The agony of de-feet, knee … and back

Bottom line: Aging pains can be a bee-otch ... particularly when in the wilderness.

6.23.24, Day 0, “Pre-positioning” -

Prim8 and I met Mark R. in Mojave to gas up the car before we drove to Kennedy Meadows, some twenty-five miles into the wilderness west of Hwy 395. Desert temperatures ranged in the 90’s and low 100’s, and we speculated about hiking conditions in the mountains.

Before this trip, Mark had explained he’d changed his trail moniker during his last PCT section hike from the Mexican border northward as a result from his consumption of pemmican. “I’m going by Tallow now,” he’d told me.

No more changes, Prim8 had demanded, not liking the idea.

“Okay,” I’d told Mark, somewhat skeptical. How many more changes will he adopt, Prim8?

Thus, Mark R., formerly known as Cabo, with the previous alias of Wrong Way, will now be referred to as Tallow.

We pre-positioned my car at Kennedy Meadows for our sectional hike southbound. A north to south hike on this section would eliminate the elevation gain of roughly 4,385 feet. If you’re going to do the distance, why not go downhill rather than uphill?

A traffic accident on Hwy 395 south of Olancha delayed our progress to Lone Pine. Dark clouds hung over the mountains to our west and a few large and sporadic rain drops splattered on Mark’s RAV4 windshield as we waited to continue.

By the time of our arrival, the ranger station in Lone Pine had closed, so we proceeded to Lone Pine’s Dow Villa for the night, where I’d reserved a historic room, sans private bathroom. No problem on that front, however the room felt stuffy and the air conditioning blew tepid air, not cool enough for my liking.

The room’s air still and stuffy, Prim8 complained, Hot!

Then, we’ll lay on the bed in the buff without covers or sheet. Not until the wee hours did I feel comfortable.

6.24.24, Day 1, “Our Most Northern Position on the PCT” -

After getting takeout at McDonald’s at 5 a.m.—Prim8 wanted coffee and a chicken sandwich—we drove to Horseshoe Meadow at 10,000 feet.

A posted sign near the trailhead parking lot warned of ACTIVE BEARS.

“As opposed to retired bears,” I told Tallow.

Mt. Whitney (the sharp point) from Near Lone Pine

Under clear sky, Tallow and I hiked to Cottonwood Pass, 11,132 feet, mile-marker 751.4 (according to the FarOut app, which Tallow used, and the PCT posted sign, differing slightly from Half-mile Notes of 750.8).

From the trail junction, we turned south to Trail Pass Trail—I kid you not—at 10,493 feet, mile-marker 744.5. (FarOut indicates the distance is 4.9 miles along the PCT, while Half-Mile Notes says 5.7 miles. Go figure!)

Regardless, we followed Trail Pass Trail back to Horseshoe Meadow.

Looking East from PCT Near Cottonwood Pass Towards Horseshoe Meadow and Surrounding Terrain

With clear sky, temperatures for the day ranged from 55 degrees when we left Tallow’s car at 7 a.m. and 80 degrees when we finished the 10.9 mile loop at 12:50 p.m.

Looking at Mt. Langely from Trail Pass Trail in Horseshoe Meadow

Back at Hwy 395, we stopped at the ranger station for a wilderness permit, then headed the Dow Villa in Lone Pine for the night, I appreciated the slightly cooler temperature in my room compared to the previous evening.

6.25.24, Day 2, “Southbound” -

We presented at the Alabama Hills Cafe and Bakery at 5 a.m. for breakfast.

“Breakfast isn’t available until six,” the gal said, “but you can get coffee and pastry.”

Tallow and I debated, and decided on take-out.

Hungry, Prim8 demanded, Ham and Cheese pastry.

Though I detest processed yellow cheese, I relented, and ordered one along with a cup of coffee.

Breakfast to go, Tallow drove us to the Horseshoe Meadow trailhead parking lot.

I downed a tab of Ibuprofen in hopes of forestalling an increase in knee pain—coming on of late—before we started our hike at 6:25 a.m. The 55-degree temperature felt surprisingly good once we were under way.

Two hours later, we’d hiked 2.2 miles to Trail Pass Trail/PCT junction at mile-maker 744.5. From there, we continued south bound on the PCT.

What? No blister, Prim8 insisted, as if he could order that, when heel pain suggested something amiss.

It’s probably, a blister, fella, but there’s little we can do about that. “I think my foot is trying to grow blisters,” I told Tallow. “I thought I’d solved that problem.” Apparently not, Prim8.

