Photoset

Here's a complete set of all my photos from the PCT.

Enjoy.

=D

Walking On

"We do not receive wisdom,
we must discover it for ourselves,
after a journey through the wilderness
which no one else can make for us,
which no one can spare us,
for our wisdom is the point of view
from which we come at last to regard the world."
- Marcel Proust

I hesitated in posting the final entries of my PCT journal because I think there's something larger in them than I have not entirely grasped. It's as though I was worried I was accidentally partially naked in these pages and didn't know about it. Perhaps it's nothing, a trick of the glory-light my thoughts have poured onto the walk. Or maybe my suspicions are right, and something special, something indestructible and wholly true to the complexity of Lenny's soul, some hidden part of my being I didn't even know I was writing about has shown through. Or perhaps not. For better or worse, here are my last journal excerpts and although I feel like I could write as many words about the PCT as steps I took, I think it is more fitting to end this blog with the abruptness that my hike ended with. I would like to thank the legions of people who helped make it possible. I couldn't have taken the first step without your support, and more importantly, your love. Thank you.

-Trip

7/13

Each nature setting generates a unique feeling, but with some underlying commonality. By the lake, I feel peaceful and contemplative. I feel like I should be with someone I'd like to kiss. In the forest, I feel wise and at home. There, I feel like I should be with old friends, looking up into the branches. In the mountains, I feel adventurous. By the river, I feel like going for a swim. I see rivers as a place for lightheartedness, unless you have to cross them, then they are serious business. In the open meadow, I feel wild. But, in civilization, I often feel lost, alone, afraid, or bored. What kind of city has Man built when all I want to do is leave it? Why does unbridled wild-ness generate peace?

7/18

As my walk nears its conclusion, my thoughts turn toward my re-integration with society. I suspect it will be unpleasant. What will I do? Where will I fit in? Who will I be? I find it astounding that I am still even capable of worrying about money after all that I've been through, all that I've accomplished. But that's what it all boils down to. Society is money, how could I hope to escape it? Lots on my mind right now... so much that the weight on my mind seems more than the weight on my back! (well, almost) But, in the glorious present, I am confronted with tranquility. Shasta looms over my campsite along with the Castle Crags, both grand and majestic, humbling. A small nearby lake reflects my reflective mood. A bi-plane just flew right over me. I wave. I'm so high, my hand is playfully caressing the sky as horizons turn orange and purple (such musical colors, I feel like a conductor), and I watch as my sun slowly sets.

7/20

...I am so frustrated that I have to go back... What can't it just be like it was by Deadfall Lake this afternoon? Secluded, forested, blue lake. Heat of the day. Strip to shorts. Dive in. Not too cold. Relief in those aching muscles. Dry in the sun. Have a leisurely lunch. No worries. That's what life ought to be like, lounging by a lake... My question about the rest of the world is this: Why so little joy?

7/21

Dreary days make for beautiful sunsets. Today, two trails diverged in the woods. I took the one more traveled and got thoroughly lost. I discovered that a free campfire, built out of trash, works better at repelling mosquitoes than my expensive bug repellent. Burns some weight, too. Every campfire I have, I wish I had more. Maybe I should learn something here... You know, this has become the norm for me. I fear civilization like I used to fear the wilderness. They days no longer seem incredibly long, they seem of the right length. Top Ramen is my daily constitutional, and I look forward to it. I've gotten used to farting whenever I want. How peculiar my ordinary life has become...

7/22

The mosquitoes are lurking even now, in the pre-dawn gloom, their long legs poised like ocean oil rigs on the mesh of my tent. Like vampires, they've been waiting all night, for me to emerge, for the tent to suddenly tear, who knows, just blind hope. They must be starving. Interestingly, their hunger is reinforcing mine. Aware that a biting swarm of blood-thieving needles awaits just beyond the threshold of my tent makes me hesitate in rising this morning. And so I am writing here instead of fixing up some oatmeal. But they're not going anywhere anytime soon, and they will win this war by attrition. They've got more patience than I, and I think I'd die of starvation before their whole species did. You win this round, you bastards.

7/24

Walls seem silly. Why try to keep out the hummingbirds and the clean smell of land freshly washed by rain? I think windows are more human than walls. Why bother with carpet? Soft moss or grass, even wood, is more pleasing to the feet. And when it is not raining, why can we not peel away our ceilings and roofs and let the cool breeze and warm sun inside our home? Fresh air and healthy tans for everyone, the world would be a happier place. And the most torturous question of all: Why spend the majority of a life trying to purchase and own such a dull contraption of plaster and brick when the forest provides bliss and peace at no cost at all? Mankind is very confused. He loves Nature with all his heart, and yet fights to keep Her away.

7/26

I write now like a man gripped by some glorious vision of his own reality which he has mythified into legend, and is now playing prophet in slapdash poetry and is trying to tell you what he sees. I can see culture. It is clear to me, all the mannerisms and lies and little physical dances, their presence and effects on communication, and therefore, their effects on life. Television, that wondrous drug I just barely managed to quit, blinks like neon lights over journal pages, a blasting beat and a saxophone remind me of a strip club, like I'm being seduced by society. I see through what must have always been transparent anyways, but the structure of this ugly life is naked, and I understand more than I did before...

7/28

The shock was intense at first, but I am getting used to civilized life again. Did it ever occur to you just how much knowledge there is at one's fingertips? I've been binging on information and media. And food, which brings me endless joy. It's really not so bad to be back. It's comfortable, and there are no mosquitoes. Friends are here, too. I'm actually feeling pretty happy right now. I still feel free, but I can enjoy society for what it's worth. Perhaps it's like the start of an addiction.

7/31

In the morning, when the mind is clear, too freshly awoken to have accumulated any worries, just after breakfast, when both body and mind sigh with contentment, I believe this is the best time to write. If I ever write a good novel, I suspect it will be the product of a hundred lazy mornings... Out here, I have learned to listen. Not just to hear (although my hearing has improved as well), but to listen. Truly, with an open soul and no judgments. Bees hum, birds squawk, the wind breathes, the river bubbles, and I am pleased by it all. And sometimes it is truly silent, and I am pleased by that too. My footsteps are a constant rhythm, the bass of this grand orchestra. I have begun to listen to myself and hear my desires. My ears stay open and vigilant to God speaking to me through the world. And, when I meet people, their stories fascinate me as though they were my own. And, if I ever am to write, I know that I am a conduit, input:output, and my "voice" is more of an echo.

