself before setting up my sopping tent in the continuing rain. As icing on the cake, I had two oozing wounds that had been rubbing on my soggy raingear for hours. So when my frustratingly-optimistic boyfriend stopped to ask if he should bend down with his rainsoaked pack in his soppy raingear to pick up one measly penny, I could not think of a more pointless action.

Luckily, he did it anyway. Almost immediately, the following amazing pieces of luck fell into place:
1. The girl who worked at the Seiad Valley store, who we had met when we passed through a few days before and was camping at the Grider Creek Campground, rolled to a stop next to us in her truck. Her campsite had flooded and she was going back home. She drove us the six miles to Seiad Valley.
2. THE RAIN STOPPED. The heavens opened and a choir of angels began to sing. I bandaged my wounds and put on dry socks and Crocs. I could focus on the world once again.
3. We managed to hitch a ride to Yreka, a small town off I-5 that was 60 miles away, even though the man at the Seiad Valley store warned us not to get our hopes up since it was evening and not too many people were passing through the one-street town at that time of day. We were going to give it until 7:00 before we pitched our tent for the night to try again in the morning. At 6:45, an amazing angel named Elsie rolled up with her tiny dog in her tiny car fueled by homemade biodiesel on her way to Yreka. She didn't usually pick up hitchhikers, but we looked "nice enough." Elsie frequented Yreka and gave us lots of insider tips about where to eat, which hotels to stay in, and where to avoid drug busts.
4. We chose to stay at the Super 8 by the highway instead of the small non-chain motel we originally picked because it was slightly cheaper. There was no reason to choose the Super 8. We just did. We got a huge room with an amazing shower and plenty of space to lay out all our soppy smelly gear. This item gets even luckier in #5 and #6 below.
5. The Super 8 had a washer and dryer available. We did our laundry.
6. When getting change for the washer and dryer, I bumped into Mama Moab and her husband (from Athens, OH, of all places), who we had met (in addition to their son Jay and their dog Utah) on the trail twice before. Keep in mind that we were in a random hotel in a non-trail town 11 driving hours ahead of the regular hiking pack. They were staying in the room next to ours. They had a rental car they needed to drop off in Medford that very day. Medford, 45 minutes further north, was exactly where we were trying to go.
7. Instead of a $1000 flight to Cleveland, I found a $380 flight to Akron.
8. We found a decently-priced Super 8 within 1 mile of the airport in Medford, complete with a pool, hot tub, water slide, "snack breakfast," and shuttle to the airport (even at 4:00am, when we needed to go).

And so it happened that on July 1, four days after sliding down a mountain, two days after getting to Medford, 14 hours after flying out of Medford, and three and a half days after stopping for Nolan to pick up one measly penny, I arrived at home in Lakewood. I will never step over a penny again.

The lucky penny (part 1: the not-so-lucky part)

June 27th started out like any other day. We packed up our camp near Paradise Lake in the Marble Mountain Wilderness and set out across the snow, planning to walk 15 miles to our next campsite. Three hours later, we had traveled a grand total of.....one mile.

Unable to see the trail due to snow, we attempted to cross a fairly steep mountainside on what appeared to be the easiest and least-snowy route possible. At one point during this traverse, the icy slushy snow beneath my feet suddenly gave way and I found myself sliding (in slow motion, it seemed), down the mountainside I had just climbed. Luckily, I had my ice axe in my right hand, ready to work in such a time of need. Unluckily, I had my trekking pole strapped onto my left hand, and since it had gotten twisted around in the snow and was now facing uphill, I couldn't get my left hand under me in order to properly self-arrest by putting my body weight onto my ice axe. Luckily, I wasn't on too steep of a section and managed to come to a stop using some combination of the axe, my leg, and some deeper slush. Unluckily, when I stopped the first thing I saw was (my) bright red blood dripping onto the snow (Have you ever seen blood on snow? Trust me, it's very dramatic).

I pulled myself together and slowly climbed back up to where Nolan was waiting, having walked safely across. We took some time to rest and examine my wounds (nothing too severe, just some skin missing on my right elbow and upper thigh) before continuing on. We eventually made it around the hill that had been obscuring our view and saw a discouraging sight. The mountainsides as far as we could see in front of us were equally snowy and steep. This was what the next few days had in store for us, and at the rate we were traveling, there was a strong possibility we weren't even going to make it to our next scheduled town on time.

