Progress Report...

We arrived at the Saufley's a few days ago with intention to continue on after a short visit - into the Mojave desert and on to resupply number two. However, last night, as Jeff Saufley wrapped my ankles in bandages, I wondered if the next morning, this morning, would actually be the morning we left. I was pretty determined, upon laying my tired head to a pillow, to wake up early, and wake Trip up and at least get a little bit of mileage in today, even if it was only ten miles or so. In the middle of the night, at 3:15 actually, I woke up in incredible agony that brought tears to my eyes. For unknown reasons, my ankle had once again waited till nightfall to act up, except this time the pain throbbed like a broken bone throughout my entire foot and shin, even up my calf. After unwrapping a bandage that had suddenly become much tighter than before (swelling), I laid back down and tried to elevate it, comlpletely down by this point that my body is so beaten after only a week of travelling. Upon waking this morning, I realized that we would indeed not be leaving yet, and even after this realization, my other foot and shin stopped me in my tracks during a short 20 foot walk to the hiker boxes - excruciating pain that burnt my muscles like they were ripping from their mounts.

I am, once again, worrying - by the time I get to my feet reliably again, I fear I will have to re-train my body how to walk many miles in a day. My shoulders are settling into the idea of zero burden, and my ankles are constantly warning me, "...Don't you dare..."

On the bright side, my wrist wound is not Lyme disease, for anyone who cared about the inverse.

Carrying Weight

This is all about carrying weight. We carry many things. Some things we have to, some things we want to, and some things we don't want to... but we carry anyways.

We are constantly asking ourselves, "Just how much weight can we afford to carry? Can my legs take the strain, to bear whatever burden, and keep moving?"

We envy those with lighter loads on their backs, and yet, we find a certain satisfaction in the load we carry. Sure, they may move faster but in some way, we feel more complete. We self-stylize ourselves as martyrs, our packs represent our poverty, the cross the we bear.

But our load is heavy, and we fear our own weakness. And so we go through our baggage, and examine the things we carry.

I carry my house on my back. I carry two pots, and inside my pots, I carry my kitchen, which consists of a stove made out of two pop cans, the rough side of a sponge, and a spoon. I carry a wrapped-up piece of fabric about the size of a loaf of bread. It is the roof over my head, perhaps the only thing at all like a home that we carry. My bed is an inflatable pad, my blanket is a bag. Nothing from past houses is eliminated entirely, they are just simplified down to their elemental functionality.

I carry a first aid kit and the worry that I may have to use it. Zipped in a plastic bag, I carry some German bandaids, some gauze, and the responsibility for mine and Rockhop's life. I carry some pain-killers and refusal to use them. I carry a first-aid manual and a stubborn pride that doesn't allow me to rely on it.

Rockhop carries me on his back. I carry Rockhop on my back. We find each other in each others backpacks, blending into each other like two rivers meeting. In this way and others, we support each other, so that the sum of our weight may be less than the sum of its parts.

We carry a water filter. We use it to clean water, dirtied by other humans who walked this trail. And so, we carry the weight of our ancestor's decisions. They deposited the disease, but they also built the trail. And so, carrying the water filter is a way of forgiveness for sins committed. Perhaps we lighten the loads of those we came before us somehow, or make up for them not carrying their own responsibility.

We carry pictures. The pictures carry a purpose, a reflection and a reminder of those far away. They seem extraordinarily heavy, and sometimes feel like dead weight. Why lug this burden all this way, for so long, when it causes so much strain on our chest muscles? And yet, we still carry it, ignoring clearly marked trash receptacles. We look at the pictures while walking and imagine walking with those pictured, not carrying anything.

We carry journals. In them, we seek to carry the present. Not for now obviously, but for the future, when now will be the past. We try to carry future pasts, mental photographs of moments to relive at a later date, when today has grown as tired and dusty as the desert we walk. We carry ever-shortening pencils, lead drained is present precious time drained, an investment.

We carry knowledge. We carry the numbers in our head, the weight of our objects. We carry the idea that we could ditch any particular item and still survive. We also carry the knowledge that every item in our pack is special somehow, and a part of us, or else we wouldn't carry it.

We carry maps. We carry forbearance of the future, and the inability to alter it. And so our load is doubly heavy, we not only carry ourselves up the mountain, we carrying dread of the mountain all the way until then.

We carry our bodies. We carry our flesh and blood, that realm defined by the border where skin meets air. We carry the weight of our injuries and diseases. We carry the fear of being crippled, the fear of dying. We lift and carry our feet for every step of every thousand steps taken. Our strength is the only way to get anywhere, to make it, to survive. And we carry versatile clothes to shield our weak bodies from whatever climate we wander into.

We carry food and water. The food is sent from friends, the water is found out here and purified. Both nourish us, in different ways. They are the heaviest things in our packs. One is from the past, one is from the present, but both flow through us and so propel us toward the future.

We carry a phone. It carries photos and phone numbers and the only link to our former lives. It carries part of our displaced love, but adds weight to it. It carries this blog on its back. This blog carries a promise, to be a fountain in which you may turn the spigot and so feel some of our purified water weight pass through your hands. We ask not much in return, but that you carry us in your thoughts sometimes.

We carry opportunity. We carry the potential of every morning, of every "around the bend" coming up. We carry the possibility to have hiked this trail, everything that that means. We carry the hefty choice to be out here. We carry the weight of being away from those we love, and we always must have this weighing upon our minds: the possibility that we could just go home.

