I haven't been writing; I know.  It isn't that there isn't much to say as much as my lack of desire to say it.  The trail changes you.  It is so very cliche, but true.  I don't have a pretty way to sum up our thru hike, so have been avoiding it.

At 4:30pm on September 13th, The Barracuda crossed over into Manning Park, Canada.  The Barracuda ended a totally different person than he began.  His maturity was so very apparent when he wrote his final remarks in the register, "From the cursed saints and cold-blooded rattlesnakes of the desert to the hallowed and beautiful North Cascades, it has been an incredible journey, but I'm ready to be done."

  The reality is any thru hike is a personal battle with yourself. Your demons come out if you really mean to hike and not merely play.  It is as though you are personally embodying Naturalism every day for four to five months.  Ultimately, you have even less of an idea about your own issues than you do how to solve them.  A few hundred miles in, they begin to take shape and you begin to rage against them.  Whether you are even aware of it is hard to say, but hindsight is always 20/20 if you want to  look.  At around a  thousand miles, you begin to realize you are stuck out in the middle of nowhere with yourself so you'd better listen.  The next thousand miles are the listening, denying, feeling and coming to terms with yourself.  These are the hard ones.  You either walk out the other side a better person, or you bury your head in the sand and remain vapid forever.

The hike has helped me to see myself differently.  It forced me to cut all the crap out of my life that I gave value to, that muddled the waters of emotion, that seemed to matter so much.  Once that is gone, all you are left with is yourself.

The Barracuda and I fought our battles together because we had to.  Whomever is by your side day in and day out will inevitably play a large emotional roll in the outcome.  They will feel the wrath, fear, glory and triumph of it all, and you will feel theirs.  But quietly, in the hours upon hours of walking, you battle personally as well.

Watching the Mohave fall behind us was the largest relief of the trail.  It meant we had successfully crossed the driest place in the United States and we were winning the battles.

I could post a stack of cutesy pictures and flowery verbiage, but if you are really doing it long distance backpacking is raw. It rips your guts out and then throws up in the cavity left behind. It turns you into someone you never were before and couldn't have envisioned.  You come back, and though everything is the same, you are not.

How could you be?  The fear is raw, the beauty is raw, the knowledge you are tiny and insignificant is raw.  Brutality is what happens when nature is in control.  One-hundred-and-eight degrees and no water for 30 miles isn't cute. Fourteen thousand feet up with 25 pounds on your back, altitude sickness, and dropping 5,000 feet in less than three miles isn't cute.  Poison oak, poodle dog bush, rattlesnakes, fire ants and razor sharp yuccas weren't messing around.  No sleep for over 4 days due to gale force wind in the desert sands - stakes won't work and neither will rocks until you learn to read the sand - and having to keep a tent up for your child isn't cute.  Losing 20 lbs you didn't really have, but still carrying 45 lbs for a 7 day resupply so you and your child don't starve, isn't cute.  Tying yourself into trees and laying on your child so the 85 to 90 mile an hour winds don't throw you both off the side of a mountain is nature in serious mode. (The wind was so strong it ripped the bite valve off my Camelbak).  That was just California.

You won't find much of any of that written here, because we discovered it wasn't about that.  All the stories, all the entertainments, seem to belittle the experience.  It wasn't some epic story; it was the reality that humans are so very unimportant.  Our over-ramped and inflated self value is our way of over-compensating.  We dramatize our existence because we aren't really living at all.  We have now seen things so beautiful it is hard to leave, so wild it creeps under your skin, so much joy in the tiniest things, so much triumph in the smallest moments, and so little of it really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

There is no way to really be present and miss the fact you are pathetic compared to the earth.  We can inflate ourselves all we want behind a screen, in our offices, or snuggled in bed, but Nature will prevail and ultimately remind you that you don't really matter at all. 

The Barracuda announced to one curious day hiker "I'm not a monkey; I don't dance!" after being asked the same question  for the fourth time that day. He was called a legend, a hero, and a stack of other flowery names for what he was doing and finally began telling people, "I don't want to be your hero.  You need to become your own hero."

Anyone can conquer the unconquerable.  He truly believes it and lives it every day.