8/1

Today is the 3 month anniversary of my walk. The sky above me is a brilliant blue, the trees around me wear dresses of green moss, standing about like ladies at a cocktail party. The sound of water running flows into my ears, a few small springs here that form the mighty Rogue River. The river, which is both here and where people kayak its whitewaters, both there and where it meets the ocean. It is always moving and is always present. It is like a person. In this way, the river disproves time in the sense of the calendar. And yet still I think, "3 months." How long is 3 months? I spent 3 months in college, 3 months on the fabled road trip, 3 months out here. When I go to New York with Jenn, it will be another 3 months until I see home again. But when I think about it, I cannot decide if 3 months is a long time or a short time. Yesterday, I jumped off a cliff into a lake, reclaim that ancient oath one last time. Tomorrow, I will reach the doomed immortal, Crater Lake. Looking backwards and forwards in that myth of time, I see great things. As Bill said, life is good.

8/2

Still, I am enchanted by wildflowers. I did not foresee such a bizarre fascination with them before I left home. But as I gaze at their varied colors and designs, I am struck with awe. They're so... weird! I look at their cascading, weaving folds in bloom and think to myself... why? Why such extravagance? How could they have missed the fact, in the course of their evolution, that simple yellow petals would do just fine? How strange it is to look upon a whole field of such complexity, hundreds of perfect replicas of such intricate and remarkable design! All for that basic quest, attracting the hummingbirds and the bees. All modern species of flower have succeeded in this regard, obviously. And yet, such diversity! I am reminded of humans desperately trying to attract mates by subscribing to one species of style or dress or make-up, trying to advertise their worth, when the secret truth is that, really, once you've reached full bloom, you probably won't be left out.

8/2

Wow. What can one amateur poet wanderer say about Crater Lake that hasn't been said a thousand times before? Shall I wax rhapsodic about its sapphire color? Should I ponder its great depth? Could I be so bold as to try to describe the wonder of the Rim's geometry, a curving rocky grin across the waters? Should I write of the clouds, who have paused here to gaze into the lake as well, comparing its blue to their sky? Perhaps I should just smirk over the fact that the trail stays much closer to the lake than the road, and yet, due to public laziness or ignorance, I sit here in perfect solitude. The cars are too distant to hear their droning on, and there are no guardrails as I perch on a rock jutting out just over the edge. My only human companion is the tiny distant boat gliding over the crystalline surface, cutting it into ripples like liquid glass. I think what I will say is this, today I feel quite lucky to be just where I am, just to exist, even, and I am grateful to the great God who made the mountain, sky, eruption, deep blue water and myself and who allowed us to meet in this moment and coincide.

8/2

Sheesh, three entries in one day. But what can I do? I am a man in love. Let me be absolutely clear on this: I. Love. This. Shit. Gazing into Crater Lake today, I fell deeply in love with a color. How can someone fall in love with something so abstract, so utterly unattainable as a color? From the Rim, I spotted jagged Mt. Theilsen in the distance and said to myself aloud, "I must climb that mountain." It was love at first sight. I love walking, and I love hitchhiking. I love meeting new people and seeing old friends and, well, just people in general. I love flowers. And trees and animals - even rocks! But I do not love mosquitoes. Although, I do love mosquito repellent. I love drinking from cold springs and watching the orange coin of a sun melt into purple mountains. I love the outdoors. And I love civilization too. Well, for the most part. And I love whatever God or luck or fate has given me this life because I love it. I love life! What a rare thing it must be for modern man to proclaim thus.

8/3

The clock is back and she is ticking like a bitch. Only 3 or 4 more days left - can it be true? ... How can I stop the inevitable sunset and enjoy it just a little longer?

8/5

As I see it, Trip is already dead. This trip ended days ago. The remainder now is just a death march. Christ, with a backpack in lieu of crucifix. Doomed. Why even bother? Depressed, I decided to climb a random mountain, always a spiritual experience, and sit on top and think, meditate, pray, take in the view, etc. Clear the mind. Focus. And then I asked, "Why am I so sad?" First, because it feels wrong. That's the gut instinct: it is wrong to leave. But I will be going anyways. That's why it feels like such doom, such futility, such inevitability. But second, I came to realize the real source of my depression. The freedom which I have sung so much about... is a sham. I wasn't ever really "free" from society. I painted myself as a lone wolf, but I was just a dog on a leash all along. I always had to go back. This isn't sustainable on its own. It's a hollow victory. I am still a citizen. Damn it.

8/6

...the last hiker I met was a very calm person named Psycho... He said to me, "I have found that everything that has resulted from walking the trail was good." and that gave me hope. As I neared the highway, I listened for the rushing cars, sounds like a rushing river that was to carry me away. Almost over now. Sudden and impossible to prepare for. Like lightning. My hands go out, touching trees and plants, suddenly eager to take as much of this with me as possible. One last uphill climb reveals an enormous pale lake. The sun is setting. Of course. The sky is a painted cathedral, rays through the trees, but I am leaving church before the service is over. The cars are a roar now, some terrifying beast. Only a few more steps now, for the first time, a number my mind could grasp until my odyssey is over. I'm in too much of a daze to tear up. An animal runs by, unseen through the woods, only heard. I'm suddenly struck by the thought that the animal represents all that I came out here for. The call of the wild, a power animal, a Patronus, a hint of the mystery I've been chasing - before I can finish the thought, I can see the road. There it is. The end.

The Weight of Questions

I have an awful lot of questions. For example...