We carry risk and sacrifice, memory and dreams, love and resentment, yesterday, today and tomorrow. We also carry a lot of trash. We carry many other things unlisted, some things surely, that we have not even noticed. We are perpetually carrying this burden, it cannot be set down, we are in motion and it's all right there in the pack on our back. All the baggage we carry is simply that which we cannot leave behind. All that we bring home follows the same standards: we will only carry that which is vital to our being.

It's all about carrying weight.

The price you pay...

Yesterday, at about 3 P.M., Trip (a.k.a. Lennard), Louie and I arrived in Agua Dulce after a 16 mile day through canyon forests, rolling plains, mountain crest paths and rocky desert turf, setting our total hiked mileage just shy of a hundred miles. Upon soar knees and sprained ankles, we hobbled up the road, past the famous Vasquez Rocks, around the corner past the Liquor store, and up 9/10s of a mile to the Saufley residence. For those of you who don't know about the Saufley's, I will now amaze you:

Our first ressuply box was not sent ahead to a post office, but instead to the Saufley residence, where Jeff and Donna Saufley live with their numerous dogs and horses. They call their house "Hiker Haven" and it is just that. Upon entering the gate, you are greeted by a sign that says "Welcome! You have come to the right place, if we are not here, just make yourselves at home around the corner in the guesthouse." Jeff, however, was home, and greeted us warmly by taking us around the corner to take our packs off infront of a large trailer that was to be our house for the coming days. You take your packs off, have a cold beer or soda, and walk to the garage of their house to start visit. There, infront of you, is a large kiosk with all the information you need to know and didn't about the PCT, including water report, snow report and trail condititons, as well as trail angels in other towns and so on. There is also a large metal rack, upon which sits cleans towels, clean shirts, clean shorts and flip flops for up to 20 hikers atleast, with intructions to take one of each, and go take the most beautiful shower of your life. After a week of hiking, we were gitty at the idea.

After your shower, you dawn on your new shirt and shorts, and put all your dirty clothes into a provided laundry basket, and then Donna, the "Laundress", will wash all of your clothes for you. Then it's all R&R, anything from watching one of the hundreds of movies available, reading any of the books on the shelves, internet access, piano, guitar, full kitchen and free food, explore the hiker boxes (if you don't know what those are, you are missing out) or just lounge around in the hammock our chairs in the beautiful yard. You could even explore the garage more to find funny articles, hiker tips, all the PCT hiker's ressuply boxes alphabatized and separated, and not one but TWO sets of keys - each one belonging to a car you can use "on the honor system". One seats 8, one seats 5, one's a stick and the other an automatic. I am not kidding.

The Saufleys are so infamous on the trail for their kindness, that after we arrived yesterday and had begun pouring through our ressuply, some cameramen showed up and started doing interviews for a documentary/reality DVD about the PCT, and even asked Trip and I for camera time!

But you pay the price for the kindness given on the trail, and such is the balance of life. To my knowledge, no hiker has come through the Saufleys without deserving the hospitality through intense labor.

Throughout the last 6 days, Trip, Louie and I have seen some of the most beautiful parts of Southern California that until now, I refused to believe even existed. On day one, we traversed snow cliffs, and climbed strait up Mount Baden Powell through 4 feet of snow, trail completely covered and hidden, strait to the summit and crest, from which we spend the coming night and next day postholing out of. On day two we rode an avalanche down the mountains, road walked for miles, and camped in the most beautiful spot on top of a grassy hill wil perfect view of the setting sun. Day 3 had us in forests and deserts, days 4 and 5 in chaparrelles and grass-covered rolling hills. We've stopped hourly to gaze over the beautiful Earth, to sit in a perfect bluff and eat lunch over valleys and canyons, or to rest as long 5 o'clock shodows brought the hills to life. Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how I could possibly be happy in a city or sleeping in a house.

And yet, not a day goes by that I don't wish I was in a city eating a cheeseburger, or sitting infront of the Super Nintendo about to fall asleep on the couch. For every moment of true bliss, we have been pummeled by the reality of the world, and the price we pay for happiness.

As of now, our injuries of few and unsevere. Only speaking for myself, I have pulled two ticks out of my skin, one of which left a worrisome wound that I may still seek medical attention for, I have suffered with my lip, which split and is slowly healing though it has made eating very difficult, and I have sunburns where my last sunburns have already peeled away. My spinal cord is aching and compressed, my shoulders burn and scream for help and my toes beg for a new pair of socks and to be trated more fairly. Worst of all, though, my left ankle is twisted and needed rest even before I hobbled 16 extra miles, further spraining it.

But the body heals - I don't mean to sound like I am complaining, for I knew of the consequences before I started. I want to be clear: I can walk twenty miles a day and carry 55 pounds on my back. I can climb mountains and traverse snow cliffs. I can perservere through tough labor, climbing mountains and worse, descending steep paths. I can even mend wounds, wrap ankles, remove ticks and sleep in the same tent every night. These things are of the flesh, and can be overcome by the mind - the wounds that I am still batteling with are the one's of heart: Leaving those I love behind, being away from a lover and our youthful love, being away from the clean Oregon air and the smogless sky, and beautiful Oregon beaches and the summer surf.

As with all things, there is one thing I have learned very well: Many hikers hike the PCT with such light-weight gear that though they do no have the same burden, they are never as comfortable or as prepared. Some carry so much that they cannot stop to smell the roses, but they are able to confront every situation that arrises. Life is about choosing your battles, and I am currently fighting the good fight.

Mountain lion

Our hosts in Wrightwood, jeff and colleen.