The truth of the matter is, when you discover your insignificance at 7 years old, it is hard to ever be normal again.  The truth of the matter is it was otherworldly and no words can ever portray to you the ineffable.  The truth of the matter is that your house is safe and warm.  Your job is good, your spouse dependable, your life well scripted.  The truth of the matter is, you know deep down what lurks along the trail out in those woods.  Things get real when you leave society for a week-long stretches and resupply in only 18 hours chunks, when you sleep in a tent instead of a wooden shelter, when your clothes begin to literally rot off your body, when the simple act of food becomes a luxury forcing you into tears.  All of your society armor is gone and you are left with your dirty, smelly, starving, tired self and only one looming question, "Am I good enough?"

Then you realize the scariest part of all - no one even cares about the answer but you.

Regardless of the frigid temperatures, we would huddle together in our quilt and watch the scenery.  There are a few things in the world you should never take for granted.  Reverence for beauty is one of them.

Dad is another one.

There was a one section in Washington State where we had 14 days without much of a real resupply and plummeting temperatures.  For 3 days we didn't shed a single layer and hiked in everything we owned, including multiple pairs of socks.  In the same stretch there was a 13 mile bushwhack where The Barracuda would literally disappear feet in front of me due to the overgrowth and your body was ripped up with Devil's club.  In temperatures that low, with that significant a level of energy output, you can never eat enough.  Your stomach hurts constantly as you carefully ration your food and have to dutifully fight the impulse to eat.  In the same stretch the scenery was incredible.  We walked past Glacier Peak which is one of the few mountains (10,514 feet) which cannot be seen by any highway and must be walked into.  We hiked in what is considered some of the most remote and wild lands in the United States.  The days and nights were so crisp it was as if C.S. Lewis himself was writing your life in Narnia.  As The Barracuda and I huddled on a ridgeline trying to avoid the spitting ice, slicing wind, and regain feeling in our fingers and feet, he looked at me and said:

"You know what God is, Mom?"

"What do you think?"

"God is the voice that lives inside you that screams, and cries, and can't breathe all at once.  God reminds you that you are alive because He is here, but at any second you could die."

 There are no better words than that.

And so, that was our summer.  It was a summer to experience God.

When we came home from climbing Mt. Adams, Jules called The Barracuda outside for something and I paid no attention. I went inside to use the bathroom.  That is what moms do when they come home.  It is a rule.

Apparently, there was quite the adorable Siamese cat just milling around the woodpile and Jules wanted to show it to The Barracuda.

Now, is there a single mother in the entire world that doesn't know how this story is going to end?!?  

Meet Kitty Kitty.

Kitty Kitty doesn't have a formal name yet.  She just has a 7 year old boy's complete adoration.  He made a "house" for the cat.  He insisted food be purchased for the cat.  When Jules and I went to the store, he stayed outside, in the dark, just to talk to the cat. He didn't sleep much worrying the cat might be eaten or run away.  What is more, he has the undivided attention of this feline and she tends to have chosen him as her person.

Jules appears to be a bit hooked as well, since Kitty Kitty bears striking resemblance to a long lost pet from years previous.

....Remember that whole long distance backpacking thing?


...Pacific Crest Trail?


...Vicious Doberman named Guadalupe?


...Obviously loved cat whom someone lost and might miss?


Yes, Barracuda, we can teach Kitty Kitty to climb the ladder so she can sleep with you.  How can I say no to this face?

Some people react quite extremely to poison oak while others get only mild irritation.  I'm a mild irritation person when it comes to poison ivy and sumac.  They are annoying, but no biggie.  Apparently, not so much when it comes to poison oak.  Somewhere around 1500 miles, I came into contact with this dreaded plant.  I didn't know it until approximately one week later when I awoke with over half my leg blistered and continuously weeping.  It went down hill from there.

Don't worry, no nasty pictures.  Just a pretty Mt. St. Helens shot.

We decided to take a train home from the California/Oregon border and go directly to Urgent Care.  The lady at the hospital was very nice.  She grimaced at my description of the problem, flagged my chart, and told me she would put me on "fast track."  This is the nice way of saying 'stand aside and wait patiently without sitting on, touching, breathing near, or in any way potentially infesting anything so we can get you out of here as quickly as possible.'  I was also periodically informed to stop scratching and to wash my hands.

The doctor was also very professional.  He only recoiled once.  He did a very good job of concealing his disturbed shock when he asked how long it had been this way, and I responded, "Only about 4 days."