Why is that many people can admit money runs their lives and yet they still submit to its domination? It's like people have a direct doublethink going on, they say money is no object and profess that it doesn't matter to them, that it inevitably makes people greedy and selfish, and then without skipping a beat, they go off to college or work hard to get that raise. They judge me as a "wayward adult", a "drifter", a "bum", but these words don't have any real meaning, just a negative connotation. All I am is a person who happens to have no money but still stubbornly seeks life.

So many people tell me they are jealous of what I've done. That I had a dream and went and did it. This fact astounds me over and over again, it seems like whenever a ride picks me up and we get to talking, they reveal their life dream to me in mere minutes. Like I'm a travelling confessional booth. And I always say the same thing which never helps, "Well, why don't you?" And they cite some reasons, but something indicates they are aware of the lameness of their excuses. Cowards in martyr's clothing. But one bigger question looms in my head, "Why can I follow my heart and chase my true desire, but all these people cannot?"

This is the split. I get told one of these two things, just after a new aquaintance asks my age. "Twenty years old? Isn't about time you went to college and/or got a job, son?" or else they say, "Twenty years old? Oh, you've got plenty of time! Keep doing this as long as you can, for many more years even." Never any middle ground. Get a job or follow your dreams. I always sensed this was an important question in my life at this age, but never suspected it to be the question. Which do I bow to? Reason or passion? Safety or freedom? Comfort or experience? Structure or spaciousness? Inside or out?

The great gift of my walk was not really what I suspected. I suspected to gain strength. Strength to persevere, strength to withstand fear, strength to go whereever I wanted to go. But what I found instead was perspective.

I had a dream one night during my walk. I was a dirty man in ragged clothes, standing on a snowy street, looking through a big glass window in on a big party. I watched the people laughing, dancing, arguing, gossiping, some looking depressed or out-of-place, with only the sound of muffled music reaching my ears. I realized the party I was looking in on was society and that I was now seperate from it, a distance detached, and seeing things from a different viewpoint.

I came back and was plunged into a world of worry. No wonder my thinking was so unclear, how could someone choose what is important while under such a bombardment? Scheduling problems, financial difficulties, social injustices... it all seems so trivial to me, so very mundane. After months without a schedule, money, or companions, all I can do is be filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for whatever it is I got.

So, I didn't come home enlightened. I don't have very many new answers. But I do have a new way of looking at things, one that I hope doesn't get drowned out too soon. And while I still lack the answers I seek, I feel that I now have a firmer grasp on my questions, and that may be the greatest gift I can carry.

I'm home now =D but you can anticipate a few more posts before I wrap this blog up.

Insight is input, I am output

In the front of my journal, I have five fortune cookie messages pasted in, all collected before I left.

"Your principles mean more to you than money or success."

"Reasonable people endure, passionate people live."

"The concern of others will make your trip a delight."

"Look with favor upon a bold beginning."

"A wise man knows everything, a shrewd one, everybody."

From the bum under the bridge in Reno:

"Good people and good places. That's what life's all about. Oh, and good food too."

From Yogi master Bill,

"I said to my friend from China, 'I think I know what makes a life happy. Good health, good food, and good friends."

'Yes, very good, Bill.' my friend replied, 'but you forget one thing.'

Bill: 'Oh yeah? What's that?'

His friend: 'Spirit, Bill.'

Me: 'Ha, he got you!'

Bill: 'No, he taught me.'"

Also from Bill...

"This is how enlightened my friend is. One day, as I sat on his porch by a large chime, watching the workers in the garden, he walks over to me and places his hand on my shoulder. And then, in one swift, loud movement, he clanged his knuckle on the chime. The workers looked up at us annoyed. He just smiled. And then, he took both his hands and played beautiful music on that chime and put them and myself right back where he got us from. Then he walked away."

From Antonio, a ride, about his service in Somalia...

"There was one guy in our unit who was fucking awesome with a grenade launcher. We would set up targets, no bigger than a person, get in a jeep, and while moving, he'd fire at the highest speed, FOOM FOOM FOOM FOOM FOOM, and they'd be smoke. But then, on our first day of real combat, we were riding in two jeeps into a hot area. And he was all bragging, "Yeah, I'ma gonna kill me a whole sackful today." But then, when the bullets actually started flying out at us, he got so nervous that his hands were totally shaking. He fired his first round, and it blew up the other jeep. Five men in that jeep. They were my friends. Later, we were told what happened. We had to shut up. They died in combat, that was that. Their families would receive the Medal of Honor, and we would never talk about it again. But I'll tell you what, that night, we went to his tent and kicked the shit out of him. We beat the living hell out of him."

Not sure...

"Reason is but an item in the mystery; and behind the proudest conciousness that ever reigned, reason and wonder blushed face to face. The inevitable stales, while doubt and hope are sisters."

Lint, another thru hiker, on his thought process toward the hike,

"I'm tired of safe and sane! I want dumb and dangerous!"

Lint, again.

"So, I'm bombing my bike down this steep hill in Portland. Down at the intersection, this woman in a big white SUV comes to the stop sign, looks up at me, and just rolls right through. So, I have to squeeze the brakes, and come screeching to a halt. Then, I turn, and follow her, because I'm going to give her a piece of my mind. And she's blowing through all the signs now, because she sees me behind her and she doesn't want me to catch up. But I do, at the light. I tell her to roll down her window. She does, just a crack. I say, "Lady, do you realize you could have killed me back there?" She's on her cell phone and gives me a thin smile and says, "Well, maybe you should be more careful." and rolls her window back up. So, I pull out my pocket knife, pop the bitch's tire, and ride on."

Georgi, trail angel in Old Station...

"Love is really quite simple. All you must do is nurture a feeling that you want good things for the other person. That's what it comes down to. That's all it is. And if you can do that, you can love."

Story, thru-hiker.

"So, in the trail registers, I created this girl named Wildflower. And she'd always write real cute things in the comments box, maybe mention she was lonely on her solo hike. And other guys would catch up to me and be like, "So, have you seen Wildflower lately?" and I would say, "Oh yeah, man, she's only like a day ahead. Real nice girl." and they'd say "Thanks" and speed off. Ha ha ha ha ha."

A conversation between me and Pan, the craziest bum I met in Reno.