I'm not proud to say that at this point I broke down. I had begun this adventure with backpacking and camping in mind. I knew it was going to be hard, and I was ready for that. I was not ready for months of steep deep-snow travel. I had no experience or training doing any type of snow-related activities. I felt beyond unsafe. Nolan, although less scared than I, was supportive. We decided to head back toward Seiad Valley and make a new plan. I was relieved, but sad.

The one mile that we had traveled during the previous three hours took us two more hours to go back across (including plenty of shaking and hyperventilating on my part). That night we camped by Buckhorn Spring, making a grand total of 7.5 miles we had hiked in about 11 hours that day. During the night, a huge wind and rain storm kicked in, as if the mountains were mourning our decision to leave (or punishing us?). We slept in the following morning, hoping the rain would ease up. It did not. We trudged through the final two miles of snow in the rain, then back down the 15 miles into Seiad Valley in the rain. We ate lunch under a drippy bridge in the rain. We walked right through creeks and puddles, as it was impossible for our shoes and socks to get any wetter. Nolan was optimistic. I was sopping wet with rain weighing down my pack and rain pants consistently rubbing on my open leg wound. I was miserable.

(stay tuned for part 2: the part that's actually lucky)

Let it snow

I read that it's actually an urban legend that there are hundreds of words for snow in the Inuit culture. However, after traveling consistently through snow, I wish I had such a broad vocabulary from which to choose to describe the variety of snow over which we walked/kicked/slid/glissaded. When we skipped up to Ashland, OR to resume our hike southbound, we were warned by several locals that there was still plenty of snow on the mountaintops. We had to try it anyway.

We discovered quite a variety of types of snow that was pretty consistent everywhere above 5800 ft (most of our travels in this section took us between 6000 and 7000 ft). Each type had its own personality and pros/cons. There was the hard, icy crust that was great for walking on flat surfaces and steep uphills, there was the icy slush that made kicking steps easy but did not support our weight very well, there was the tricky snow that looked solid but led to postholing, there was the pink snow caused by mysterious bacteria.

Nolan started skiing when he was 3, so he was more than at home running down Mt. Whitney and glissading down mountainsides. I was on the opposite end of the spectrum to start, moving slower than a snail in any snow to avoid slipping. I've never skiied. Never snowboarded. When I ice-skate I cling to the wall. I like sledding hills approved for 4-year-olds. The more time we spent in the snow, however, the more comfortable I got with it. I even got to a point at which I willingly glissaded down several hills. Although our progress was still slowed due to some tricky slopes and lots of additional navigation with our GPS, maps, and compass, we still had an easier time than we would have in the Sierras. We went north to avoid snow, and although we still found plenty of it, I still believe we made a good choice. Reading the following excerpts about the Sierras from the PCT email listserve confirmed that belief in me:

"We just got through Desolation to Miller Creek (1122) and the snow situation is grim. Even for the snow-experienced, the constant kicking of traverse steps, heel-plunging, easing across snow bridges, and the navigation under forest cover is both exhausting and slow. A mile/hour is average."

"One of my friends called last night after reaching Mammoth and said she's never been so scared in her life. She's exhausted, injured and leaving the trail. Her husband will continue. This just in from my PCT friends: Our recommendations for anyone attempting Glenn Pass to Reds Meadows. Mather Pass: Know how to use your ice axe. Only a technical traverse is possible on the left flank. PCT trail on right totally snowed over and impossible. Rivers and streams are overbank. Snow everywhere. Some stream crossings bordering on dangerous, life threatening. Going is very slow. This is not the PCT we signed up for."

"The snow-hiking conditions coupled with the incredible creek-turned-torrent crossings are making for slow progress, tremendous patience, the need for lots more food carried, the essential GPS with current tracks, experienced navigational skills, self-arrest training, and simply knowing when to quit! Only a few will have the time in the season this year to make it all the way to Canada. Flipping won't help either as the snow is up and down the west coast."

"Brenda just shuttled two more PCT hikers. One was a seasoned PCT veteran whose comment was 'I fear for the life of the PCT hikers, we have been on the edge nearly the whole way.'"

At least I'm not alone in my fear. Who knows.....some day I might actually try skiing. However, my summertime hiking trip is not the place I'd like to cultivate that skill.