I was put on 2 oral steroids, one hardcore topical nerve suppressant, and oatmeal baths.  The doctor then began the directions:

I'm not allowed to get hot, sweaty, or irritate my skin.  No scratching. Regular bathing with special soap and a return visit if it doesn't begin to seriously clear up in 4 days. Anymore blisters aren't okay.  Any full coverage spreading (not tiny little bumps) isn't okay.  Any facial breakouts or crotch issues, aren't okay.  Wash everything you own. If it isn't important or it can be replaced, just throw it away. Most importantly, NO HIKING.

My face must have foretold my dislike of this last edict. I asked about short, 3 or 4 day hikes.  

 "No." 

 I asked about day hiking. 

"No." 

Weekend Warrior style? 

"No." 

Car camping? 

"No." 

I was not pleased.  I tried to explain about the closing of the season, about the snow in the Cascades.  I tried to talk about The Barracuda, 1700 miles in.  The problem of losing momentum.  The issue of each day lost being almost 30 miles, how that really tends to add up.  

"No."

 He was a very nice man, but wasn't having any of it.  In a quite authoritative voice he began to explain:

When infections begin to cover 80% or more of your body they reach a point of no return and must be treated like an invasive Staph infection.  I was at 75%.  Though only one leg, my butt, and my lower back were completely blistered and weeping now, in less than 2 days my entire torso was likely to become infected. Soon after my other leg would have symptoms.  The symptoms take about 3 days or so to appear and the reaction was too extreme not to have spread.  I was hiking in 100 degree temperatures, sweating, not bathing, using the same infected clothes and gear for days and generally doing everything possible to spread the poison.  NO HIKING!

 I did everything I was supposed to for 4 whole days.  Do you know how hard it is to go from moving all day long, to sitting your itchy butt all day long?!  We picked a gallon of blackberries.  We sorted through all the clothes The Barracuda had outgrown.  We sorted through all the clothes that we should give to the needy box at church. We did a trip into the city for a Goodwill run to find gear for eBaying.  We tried being lazy, getting coffee, and reading magazines.  Jules watched an entire season of Breaking Bad on Netflix.  The Barracuda read an entire chapter book in less than half a day.  We were going crazy.  There had to be something I could do that wouldn't irritate my skin, cause me to sweat or be overheated, but still meant we could do something.

Plus, I need to do a trial run to see if I could realistically hike anytime soon.  Things seemed to really be getting better. The infection was clearing up dramatically (though the doctor was right about the spreading).  I had been through almost all of my major steroid and gauze pads weren't necessary any more.

 So we went mountaineering!

Yes, the dog goes too.  She has a sweater, boots, and I'm working on fitting some microspikes.

Mountaineering met every qualification.  The air is cold, no overheating.  With adequate layering, you don't really sweat.  It was close enough to our house (less than an hour drive) meaning we didn't really need to go camping. I could take my required shower and regularly bathe since it was only a one day thing.  You are covering so much elevation that the pace is so slow you definitely couldn't be considered hiking.  Even better, you get up at 3 am, work all day long, and don't get home till after 7pm.

There is something quite wonderful about getting up before the sun and watching it slowly crest the top of the mountain.  The contrast between the snow, the sky, and the rock is always so striking.

The Barracuda is developing quite a thing for mountains.  After summitting Whitney, he is rather determined to take on more than a couple 14ers.  Mt. Adams has been a frequent playground of ours and his skill level is high enough now that we don't worry much.  This was mostlikely the last trip we will bring the harness and ropes for, and the pickets were left at home completely.

See, this is not hiking.  This is walking in the snow.  We were merely walking in the cold, cold snow.  No overheating. Totally acceptable.

People don't exactly know what to do when they meet a small 7 year old clad in mountaineering pants, steel 12 point front spike crampons, and wielding a very flashy ice-axe.  They are even more baffled when the see the dog.  So much of the time people tend to think of these sorts of activities being out of reach when you have a family or a pet.  Kids and dogs can climb 6,700 in less than 6 miles - think about it, that's only about a thousand feet per mile.  It is steep, and it takes determination, but it isn't un-doable.  Don't underestimate yourselves!

The boy has some unfinished business with that mountain.  Rainier is calling him. 

This next year's homeschooling curriculum is going to be dealing a lot with rope work, protection, and the math/physics/geological issues which come into place when mountaineering.  He has enough technique down the crampons no longer worry me, and his ability to Prusik out of a cravass far surpasses mine.  At this point he merely needs enough knowledge of alpine environments to work on his judgement calls and knee-jerk reactions in dangerous situations.