Pan: I'm watching you, man.

Me: Oh yeah?

Pan: I can see what you're doing.

Me: And what am I doing?

Pan: You're judging me. You're weighing me over in your mind. You're analyzing me, trying to figure something out. You're looking for something, some hint that I am like, trustworthy or something.

Me: Sounds like you're doing the same thing to me.

Pan: You bet. I got you all figured out. You wanna hear who you are?

Me: Go for it.

Pan: You ever seen the Matrix?

Me: Of course.

Pan: But did you understand it?

Me: Uh, I think so...

Pan: Explain it to me.

Me: Okay... the mind of mankind creates a machine that builds a construct for mankind's mind to keep him imprisoned while the machines, in turn, use them to power the machinery.

Pan: ...What? Huh? Look, you're smart enough to use words like "contruct", but you didn't even get the fuckin' movie. It's like this, man. There are citizens and lost kids in this world. If you're still working for the machine, you're one of the citizens. But once you realize the truth, you can break free. You can take the red pill, man. Like you and I have. We're lost kids, man. But you, you're a little different. You're like the guy with the steak. You're out, but you still want to remember what steak tastes like.

Me: ...you are absolutely right.

A bunch of hitchhikers collected at the Rainbow Gathering, all trying to get out...

1: Your van is empty! Come on!

2: What are you doing?

3: Dude, that's not cool.

1: What?

3: You can't be bitter like that.

2: Not while hitchhiking.

4: Yeah, that's bad vibes, man.

Me: If you want love, you gotta give it, bro.

2: Trust, patience, love, and luck. That's hitchhiking, my friend.

3: Ha, that's just plain ol' good living.

More From my Journal

Something different today. Here are some of my personal favorite excerpts from the journal I have been keeping on this trip. Enjoy.

April 16th (Day one)

After a few pointless middle fingers, one rather-mean fake-out, some improvised vaudeville, and about an hour, Louie and I are laying back in the covered truck bed of our first hitched ride. The feeling is very romantic, scenic vistas rolling by the broken screen window. Out the back window of the truck's canopy, I watch the road fall away. How different it is from looking forward, and yet how much the same. Suddenly, I imagine that I am watching my old life slip away, each yard a distance farther from my old self. To think, I will retrace this whole distance. The weatherman was wrong, the sky is a beautiful blue. I say it's a POG. And today is Easter. You know, if Christ was reborn on Easter...

April 20th (Still thumbing it south)

...a day of reflection. This type of day is ending as it usually does, with me facing into the future, wondering. Who will I be when I return home?

April 26th (At the Kickoff Party)

investments via lack thereof

on a cold day,
a hot shower is twice as good
or three days without shower
make the shower three times as good

birdsong, toad croaking, crickets,
train whistles, traffic, and music,
sound sweeter and more vivid
in proportion to how long since last heard

it's often easier to get along
with far away friends and lovers
than roommates and spouses
seen every day

thus, the goodness of a thing
is derived from the ratio
of its distance to normality

April 27th (Still at the Kickoff)

Worry has given way to excitement. Snow doesn't mean danger, it means adventure! How much more advice from these people can I possibly inhale? We are so close to starting, I am having hallucinations of the future, of waterfalls and snow-capped mountains, of deep forests and sweltering deserts. Perhaps my only remaining worry is that I'll like it too much and I will become obsessed like many of these people here. Although, their passion is inspiring. And their help, invaluable. I am gaining confidence every day, a vital, but overlooked resource. Imagine if I actually pull this off...

May 3rd (Just after the start of the hike. I love this entry.)

I admire plants. There is something in every living plant that I aspire to. So small a beginning, a single acorn becomes the mighty oak. How wild and rebellious plants are, growing in places where botany notebooks say they should not. And how bizarre is that force, that instinctual courage that tells the underground seed, "Reach upwards." Any seed that does not heed this mysterious call dies. Imagine the day that the young plant breaks through the surface dirt, what an inspirational event, to now be something alive, suddenly born into the world. And so they continue to grow up, although never separating from their roots. Indeed, those roots grow deeper, thus a plant is moving forward and backwards at once. Soon, the tenacious tiny seed will brave cold winter with a silent stoicism. For dear life, it hangs on. It catches blessings from the sky and so nourishes itself. Really, does a flower make any sense at all, this brightly-colored, perfume-smelling creation which springs from mere dirt and water? It's like magic! I, like the plant, find myself mysteriously drawn to reach upward into my own potential. I hope I grow. And then, perhaps, upon the coming of spring, I will burst forth from my bulbous form... and bloom.

May 10th (I wrote this in the hiker registry at the Saufley's in Agua Dulce. It's not in my journal at all. But, it turns out another hiker liked it enough to post it online and I stumbled upon it. So, I thought I'd copy-paste it here too.)

People search for home most of their lives. Home is that special place you remember from childhood, with happy Christmases and presents you really did very little to deserve. Home, with those towering, amazing people (you called them parents) who would do and give almost anything for you without expecting the slightest in return. A kind of surreal kindness and otherworldly compassion pervades the air in every person's memory of "home". It is rare, I think, to find such a place as a grown-up. And yet, as young as I may be, it is readily apparent to me that the extraordinary hospitality shown to total strangers who pass by this household transforms it into a home for all, a home as mythical and legendary as memory recalls. Thank you, your generosity is beyond charity, it is a pure form of love exuded usually only between family.

May 18th (Tehachapi)

It is too hot. Too hot for walking, writing, hitchhiking, thinking. Today, I got my resupply box from my mom. It made me so happy. It is the closest I have gotten in recent years to the childhood ecstasy of Christmas morning. But while I was going through its contents, a cop barged in on my joy for fear I was mixing chemicals to make crystal meth or a bomb "or something." Yeah, in a open field right next to the post office. Gimme a break! The clarity that the wilderness provides is astounding. On the day of my return to society, I am instantly reminded why I love and hate it. I hate society because it can be so stupid. Flat-out retarded at times, in ways that barge in on my freedom and my pursuit of happiness. However, I tolerate it because it contains my friends and family and refrigerated foods, whom I love.