As the morning dragged on, the cool temperature rose to the 80s under clear sky by noon. Though tree cover diminished for stretches, short rest breaks and breezes staved off my total meltdown. Flies and mosquitoes periodically buzzed us. An application of DEET, and our movement along the trail, combined with gusting breezes, prevented their overwhelming us.

Owens Lake from the PCT

We arrived at Death Canyon campground aside a running creek, 8,946 feet elevation, mile-marker 730.8 after a ten-hour hike over 13.7 miles.

After a dinner snack, Tallow bear-bagged our food stash in a tree.

Though no bugs hassled Prim8 and me, once Tallow had set up his tent, I retreated indoors to prevent bugs from getting any ideas otherwise.

A blister! No, Prim8 complained, when I checked my feet and discovered one aside my heel.

Nothing can be done about that. We’ll have to tough it out, Prim8. I’d neglected to bring mole skin or band aids, only carried a small stripe of Duct tape for emergencies. We’ll take another Ibuprofen. I hoped to reduce any and all pain during the night to get better sleep, which had eluded me the past several nights, and maybe avoid muscle stiffness the following morning.

6.26.24, Day 3, “Continuing South” -

6:40 a.m., the temperature near the low 50s, again, felt quite comfortable. Knee, blister and back pains were negligible, but I downed another Ibuprofen as a pain preventative before we continued southbound.

The temperature rose into the 80s. Short breaks to catch my breath under the shade of a tree now and then, helped compensate for the exposure to the sun’s relentless heat.

Tired, Prim8 frequently complained. Stop! 

Okay. We’ll rest a moment, but we need to keep going.

Hurting, Prim8 griped about my on-going heel blister pain, though that felt tolerable, my knee ache, which seemed consistent, and an increasing lower back pain.

Getting old is for the birds, fella. 

I literally limped across the South Fork Kern River bridge (steel bridge) at 7,832 feet elevation and mile-marker 716.5. We’d totaled 14.3 miles distance and a 1,114-foot elevation drop for the day.

Nesting swallows swarmed under the bridge, collecting bugs to feed their young, while Tallow and I filtered cool water to replenish our bottles after he’d set up his tent.

"Steel Bridge" Across Crag Creek (PCT mile-marker 716.5)

Exhausted, I reclined on my sleeping pad to eat a light meal and took another Ibuprofen in order to maximize my R&R, rest and recuperation.

Tallow and I decided not to bear-bag our food, as the campground occupation of perhaps a dozen hikers would likely deter most larger critters. As well, we were well out of active bear territory.

6.27.24, Day 4, “Limping to the Finish” -

5:35 a.m. The trail continued away from the stream.

Looking North at Crag Creek and Across Clover Meadow

We continued over a ridge, then down toward the river again. Remnants of burned and fallen trees, left us with negligible cover from the sun. Hot, miserable and fatigued, Prim8 encouraged frequent breaks, which I took to catch my breath.

I encountered one non-poisonous snake aside the trail before reaching the stream crossing. There, however, an even larger snake—same species, I think—slithered over one of the logs used to aid hikers.

Non-poisonous Snake at PCT Stream Crossing Near Kennedy Meadows

(Courtesy Tallow)

The broad expanse of the Kennedy Meadows, covered with sage brush, made hiking to Sherman Pass Road a continued hot ordeal under unobstructed sun, while the temperature ranged in the 80s. I plodded onward, hiking slowly and taking frequent, though short, breaks, back pain dominating my concern. Thankfully, my knee pain had not increased, while my heel blister had stabilized.

Tallow pointed out a coyote that trotted away, some fifty yards off the trail. “Searching for a wabbit,” he said.

1:50 p.m., we arrived at PCT mile-marker 702.2, elevation 6,009 feet after a 14.3 mile, 9 ½ hour hike.

After retrieving Tallow’s vehicle at Horseshoe Meadows, we spent the night at the Mount Whitney Hotel in Lone Pine—with great air conditioning—before driving home Sunday, 6/28/24.

Note: I’ve decided to stick with the Half-Mile Note mile-marker designations, except for the Cottonwood Pass mile-marker sign, which read 751.4 miles. The remainder mile-marker designations are referenced according to Half-Mile Notes.

A Detour Undone … Partly

Bottom line: Don’t let the moss grow under your feet.