Yes, I climb mountains in a bikini.  It helps with that whole no-sweating thing.  Plus, the giant disgusting rash concealed by The Barracuda's head and my mountaineering pants make it far less attractive.  Generally, though, it is the most comfortable thing I've found to wear with all the sun exposure.

Mt. Adams stands at 12,326 feet and is the second highest peak in Washington, the third highest in the Cascades (Rainier and Shasta stand taller).  Sporting 11 glaciers it qualifies our family to join the Mazamas and makes The Barracuda one of the youngest official members to not be grandfathered in by a parent.  He was very specific that this whole "family membership" thing wasn't going to cut it.  He wants to take Intermediate and Advanced Climbers Education classes and Jules wants to learn ski mountaineering.  The Mazamas are sort of the top of the line for learning that sort of thing.  I kinda like the idea of weekends at the private, alpine lodge and the rescue/body recovery/life-flight insurance, but maybe that is just me.

Oh it is terrifying, completely insane, and really does feel like you are going to throw yourself off into the abyss.  Our family LOVES it!

The best part of the climb is definitely the glissade.  A glissade is the controlled slide down the mountain.  You remove your crampons (very important!), put on a coat and gloves, sit down, and proceed to slide hundreds of linear feet down the ice and snow using your ice axe to slow yourself.  On popular climbing days a rather deep trough is plowed into the slope by the previous glissaders.  When we went, the trough was over two and a half feet high on either side making the glissade much like a very extreme waterslide. You'd find yourself beginning to slide up the sides, swirling around the turns, and reaching some fairly terrifying speeds.  It was rad!  There was giggling, squealing, and cheers.

To most parents, putting you small person into a rather extreme snow chute and helping scoot/shove them off the side of a mountain without any form of protection might seem slightly negligent.  But it is seriously thrilling.  The Barracuda has only been sledding once, and at this point has no desire to go again.  Glissading just can't compare.  He is bouncy, laughing, and so hyped up at just the idea of the glissade, that saying no would be ridiculous.  Plus, forcing my child to slog down over 5,000 feet (you slide down darn near all the elevation gain) in crampons seems a bit more dangerous and cruel. 

Our son is a climber.  He has been a climber since he could barely walk.  I know I'm never going to stop him; he is far too determined.  Better to strap on a harness, rope up, and show him the appropriate way to self arrest.  It is a fairly awesome way to do some serious family bonding.

We were home by around 7ish and eating taco salad for dinner as it got dark.  I took my required shower, with my special soap, doped up on anti-histamines, and slathered myself in nerve suppressant.  I'm definitely not ready to hike.  Anytime I got even remotely damp from sweat or body heat my torso began to itch and tingle.  It was definitely a sure sign I'm still a few days off the trail.  However, I'm almost done with my extreme steroids (thank goodness because they make me crazy irritable and just plain angry for no reason) and only have to take the anti-histamines when I go to sleep.  All in all, it was a fantastic day. 

Even better, I only look like I have a moderate case of leperacy, instead of rolling in toxic waste.

Don't worry, I haven't abandoned you all.  It is more an issue of Northern California not really having great Internet access.  Most of the towns between Echo Lake and the Oregon border don't really qualify as a city.  Town would be a reasonable term, but that is town with a very little "t." Access to a computer is limited; access to the Internet is challenging; access to a reasonably modern computer with decent enough Internet to upload pictures is down right unheard of! It's an issue that Jules and I are mulling over for future long distance hikes.  A solution hasn't quite presented itself adequately, but we're still working on it.

There are so many pictures.  We have seen and done so many things.  Here are a few that stand out as favorites, exciting moments, or just fun images of what life has been like for the last few weeks.

Both of the boys got altitude sickness pretty quickly after entering the Sierras.  It was nothing major or terribly horrific, but it really takes it out of you.  For a couple of days our mileage was really low and there were frequently naps in the sun.  I'd filter water, they'd pass out.  The dog would take a break for a minute, so would they.