May 23rd (Just before Onyx)

...today I noticed I have been changing out here, so slowly I hardly saw it happening, like a sun setting.

May 27th (Just after Onyx)

Climbing Mt. Jenkins, it's starting to get late. The trail is rough, often just dynamited out of the rock. Dark clouds are coasting in alongside me, at even height. The wind is picking up. I'm thinking, "I do not want to get stuck up here tonight." The sun begins to set. The clouds next to me become kissed with pink. Higher clouds turn shades of yellow and orange, painting the roof of this chapel around me. Then, as I'm sitting looking at my map trying to find a nearby campsite, the color scheme shifts. It's as if I've suddenly put on rose-colored glasses. Then, the hard granite beneath me begins to shimmer, reflecting the moving spectrum of colors in the clouds. It's as though part of a rainbow has gotten lost and is wandering over the mountain on its return to the sky. I am literally in a sunset. Words fail to describe it, something magical, momentous, like walking into heaven.

May 30th (Kennedy Meadows)

...today, I let my body heal. For the first time, I am actually consciously impressed with my body. It's ability to adapt to this immense lifestyle change has been remarkable. I admire it, my flesh seems to be at least as intelligent as my brain, spontaneously growing new ligaments and muscles to help me hike or sensing a hole in my skin and growing over it, consuming the wound and healing it... and the body does all this and more all in a perfectly automatic, regulated, and silent fashion, leaving me to quietly contemplate the spirit...

June 5th (Just before the Sierras. Forgive me, this one is kind of weird.)

We have arrived at the crucial point. It is do-or-die time now. You've had the calm, and now dark clouds are rolling in. Since nobody told you what you needed to hear, I am going to say it to you, me, now, and you will read it after. You can do this, Lennard. You are young, surprisingly fit, clever, prepared, ambitious, and surrounded by well-wishers. Face fear right now, stare into its cold darkness and it will crystallize into courage. Courage is strength. Strength enough for you to do this: to lift yourself over tall mountains. You are no longer a flatlander, you are one of Nature. You will not be forsaken. You will succeed, and will live to tell the tale, and live to relive the saga in later times. You are scared, sure, but this is the eve of your proudest hour. Go forth, Trip, and know that I, at least, have total faith in you.

June 15th (Bishop, CA)

Ah, the great poetry of poverty! 'tis true, all my meager existence could afford today was thus: a day in the park. Laying back on green grass, looking up through the branches of old trees into blue skies. In the park, children play and lovers romance before my eyes. On the street, important men hurry to and fro, quite concerned about some business or another. I can hear the flopping of a diving board, indicating nearby fun. The sun is warm and the bugs are absent, so I nap for many hours. I read a good book, as much of it as I want. I come and go from my spot as I please, not worried about the theft of my things, because they are the possessions of an apparent bum, and who would want that dirty junk but me? I've stayed here out of indecision about where to go next, but this is totally fine. Without a job, I am free to be this free. The price of entry to a full and carefree day in the park such as I have enjoyed today is a fee that the richest businessmen in the world cannot afford to pay.

June 16th (Still in Bishop, CA)

I awoke this morning to the sound of a splash. I slept in the park and my tired eyes opened to three girls in the pool, playing, swimming, and giggling in the pre-dawn gloom. All of a sudden, I realized the true meaning of the "innocence of youth." It has nothing to do with crime or sin. At least, that's not the endearing part. What makes children so admirable is their flagrant contradiction to social custom. If these three girls want to go swimming before dawn and "don't know any better" than to go do so, what blessedly wise individuals they are! Their naivete is their strength, and frees them to be true to themselves in a way few adults can be. Today, my only priority is to finish a book, because I like it. Perhaps I should be at work, or hiking, or pursuing world peace, but I say, here's to "not knowing any better!"

June 21st (Lost on the Piute Trail)

...yes, I will face challenges today, but at least I have something to do worth doing! Pressed against a force antagonized to it, my living life feels that much more, well, alive. Think of the immeasurable, unimaginable sights I will wander by today. Each ridgetop, every corner turned and river forded forges yet another memory in my mind that, perhaps, will not be erased until my final day! How real and engaging and focused this life is! Now, to close my journal and boldly amble into (and out of?) life's precious peril.

---

Okay, I'm tired of typing, and that's probably enough reading material for you folks back home anyway. Leave me a note, I miss you guys.

Side Trip

Lately it occurs to me... what a long strange trip it's been.

Let's try to sum this up quickly...

Left the trail at Red's Meadow. Found some awesome ("awesome" in the archaic sense of the word, ala Eddie Izzard) hot springs the day before, so I was feeling pretty good.

From there, I talked three bus drivers into giving me free rides down to the highway, where I got some rides, eventually got one to Reno from the saddest man I have ever met. After that, I was stuck in Reno, the armpit of the US, for two days. I had a terrible time, was threatened by both a knife and by trainyard security, and couldn't hitch out to save my life.

FINALLY, I escaped, had some hot tasty french fries, and was then picked up by a truck driver headed to Iowa. Sweet. Took me almost all the way to the Gathering, and we chatted up a storm before hand, got along rather well. He gave me his cell number, and he travels back and forth on I-80 every week or so, thus, I am set up if I ever want to travel across the nation again. Woohoo.

Got to the Gathering. Lots of cops. Lots of hippies. Estimates range from 15,000 to 30,000 people. Ryan and Ryan and others I didn't know very well were there too. But unfortunately, when I found Ryan and Ryan, they were leaving. Apparantly, they weren't having a good time. So, I was on my own again.

Made friends with their friends who were staying and hung out with them for the next couple days. On the 4th, everyone congregated into the giant main meadow and formed an enormous circle, too large to see the other side of. It was understood that you were to be silent. And it was. Tens of thousands of people and hardly a sound. And then a parade of children marched into the center of the circle, and the entire Gathering erupted into celebration. It was madness, nay, it was raw chaos. There was watermelon and drum circles and nudity and weddings and hula hoops and bubbles and kegs being rolled into the meadow and drugs being passed around like they were handshakes. I've never seen any party so entirely concerned with celebration.