As I had planned to do, I returned to the scene of the detour. Call me a purist, but I want to walk every foot, if not inch, of the PCT!

When first there in 2017, I'd bypassed the section of the PCT from Hwy 74 junction (mile marker 151.9) to Saddle Junction (mile marker 179.4) due to trail closure as a result of previous fire. Instead, I'd hiked the detour along Hwy 74. Most thru-hikers would've considered that sufficient, out of necessity and with their bigger goal in mind, moved along. But not me.

So, “Wrongway” Mark and I planned to hike this section, north to south, with one overnight camp somewhere along the way.

8/17/23, Day 0, “Meet You at the Bunkhouse” -

Mark and I met at the Idyllwild Bunkhouse. We dropped my car at the Hwy 74 and PCT junction, then had a good meal and beer at the Idyllwild Brewpub before early retirement for the night.

8/18/23, Day 1, “There’s A Storm A’comin’ ” -

Yay, Prim8 said as I hoisted my backpack.

Don’t start celebrating just yet, dude. We haven’t carried this much weight in a while.

We started up Devil’s Slide trail from Humber Park about 7AM, our hike plans already shifting per Hurricane Hillary’s projected arrival. We’d noted the good weather window the evening before at the Idyllwild Bunkhouse, with the major impact of the storm arriving Sunday. And blue sky above provided encouragement.

Though slow, we hiked the 2.5-mile Devil’s Slide Trail to the Saddle Junction, carrying additional water weight, about 3 liters worth, for our overnight. Plus, I carried a small stove with fuel and a “Bug Hut,” while Mark carried his two-person tent. My pack didn’t seem that heavy, but hauling the overnight gear had an immediate and cumulative effect.

Prim8 prepares to head south from Saddle Junction, mile marker 179.4

Our thoughts turned to completing the 27.5-mile hike to my car as early as possible, Saturday evening the latest.

"Wrongway" Mark takes a short break near Tahquitz Peak

Mostly clear sky allowed distant mountain and desert view. However, I paid the price of hiking in full sun by perspiring continuously.

Too hot, Prim8 complained.

This ain't no fun for me, either, fella.

Looking northward to Coachella Valley

Evidence of fire, the reasons for previous trail closures and my necessary detour, pervaded our views as we advanced south along the trail.

Prim8 takes in the view.

A number of fallen trees blocked the trail, requiring a cumbersome climb over or an awkward squat under, and at times an outright detour. To say the least, the trail’s poor condition slowed our progress. At one point, we missed a switchback turn and lost half an hour re-acquiring the trail. The combination of sun, fallen trees, trail brush, and the additional weight I carried beat me down.

Prim8 constantly complained of being miserable. Can’t say I blamed him.

Though slow, I slogged on towards Fobes Ranch Trail Junction, at mile-marker 166.5 and 12.9 miles south of Saddle Junction. We had expectations to reach my car before the heaviest portion of Hurricane Hillary would reach us. It came down to a matter of time. Could we out run … er, out hike Hillary?

Mark checked the weather forecast periodically. Early afternoon, he said, “The forecast moved the arrival from 1PM to 9AM morning tomorrow.”

“I guess, we’ll be hiking out in the rain,” I said.

“I don’t want to get caught in the lightening,” Mark said.

“Not a good idea,” I said.

Both of our phones squawked at the same time.

“An emergency alert, “ I noted. Riverside County had sent an emergency alert warning of potential flash flooding, high winds, heavy rain, etc, etc. “Whoa, I suppose it’s going to get serious,” I said.

“If we can make it to a campsite near Cedar Spring today, which is beyond the highest points south of Fobes Trail Junction, we can avoid the worst of the storm. From there it’s all downhill.”

I had my doubts about reaching Cedar Spring at mile-marker 161.0, another four-and-a-half miles beyond Fobes. “Yeah, nothing like being at 6,500 feet on a trail in a hurricane. We could start out earlier in the morning, too. You know, like o-dark-thirty.”

Try as I did, I couldn’t go any faster, however. Wanted to ... but couldn't. I paused numerous times to catch my breath and rest my legs. Despite my awareness of the effects of fatigue, I'd slipped and tripped a half-dozen times over the course of the day. My brain couldn’t will my body to do its bidding. As the hours passed, Mark’s goal of reaching the long downhill portion on the trail, beyond the 7,000-foot plus high point, melted away. By default, Fobes Trail Junction became our camp location for the night.

Snake! Prim8 yelled.