Altitude sickness or not, when The Barracuda heard he could summit the highest peak in the lower 49 states, a detour was necessary.  We did a 20 mile day the day we summited Mt. Whitney, climbing over 5,000 feet of elevation gain in less than 3 miles to reach 14,505 ft.  At 7, The Barracuda tied Tyler Armstrong as the youngest person to summit in a single day (most people take 2 days) and Guadalupe is one of only a handful of dogs to have made the top.  Summiting a 14er has been on his Life List for a while and he hopes to climb both Mt. Rainier and Mt. Shasta next summer.

Shortly after leaving the Tahoe Rim Trail and getting back on the PCT (they overlap a bit), my shoelaces got all caught up and I went face first into the gravel.  It was stupendously awkward - and Olympic quality blunder.  My lip was split, all my front teeth loosened, and both my nose and sinus cavity were bruised.  There were tears.  There was cussing.  Jules comforted me and then snapped a couple pictures (I was thrilled with this decision as you can see). But thankfully, I did not face plant a couple hundred yards earlier.  If I had, I would have tumbled into shale talus most definitely broking my nose and knocking out most of my teeth. 

The Granite Chief Wilderness was spectacular in its ridgelines and mountain spines. It felt very Tolkein in many spots and reminded me that in the next year or two our family should read The Lord of the Rings series (neither Jules or The Barracuda have read them).  Looking over the expanse on all sides has us thinking that in a summer or two we might put in a bid for a fire tower and spend the summer overlooking some desolate place in northern Montana.  Afterall, most fire towers are larger than our house so it would be an upgrade.

We have climbed some gorgeous views in these past few weeks.  The Barracuda really enjoys scrambling up on the large boulders to scan the viewpoints.  Jules doesn't appreciate The Barracuda's enjoyment of heights quite as much and worries significantly.  Sometimes we eat lunch.  Sometimes we take a water break.  Sometimes it is just a glimpse to sigh and appreciate being able to spend a third of a year doing nothing but walking the U.S. together.  After having been through the desert and some of the lowest points in the United States, and then up through the Sierra and the highest points, it is nice to spend a bit of time in the middle. 

If you are a member of the Forest Service, just disregard this picture.  It would be very wrong of us to have a fire anywhere in central/northern California outside of a designated campground.  You have been in the woods too long and are hallucinating.

Backpacking as a family means doing things a little bit differently than most thru-hikers.  Instead of continuing on, we stop after 25 miles to 27 miles, have a fire, watch the stars, and drink cocoa.  It might only be 7:30 pm, there might be another good hour of daylight and a 30 mile day, but watching the sunset and reading a book as a family is an experience worth so much more.  The Barracuda has never really been car camping and finds the concept rather mystical.  Backpacking or not, we try to make sure there is plenty of time to just sit around a campfire being a kid.

So, we're still going at it!  Here we come Oregon and Washington.  We're in the home stretch now and there is definitely light at the end of the tunnel.  More than anything we are realizing just how much this lifestyle suits our family. It hasn't always been pretty - there was that time when Jules and I got in a knock-down-drag-out fight in the middle of the Grocery Outlet parking lot, or when I was so frustrated I picked The Barracuda up by his pack straps, or the instance where the 7 year old looked right at me and screamed, "You are going to f*$k everything up!" and then burst into tears.

Oh, the memories....

But considering we have crossed 700 miles of desert in a drought year, we've been swarmed by Africanized bees, we've summited the highest peak in the lower 49,  we've run from mosquitoes thicker than I've ever seen, dodged the Forest Service more than a couple times, slept outside train stations and on the wrong side of a few tracks, hitchiked miles into towns not knowing anything about where we would sleep or how we would get back to the trail, almost killed the dog with heat stroke, had to discuss both marijuana consumption and illicit drug usage with our second grader, and we're still smiling after walking across the longest state in the nation, I'd say we're doing pretty good.  The Barracuda has quite a nice list of fairly significant outdoor goals and we are more than happy to go along with him for the ride. 

We have officially cleared all of southern California.  For those of you who do not realize, that means no more desert.  I had an extreme moment of clarity a few days ago, when the thought came to me that if given the opportunity to hike through the desert again, or have another baby, I'd choose the baby.  For anyone who knows our family, that is really saying something!

The Barracuda pulled a 29 mile day to get us into Kennedy Meadows, but the show put on during the sunset was well worth it!