After that, came the matter of finding a ride out. Took me only a day, I nabbed a ride with some folks headed straight towards Old Station, so that's where I'll be getting back on the trail. My time is about to run out, so I gotta run. Much love to everyone back home!

Rainbow Family Gathering...

...is in Colorado this year. Colorado is a long way from Yosemite. From Yosemite to Colorado is where Trip is attempting to hitchhike right now to meet us near boulder for the Rainbow Family Gathering celebration. If he succefully makes it there, we (Rockhop, Ryan, Quinton, Tomas, Justin and Shlouis [Louie]) will be transporting him back to California to continue the trail.

In the midst of an epic journey, Trip decides to take a break to go on another epic journey, from which he will return to complete his original epic journey. Epic...

Small Humans on a Big Mountain

Let me tell you about the most desperate, terrifying, intense day of my life. For the first time, this comes straight from my personal journal:

---

6/12/06

Every day in the Sierras has been harder than the last. First, altitude, then snow, then river crossings, then relentless elevation climbs and descents. Therefore, yesterday morning, I expected a difficult day. But I had no idea...

The day started with a ford of Whitney Creek, the freezing waist-deep waters were to be a prelude to our highly anticipated climb of Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the continental United States. Soon after the crossing, I got lost. Alone, and without any footprints in sight, I got out my compass and map and began to wander through the open lodgepole pine forest. I felt wild, but also a little scared. Again, I had no idea this was foreshadowing for the rest of the day to come. But this was when I first suspected I should've stayed in bed that morning...

After about a mile of freestyle forest wandering, I found another pair of footprints and followed them back to the trail. Later, I found out they were Canuck's, he had gotten lost too. He and Naked Son are my two buddies I've been hiking with for the past several days out here. Luckily, they are both heavy smokers so I can keep up with them. Thank God for nicotine addicts, huh?

I rejoined the trail at the junction; PCT left, Mt. Whitney right. There weren't very many footprints on the path to the right, I noticed, as I started to follow it. It seems not many had attempted Whitney yet this year. But here I was, stubborn/determined as ever, and I wasn't about to turn back. Besides, the nearest exit to town was over the pass right by Whitney, and I thought I probably didn't have enough food to make it to Vermillion Valley, although I had been trying to conserve as best as possible the past six days. Also, I had hurt my knee a few days ago and it was getting worse every day. Canuck and Naked Son were exiting here as well.

Soon, the trail came to a big lake, surrounded by white mountains. The lake was a hypnotically deep blue, and I dropped my pack to admire it for a moment. Then, a loud, thunderous rumble from above. I look up, and on the mountain across the lake, an avalanche. The huge sheet of snow crashes into the back of a giant boulder, a boulder big enough I doubt human machinery could have easily moved it. It was dislodged and began to roll down the mountain, hitting cliffs and bouncing into the air for 3 or 4 seconds at a time, this several ton rock! Eventually, it broke into smaller boulders, big enough still that a human could rock-climb on them, all flying through the open air. I was filled with a reverence for the power of nature.

I continued on, eventually meeting up with Canuck, Naked Son, and another hiker named Red, next to half-frozen Guitar Lake. It really is shaped like a guitar. There was snow everywhere. This same snow had created the creek we crossed in the morning, so it had confronted us twice for the price of once. There was so much snow we couldn't find the trail, so we loosely guessed at its location.

Eventually, we found ourselves scrambling over rocks and boulders on the southern base of Whitney. We knew we were close and Red suspected the trail was just above us. So we began to climb.

And climb.

And climb.

Eventually, we found ourselves full-fledged rock-climbing, 3/4 points of contact, hugging the mountain, backpacks on, no joke. I looked at Naked Son and said, "Our mothers would not approve of what we are doing." Looking down, Guitar Lake seemed unbelievably far below us. Had we really climbed this far?

Suddenly, Canuck, a licensed rock-climbing instructor, shouts at us. He's at least 1,000 feet below us. He says it's not safe and he's turning back. Great. We cannot climb back down, it is too steep. Red is way above Naked Son and I, waiting. He hasn't found the trail.

Naked Son and I continue to climb, now as a team, giving boosts and lending a hand where necessary. The rocks are often loose and crumble away under our feet, or break off in our hands. It is obviously extremely dangerous, Canuck was correct, but what choice did we have?

Suddenly, I spot a red jacket to the left. It's a hiker coming down Whitney! I yell, but they are too far to hear. But at least we know where the trail is. We had simply walked right past it.

We finally meet Red near the ridgetop, only to discover it is insurmountable. There is only one other way to get to the trail, and I had already said I would not do it. A giant snowfield stretching the length of the mountain, in a shallow chute. Exactly like the one I had recurringly dreamt about before the trail. I said over and over again that I wouldn't, that it was too hauntingly reminiscent for me, but Red and Naked Son realized it was the only way.

We had to climb down about 150 feet to reach a spot where the snow was traversable, if you could call it that, at about a 70 degree angle. I tried not to panic. I tried not to think about dying. I prayed. Naked Son prayed too.

I unstrap my ice axe. I still hadn't used it yet. I ask Red about it, he says I should tie a slipknot around my wrist to secure it, but he doesn't know how to tie one. Neither do Naked Son or I. So I guess. And somehow, I suddenly tie a perfect slipknot. Instant knowledge spontaneously granted in a time of need, like something out of The Matrix.

Red has started to traverse. Naked Son says it frankly, "Guys, I'm really scared." He begins to go across too, leaning so hard on the mountain he is practically sitting.

My turn.

Every tiny bit of pseudo-knowledge about ice-traversing floods into my mind. Cut the steps with the toe of your boot. Lean on the axe. Yeah, like you saw in a movie once. I begin to try and convince myself that what I am seeing is just a movie. I am staring at my feet to watch my steps, and I cannot help but see the steep slope beneath my feet, continuing for an infinite distance, down to the rocks. The lake from the morning is so small now. I wish I could have heeded that wise old advice, "Don't look down." Instead, I stared at doom.