I’d expected to see a snake on the trail, so wasn’t surprised. It’s not poisonous, Prim8. The 18-incher checked us out for a moment before slithering away.

Shortly after, and with Fobes Trail Junction in sight down slope about two-hundred yards distance, Mark waited. As I approached, he said, “Stop there. Leave the trail and walk towards me.”

On alert, What? Prim8 said.

Maybe a rattler. I took a beeline towards Mark, then turned to look as he pointed at a coiled rattlesnake aside the trail in ambush mode.

Mark explained, “I spotted it as I walked up, and said, ‘Whoa.’ ”

Ooh, Prim8 whispered.

Yeah. And we could've walked right up to that guy without seeing him. At that point, exhausted and fixated on getting to Fobes Trail Junction, I had no energy to maintain focus on anything other than not tripping over my own feet.

Said rattler takes a slither from it's ambush position aside the trail

(Note the circular depression)

When we reached Fobes Trail Junction, we had run of the place. We set up Mark’s tent in a site snuggled between two trees. Scrub oaks I believed, though I wasn't sure what kind of trees they were ... not that I cared. They’d provide a welcomed wind break, of sorts, if it came to that.

Mark joked, "We could get hit by a falling branch in a strong wind. Wouldn't that be ironic?"

"Yeah, I suppose we could get clobbered," I replied. What are the odds?

Neither of us suggested moving to a different campsite, however. Too tired to even boil water for a freeze-dried dinner that I’d carried, we snacked lightly on dry food as we prepared for sleep.

An occasional wind rustled the nearby brush and trees. A few scattered rain drops fell. The temperature remained warmer than I expected at 6,000 feet as the sun set.

“Maybe, we can start early and get beyond the high points before the worst of the storm arrives,” Mark suggested.

“Are you going to set your phone alarm?” I said.

“No,” Mark said. “I’m a light sleeper.”

I didn’t have the energy to insist he do so. And besides, wanting to save my phone battery, I’d turned mine off. The colors of dusk that I could glimpse from under our tree-covered campsite encouraged me to take one last look before I tucked in for the night.

Ooh, pretty! Prim8 said.

Yeah, but don’t judge a hurricane by it’s looks, fella. I stood awed and humbled by the sight, and wondered what lay in store for Mark and I.

Hurricane Hillary's approach as seen from Fobes Junction, PCT

“Hey, Mark, you ought to check out the clouds,” I said as I clambered into the tent.

Mark didn’t budge ... didn’t even make a sound.

8/19/23 – Day 2, “Uncle Joe’s Moving Kinda Slow At the Junction” -

We spent the night without signs of a storm—no downpour, no gusting wind, no lightening, no thunder. In fact, eerily, the air remained calm and the temperature unusually warm.

Half-awake, I heard Mark rustling, then say, “It’s 6AM.”

We broke camp as quickly as possible, snacking on dried food as we packed up.

"I didn't expect it to be so warm last night. Didn't need to cover myself with my sleeping bag," I said. "Never would've guessed it." Perhaps, the unusual warm temperature wasn't a good omen.

"I didn't either," Mark said.

Headed south on the trail within thirty minutes, we started up the two-mile stretch with a one-thousand-foot elevation gain leading to Eagle Spring Trail Junction, hoping to beat the worst of what Hillary might dish, but figured we’d get deluged no matter what.

Bushwhacking through overgrown trail in warm, humid air didn’t help matters. Reminded of a jungle, I prayed for any slight breeze that might help cool me, though what air moved provided little relief. My pace remained slow, my legs not recovered from their previous day’s beating. And, as usual, Mark hiked on ahead.

Slogging my way up trail, I saw Mark’s approach as he descended..

“We’re not moving fast enough to get beyond the high points before the storm hits," Mark said. "It doesn't look good from farther up."

Not faster, Prim8 whined.

We won’t ... we can't, anyway. “If I try to go any faster, I’ll burn out altogether,” I replied to Mark.

“I think we should head down from Fobes Trail Junction to lower elevation. It’s better to bail now, and live to hike another day. We can always return for a day hike to complete this section,” he said.

Yes, tired, Prim8 said.

I agree, fella. Mark had me at we’re not moving fast enough. “Okay,” I said. I didn’t have a counter argument in me. Knew he was correct.

We descended to the saddle at Fobes Trail Junction, then turned toward Hwy 74 on the shortest, quickest descent route available to us.