We are currently in Kennedy Meadows - 702 miles.  It is the gateway to the Sierras and quite the milestone.  As far as I am concerned, we've made it.  We are mountain people.  Cool breezes, serious elevation gains, passes, ridges, those are our kind of hikes.  I have no worry about snow.  I know how to judge the wind.  I know how to keep a tent down on rocky outcroppings.  I'm all over that.  Searing heat, swirling wind from everywhere, complete sand with no rocks, and gale force winds....um no thank you.

As you can see, The Barracuda loves the desert as well

We are about to enter the largest continuous wilderness stretch in the United States.  Needless to say the cell phone/internet coverage is a bit scarce.  We will be checking in as much as possible and posting up pictures when we can.  All in all the John Muir Trail is waiting for us, the Sierras are waiting for us, and the Mohave has been left behind!

Here's to another 700 miles.

 The Barracuda & Sparrow working on their tans in the desert.

Please forgive the time it has taken to get a post update on the Sparrow and the Barracuda’s PCT thru-hike.  The end of the school year, packaging mail drops, and completing projects around our little cabin has been occupying a lot of my time.  Because of the rustic, simple life we are fortunate to live, items like putting back a year’s supply of wood for the coming winter is crucial before I can feel good leaving to hike for the summer.  One of our neighbors, who lives in an expansive house up the road, once commented that we are “camping out” in our cabin.  As I was chopping this year’s wood, I couldn’t help but think that our humble little cabin and the voluntary simplicity that we practice has likely made the Barracuda’s transition to hiking easier for him than it might be for other adults and kids alike.  The Barracuda is comfortable being outside.  Heck, we have a healthy population of bears, cougars, and bobcats that roam the woods our home is surrounded by.  On the trail, the Barracuda has impressed other hikers by making the campfire, but it must seem so common to him due to our lifestyle a home.  I’m glad he is comfortable camping out, because it allows him to focus on the physical challenge of hiking and to appreciate the things around him. 

 "Camping out" at the cabin last winter

Since the last post, the Sparrow and the Barracuda have walked through the Mojave Desert section of the PCT.  In addition to the heat, they had 50-60 mile an hour winds during the evenings.  As a result of this wind, they had difficulties keeping their TarpTent erect in powdery soft sand that refused to hold stakes, and this caused a few sleepless evenings for the Sparrow as she struggled to brace the tent.  They have hiked approximately 630 miles and should be reaching Kennedy Meadows sometime tomorrow.  I say approximate because our phone provider has zero coverage in the area they are currently traveling through, and there were 5 days with no contact from them.  The first 3 days were easy, but the over protective husband and father started to worry after day 4.  So I was thrilled to get a call from Brynn the other night from a borrowed cell phone.  They are in great spirits and just as determined as ever.  Their pace and confidence is up. 

From where they are currently, they are beginning their climb up into the mountains.  While this means they have some serious elevation to climb, it also means cooler temperature, real trees for shade, and a greater abundance of water.  After their hike through the desert, they will happily take the elevation change for these benefits.  By the time I connect with them, in 7 days, they will have climbed to almost 11,000 feet.  From Independence, CA I will be hiking with them throughout the summer with the goal of reaching the Oregon/Washington border before I have to return for the 2013 school year.  I simply can’t wait to be with them on the trail.  I’m so very proud of both of them, but I’m eager to take some of the physical and emotional weight off of Brynn’s shoulders.  She’s carried a lot these past 630 miles.

I can’t wait to be a complete family, including our crazy dog, moving nomadically up the PCT.  It has been 11 years since I’ve hiked a long distance trail, and I’m looking forward to the peace and serenity such a journey leaves one with.  To be able to share that experience with my wife and son makes me feel like the richest man alive.      

It is 10 o'clock.  That is 2 hours past Hiker Midnight.  I would not classify myself as exhausted, but my body is definitely asking what's up.

Staying up late at the Saufley's in Agua Dulce, wearing a hiker box pirate hat, loving the fully charged iPod. Over 40% of hikers have now dropped out, less than 5% will drop out now.  Agua Dulce means we have made it.  It is definitely a time to celebrate.

Backpacking is all about routines, and due to the nature of The Barracuda, we are even more strict than many.  The boy is very Type A and watns things very specific.  Pushing the usual 8 pm bedtime isn't going over very well with my pineal gland.   But we are zeroing tomorrow and there are blog posts to be written!  My pineal gland can suck it up!

During the day at home, I will frequently jot down notes when I go about my day.  Out here, I talk to myself in my head as I walk since note jotting isn't going to happen.  More often than not, the ideas tend to revolve around realizations about the character of our intrepid son.