About halfway across now. I have never been so scared in my life. I am in honest mortal terror. I feel like I can feel the images of my life pressing behind my eyes trying to surface, that old cliche of death, but I refuse to let it happen. I'm going numb with panic, but my feet keep cutting steps, my ice axe keeps plunging into the snow, clanging on the rocks just underneath.

Red has made it across. He comments, "Look at this guy, he's doing this like a professional." I whisper, "That's because I'm scared shitless."

Almost there. Naked Son has made it. Just a few more steps.

Suddenly, I slip. This is it. I glimpse my foot hanging in the abyss, a hideous omen. I'm dead. My other foot is gonna give. I'm sure I'm going to die. Naked Son leans over the snow, holding out his ice axe, "Grab it!" he shouts. It's just out of reach. I'm slipping. I throw the sharp part of my axe over my head and into the snow. With herculean strength, my one arm lifts my entire body and pack, just as my other foot gives way and my free hand leaps onto the outstretched ice axe.

Life flows through the shaft of the axe. Blood is adrenaline. Lift!

And then, I'm safe. I'm back on those loose, crumbling boulders. Thank God. I want to hug Naked Son. We begin to climb over to the trail. I kiss my ice axe tenderly, like a lover. We're back on the trail. It's over. My heart is beginning to slow down. I'm alive. I feel so thankful to be alive. Life itself feels thick and rich, and I breathe it in greedily.

A few more snow traverses, but nothing like that other one. We're at the junction to Whitney, it's two miles to the top and then back the same way, so we ditch our packs for this final segment of our summit quest. Ice axes at the ready, Red and Naked Son shoot up the mountain. We have no idea what happened to Canuck, but he is, unfortunately, on his own now.

I'm suffering from the altitude, so I lag behind the other two a bit. What a strange poverty this is out here, yearning for air, the very epitome of abundance.

The solitude hits me hard. I've just had a near-death experience, I think. Everything seems doubly real. I burst out laughing suddenly, giddy. Seconds later, I begin to weep uncontrollably. Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm in pain, maybe I'm delirious from lack of air, but I think I may have just a bit of post-traumatic shock. A final snow-climb up the mountain, and I'm almost on the summit ridge. Naked Son and Red are just headed down. "It's cold," they say, "but incredible. It's... well, you can see for yourself. Meet you back at the junction."

On top of Mt. Whitney, there are two structures. One is a roofless outhouse, which I promptly use. It is America's most expensive toilet, routinely flown out by helicopter. The other building is a shelter. Five people died in it during a lightning storm last year, and it is mostly sealed now, maybe out of respect. Through one open door, I can see it is filled with snow. Some shelter.

There is a book. I sign it, "Trip."

There is a plague at the tippy-top, "Mt. Whitney - 14,497 ft. Tallest mountain in continuous United States." I hop onto a rock to achieve the final 3 feet and reach an altitude of 14,5. Wow, I'm here. I made it. I'm a mountain climber. Hell, I'm a BAMF.

I look around. To the south, I see memories. There's the Mt. Jenkins & Owens saddle, where I camped in a sunset. Beyond that, there's the Piute range, where I met Chuck the crazy mountain man. There's the sweltering Mojave desert. In the distance, I can make out the San Gabriels and San Bernadinos. That's where Rockhop and I started walking, so long ago!

I survey my path, the hundreds of miles I've walked and I'm filled with a sense of pride. It feels fulfilling, a culmination of my experience so far, an important checkpoint I had to reach. But it is cold, so I begin to head back down.

I meet Canuck in the same place that Red and Naked Son met me. He had triangulated the position of the trail on the map and found his own way up and onto the trail. He was so worried about us that he was angry, he said. I told him how scared we were up there and that he had made the smarter decision. I said we'd wait back at the junction for him.

On my way back, I find a red pack, stashed in some rocks. Whose could this be? It is old and has been torn apart by marmots and the daring high-altitude birds. Perhaps this is the remains of some ill-fated hiker. The thought is chilling, and I don't want to think it.

I continue. Through gendarmes and rock windows, I think I can see a trail along the mountains east, barely distinguishable from the snow. "Uh oh, is that where we are headed next?" Another thought I don't want to think.

Back at the junction, Red, Naked Son, and I wait for Canuck. When we spot him, it is six o'clock. The sun will begin to set soon. And if that was the trail...

The group is back together now. We don our packs. We can't camp here. It's too high, too cold, and too steep. There's a camp two miles from the junction, can we make it? "No choice." says Red, "We'll nighthike if we have to, but I sure don't want to." My headlamp is worthless, I think.

Soon, it becomes apparent that the snow-covered trail is where we are headed. The other three think it would be better if we forewent the trail and just climbed down the ice-covered North face of Whitney. I am not okay with this. I insist we should try to follow the trail. But I am out-voted. I can't believe it. I thought I was in the clear. And now my life is in serious danger again.

Red and Canuck begin to cut switchbacks down this steep ice slope. If you know anything about mountaineering, you know the North face of a mountain is always the most treacherous because it doesn't get as much sun and doesn't melt much before re-freezing. The ice just hardens and hardens into sleek, sharp crystal.

Again, I have no choice. I begin to climb down. It's about 2500 feet to the bottom of this snow-bowl, with, of course, rocks awaiting at the bottom. Our makeshift trail cuts across glissade-slides left from other people who had slid down the mountain, when the snow was fresh and soft enough to do so. Their impressions left behind have hardened into ice slides, like the Olympic luge. We have to either cautiously step into or hop across them as we switchback down.

I fall behind quickly. I'm tired, aching, and scared again. It's slow-going work. Canuck keeps falling and self-arresting with his ice axe to stop sliding. He's cutting our trail and is way ahead of me. Arresting looks difficult, I'm not even sure I could do it if I had to.

It's getting dark now. I look at my watch. 8:00 already? I'm not even halfway down the mountain. This is not good. Slowly, I continue. I'm racing the sun and I'm losing. Red and Canuck are out of sight. Naked Son is getting seriously beat up. He's on his butt almost continuously. He's leaving behind blood on the razor-sharp ice. I'm following his trail of blood in the dimming light.