Once on the dirt of Fobes Ranch Road, some two-and-a-half miles hike from the PCT, and per our agreement, Mark took my car keys. The plan? He'd hike ahead, then drop his pack at some point where I would wait for his return in my car.

Stop, Prim8 insisted.

No, we need to keep moving. We’ll get there … eventually.

Long before I reached Hwy 74 or Mark’s pack, however, a pickup pulled alongside and the driver offered me a lift.

Yay, Prim8 said.

I accepted with gratitude. Trail angels still exist, guy.

Maybe, a mile farther down the bumpy and rutted dirt road, she stopped for Mark, then dropped us at my car. The three of us chatted a few minutes, before she headed on to Anza. In the meantime, she'd mentioned Mark and I should consider grabbing a bite at the Paradise Cafe. I figured she thought I was on my last leg, though I couldn’t have argued any differently.

After she’d pulled away, I said to Mark, “Yeah, maybe we could get breakfast or lunch at the Paradise. What time is it?”

“9:30,” he said.

“Then, breakfast it is,” I proclaimed.

I consumed a fantastic three-egg omelet, probably, the best I’ve ever had!

Though the sky's overcast looked ominous, Mark and I drove away from the Paradise Cafe well ahead of Hurricane Hillary’s fury.

I shall return to hike the section of the PCT from Fobes Trail Junction to Hwy 74, if for no other reason than stubbornness.

Normal & Perfect (Wisdom of the 12-Steps)

Bottom line: Let go of negative and unhelpful self-judgment.

I’m not talking about judgements about inappropriate behavior here. I’m talking about the nah, nah, nah and the unreasonable expectations we carry in our heads. I'm talking about the quality of our esteem of self and others.

As a treatment staff member in an adult drug/alcohol residential treatment facility some years ago, I often heard clients say they wanted to be normal, meaning like normal people. I usually responded that normal wasn’t what it's cracked up to be, and they should stay focused on healing themselves and avoid comparing themselves to others. I understood the majority of the general population likely considered themselves normal. But I knew humans aren’t perfect. I knew perfection is an ideal, a concept . . . an illusion. I knew full well the idea of normal was some vague notion of the general collective other, an imagined average of their characteristics, a construct we create in our heads.

Take heart. We’re all fallible humans, warts and all, dealing with life as it unfolds in its unpredictable way, which is beyond our control. We’re left to react to multiple events as best we can, while learning as we go. And that’s okay.

Just as some of us fall into the trap of striving to be normal, that ideal that lives in our heads, we should let go of the notion of achieving perfection.

British pediatrician and psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott termed the phrase “good enough mother” in his famous book Playing and Reality. His point being that no mother, nor caregiver or father I’ll add, needs to be, nor likely can be, perfect for their child. And who can determine what is perfect over time, much less in a given moment. It’s a cumulative, on-going process. As long as the mother, or any caregiver, exhibits compassion, caring, empathy, and, most importantly, what we call unconditional love, the child can adapt, experience and learn to deal with challenges in a healthy manner. As well, the growing child needs to face some difficulties to properly develop into a cooperative, socially appropriate individual.

Our collective and individual hope, of course, resides in the fact that we humans are malleable, flexible, and adaptive. We are capable of adjusting, improving, forgiving, and, most importantly, achieving redemption. If the mother can’t provide what’s good enough, then other caregivers, a father, a grandparent, an aunt or uncle . . . or any number of members of the extended family, may be able to fill in the gaps. In a real sense, if a family can be defined as dysfunctional, not all of its members are dysfunctional to the same degree, nor all the time in their interaction to every other member.

Our challenge should be to do the best we can, be willing to fail and learn, be open to communicate, reach out for help, and willing to rely on others. Over time our connections to others will sustain us and allow opportunity to unload our individual burdens by sharing our secrets and expressing ourselves honestly without judgement.

If you don’t have friends or family you with whom you can do that, Twelve-Step meetings are a safe place. So is counseling/therapy. Years ago, I reached out when suicidal thoughts threatened to consume me in undergraduate school.

So, reach out and connect with others. Unburden yourself of your secrets. Learn to trust others. Drop the public mask you hide behind and let down your walls. Learn to love, accept yourself in spite of your warts and imperfections. There are others out there that not only can relate, but who are willing to listen.

I leave you with this: “You don’t need to save me, you just need to hold my hand while I save myself.” Attribution Unknown

Photo Credit - wallpaperaccess.com