Mile 400!

The Barracuda always walks in front of me.  Originally this was so that I could monitor his pace, his water consumption, his walking (for blisters, pack burns, and other such issues), and all that other mom stuff.  However, it has now turned into me following him because he is significantly faster than I am.  The boy has found his 2.5 mile an hour pace and is quickly working on gaining a 3 mile an hour pace.  Hiking has given him a sense of personal actualization which seems to be taking off.  This goal is one which can be made or lost all by himself and there haven't been too many of those instances in his life previously outside of his schoolwork.

More than anything I am struck by his desire to continue into unknown territory quite boldly.  At first I took this to be a level of naive childishness.  However, now that he has experienced dehydration and calorie loss, the desire to forge on seems only more secure.  It is a level of confidence which seems so foreign to me. Each night we discuss the coming miles; each day he presses on through heat and tired trudging. As we enter the Mohave desert (where water is quite questionable all the time and temerpatures reach somewhere between 120 and 140 regularly) he takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and heads out in the morning.

Hanging out on top of Mt. Baden-Powel.  Yep, that's snow in the background.  The pine trees are completely frosted solid and with the windchill it got down into the teens the night before.  You'd never know we were in the desert!

Somewhere along the line, he has gained the prespective that this too shall pass.  He has come to see that there are many things which we cannot control, but those he can, he will.  He can control his mindset.  He can control his pace.  He can control how hard he tries.  He can control that each day he leaves it all out there on the trail in the pursuit of tomorrow.

I would love to declare that I have taught him this - that somewhere my incredible parenting is shining through the grit, grime, and stentch of a stressful trail - but I cannot.  On the contrary.  Many days it is he who is teaching me.

There are 9 of us total who are hiking together from all over the United States. The Barracuda hikes on with everyone else.  Even through the miles of road walks, the hitchhikes, the detours, he continues on playing at the end of the day with everyone in any way he can.  He started out as "The Boy" and has quickly become "The Barracuda" who is listened to like any other member of the group when it comes time for opinions and voting.  He's earned his place, one step at a time. 


  "Am I willing to give up what I have in order to be what I am not yet?  Am I able to follow the spirit of love into the desert? It is a frightening and sacred moment.  There is no return.  One's life is charged forever. It is the fire that gives us our shape."

 ~Mary Richards

(Brynn never gets any pictures of herself.) 

I live for evenings when I get a call around 7:00pm; I run to the cell hoping it's Brynn.  When I'm not disappointed by a telemarketer, I listen with awe at all that Dae and Brynn have seen and accomplished.  Tonight we talked about a detour they were having to take due to some scrub brush that was running rampant.  It seems this plant, that had grown back in abundance after a recent wildfire destroyed its competition, has very nasty burrs that work their way into your skin and cause severe itching and possibly blistering.  Thus, a road walk was today's adventure.  

Sure, Brynn cuts in and out as reception isn't always the best, but it lifts my spirits knowing they are at camp, settling down after a long day, cooking, and preparing to snuggle down for the night.  Brynn and I have a pretty great relationship, largely due to simply talking with each other on a regular basis.  This sounds like something every couple should do, but I'm reminded more and more by friends and acquaintances that this is all to often something that gets put aside or lost in the multitude of other chores.  We are blessed with a dock that now overlooks a sand flat, but it does offer solitude, quiet, huge views of the stars, and the ideal spot to spend an evening talking with a partner.  It is a ritual that Brynn and I do consistently, so these phone calls have really been a great solution while she is away hiking.  

Tonight, I was talking with the Barracuda, which mostly consists of me taunting him about the hugs, kisses, and snuggles I'm going to give him when I see him.  I've coined the day we see each other as "SnuggleFest 2012".  I'm being silly with him, and he breaks this out on me.  "You know, this trip has been a lot harder than I thought it was going to be when I said I wanted to hike the PCT."  He said this not with dread or in weakness; instead, he was enthusiastic and talking about how he was working on his 3 mile an hour pace.  And how could he, a child who still doesn't fully grasp scale yet, possibly imagine how huge of a challenge he is taking on.  That he wakes up happy and excited to meet this growing realization of what lays before him is simply inspiring.  I can't imagine all the things he's done and experienced, but I don't think my boy will be the same kid I dropped off at the border two month earlier.    