Soon, he is out of sight too. And so is daylight.

And now here I am, halfway down a huge, steep, icy mountain in the dark. I don't want to believe it. "No." I'm saying to myself. Cold terror creeps up my spine. I'm thinking of my mother and my sister. I'm thinking of my best friends, Spencer, Jennifer, Ryan. Alyse. Will I be able to tell them how much I care about them? The thought is cold and clear and unavoidable. "Am I going to die tonight?"

I have lost their trail in the dark. My head lamp is worthless, I think again. I'm trying to cut steps in the dark ice. My skin feel the air getting colder, my nostrils smell the wind getting stronger, my ears hear the sounds of the ice cracking and freezing harder.

Suddenly, I slip. Shit. No one around this time. My limbs flail, my body hits the ice, hard. I begin to slide. Shit. No. I need to ice arrest. I've seen it. Do it. Do it now or die. My hands fumble for the ice axe. I am rapidly gaining speed. I stab my axe into the ice and roll over onto it. I stop.

My breathing begins to panic. I need to calm down. I need to do this. I need to get down this mountain. Get up. Keep going. Can't panic. Not an option. You're going to make it. God will not let you down. Your mother prays for you every night, a mother's love cannot fail. It is impenetrable. Shit, slipping again. I've accidentally stepped in one of the glissade chutes, invisible in the dark, and am sliding against my will. Ice axe stabs the mountain again. Life saved again. Get up. Fall. Get up. Fall. Over and over again.

Suddenly, I hear a dull sound behind me and see a bag of Cheez-Its on the ground. I realize it instantly: my bear canister has popped open and I've been leaking food. I can see my trail of food going up the mountain. After I tried so hard to conserve it. Screw it. I put the remaining food in my bag and continue falling and getting up and falling. Will I ever get down this slope?

I've become an expert at ice arresting by now. I've lost count of how many times I've fallen, of how many times I have almost died. Where are those guys? How could they just leave me here? They could be miles away by now. What am I gonna do? Where am I gonna sleep? I need to sleep soon. Will I be able to find them, or the trail, or the camp in the dark? I just want this to be over.

A bad fall. My bear canister pops off my pack and tumbles down the mountain. I always hated that heavy thing anyways. As I get up, I spot headlamps in the distance, shining like lighthouse beacons to the beleaguered sailor, me. The lights fill me with hope. Just gotta get there. They are far, but I can make it.

Eventually, I get to the bottom of the snow bowl. The lights are coming toward me, they must be worried. How long has the sun been down? They are shouting my name, I think. I'm clambering over loose rocks again, just like on the other side of the mountain. Naked Son is in front, yelling "Trip!" over and over. I'm so glad to see him. He is almost in tears and is talking erratically. Later, I'm told he was hypothermic but insisted to go look for me. He tells me two angels have come to help us. A girl is leading me back to their camp.

I'm in a daze. Did this really just happen? Did we all actually make it? Who are these girls and why are they giving me hot chocolate? Canuck is in camp, he pats me on the pack and says how worried he was about me. His voice is choking up. He rubs my back and says he cried and prayed even though he doesn't pray. He says he thought I was dead. Naked Son says he though I was dead too. I collapse on a rock, too tired to move. My legs are seizing up in pain. I have seriously overworked my muscles. The girls set up my tent. I'm given some food, I eat it.

The wind is whipping around us. I unstrap my sleeping pad and set my sleeping bag atop it. But the wind is so strong, it grabs the sleeping pad and throws into the air where it flies away as if it were a piece of paper. Damn. I crawl inside my tent anyway, eager for the bed of hard rocks.

Naked Son is still acting strange, Canuck is being generous like a father, and these two angelic girls have help us get into bed. "We're going to be okay." is my last thought. Then I fall asleep.

Aftermath:
The night is haunted by nightmares of the day before. As we awake, the girls are gone. Where they even real? We continue to climb down. I feel like a hero now. One ranger is impressed we made the summit. I give advice to aspiring climbers I meet who are headed up. We skillfully dodge another ranger's questions about our climbing permits and bear canister. I am bruised and battered and am having trouble walking, but limp along with pride. I feel victorious and utterly defeated at the same time. My hands are totally cut up from the rocks and ice. I have identical cuts on my palms, Naked Son looks at them and comments, "Stigmata... like Jesus." Another cut on my hand looks like a crucifix. Signs of a miracle?

I see a group of teenage day hikers hesitating where the path becomes some rocks at the edge of a waterfall. I skillfully and effortlessly hop across. No big deal. Under my aviator glasses and bandana, I smile as I walk by them. As they watch me pass, I realize I'm the guy that inspires kids to become adventurers.

I meet another pair of day hikers, two middle-aged women. They ask me about my summit climb. I tell them the harrowing tale. After, they ask me, "So, how do you feel about it?" "Was it worth it?" "If you could go back, would you do it again?" It was hard to answer their questions. I hadn't fully digested the day yet. I still haven't. But I tried my best.

I said I felt happy to be alive. I said the story may have barely made it worth it, both the one to tell, but more the one to go over in my head. But that's not all. I think I learned something up there. I encountered that great enigma: "what really matters."

Up there, I wasn't thinking about philosophy or world politics or the emptiness of death or college or money or whatever. I was thinking about my friends. My companions out here. Naked Son, my symbiotic climbing partner. Canuck, who had to go it alone. Red, who did his best to keep us calm. My loved ones back home. The incredible extent to which they matter to me out here. And there it is, that's what this is really all about, the hidden message behind the mountain. People.

Now, we're in Independence. Ironic. I was here on last year's road trip, just after visiting America's lowest point in Death Valley. What a different person I was.

Canuck has decided he's going to get a tattoo of Mt. Whitney to forever remember the event. We beat the mountain and I conquered fear. I've talked our way into a hotel room for $11 a person. Now it is time to relax with these three. I'm pretty sure we are friends now. And then... blessed, peaceful, earned, grateful... sleep.