 

(Still no camera.  We've taken a slight detour and will be in Wrightwood, picking up the camera by Friday.  If we miss the post office, then we will be picking it up Tuesday or forwarding.  At this point, we're just winging it. :)

Every bit of the mother in me says we should just go home.  I look at my dirty, scuffed up little ruffian and know he is suffering.  He is severely dehydrated, massively lacking calories, and sweltering in the heat.  But, I also know how much his heart is in this.  I know what it would mean to him for me to stop us.  I realize that in this instance the physical sacrifice is much more important than the emotional burden of failure.

Some time ago I wrote about how every true backpacking adventure has a moment where you think "What the hell am I doing?!"  If it didn't, it wouldn't be an adventure.  This morning as I was holding my son over the sink for him to dry heave, I had that moment.

What the hell am I doing?

Let me start at the beginning.

Three days ago, The Barracuda began fussing about 3 miles into the day.  I handled it magnificently by telling him to drink a lot of water, provided a gulp of Gatorade, and demanded he suck it up.  At mile 5, he passed out.  I tried to keep the horseflies off him and let him sleep for a half hour as I contemplated my Child Protective Services report "Mother of the Year" speech.  The boy had burned every spare calorie his body had in reserve and could not eat enough to sustain the calories he had been burning during the day.  This resulted in severe sugar shock.

The day continued with 100+ degree temperatures, 100 percent exposure, contouring with no where to stop, and swarms of horseflies everywhere.  It sucked monumentally.  We did not have enough water to make a full meal (it was a lengthy waterless stretch and extreme heat so lunch was going to be tuna fish), but I pushed every spare piece of food possible into The Barracuda.  Two moon pies, a package of cheese and crackers, 4 liters of Gatorade, 3 liters of water, a block of cheese, 2 tuna fish packets, some Sun Chips, a bag of Doritos, and 4 trail bars later.  We made it Silverwood State Park.  By that time we were out of water, exhausted and had undergone the single worst day of backpacking I have ever experienced.  I had only eaten a Snickers bar the entire day and thoroughly must have looked it when a startled Ranger directed us to a closed group camp one mile away.  He said we could stay for free, following up with, "The showers are locked up, though." You forget how much you smell out here.

We took a 15 minute break where The Barracuda shared an orange with another hiker who kept flashing me nervous looks. He left us with, "Kid, you are tougher than I will ever be."

Trail Magic is a funny thing.  It perks up whenever you think everything is lost.  The group campground next to us is occupied by the Tree House of Sequoyah School - just about the greatest bunch of 3rd and 4th grade campers I've ever met!  The Barracuda and I were invited to eat dinner with them - pesto pasta, salad, bread, sausages, strawberries and cream - share a campfire, play games, and generally treated amazingly well.  There are many Trail Angels out there, but the best ones are the ones who you don't expect and aren't trying to do anything but show extreme generosity in bizarre coincidences. They made our day melt away.  They made the next day easier.  They helped in times when all seemed lost and didn't even know they were doing it.  Thank you, Emily and Treehouse.

The next day we hiked 13.6 miles to the trailside McDonalds (there is even a wooden trail marker), ate 2700 calories each.  In another bizarre coincidence, a fellow hiker lived in Riverside, California, the exact suburb of Los Angeles my high school friend works/lives in.  We were given a ride and are currently sitting out the trail on a very much needed zero day.  The Barracuda has recovered from his morning puking and is currently watching cartoons in Marjorie's air conditioned studio apartment.  The laundry has been done and giant burritos have been consumed (more calories the better).  Everything has been charged up and we head out tonight to catch our ride back to the trailhead.

Last night we got to sit in on her graduate class about the implications of manners in the development of the Novel.  It was quite an interesting experience to be sitting, stinky and covered with dirt, in a classroom full of strangers discussing what it means socially to have manners.  Oh the irony....

We are back to the trail in the morning to bust out 20+ miles to Wrightwood!

 (The Sparrow & the Barracuda at one of the great town stops along the way.)

Town stops are hedonistic.  This morning our roommates were getting rid of some Nutella, so The Barracuda and I ate spoonfuls in bed while watching cartoons and drinking soda.  We finished off the last 2/3rds of the container. It was a great breakfast.

Earlier in the day we went to Sizzler and ate until both of us thought we might puke.  There was an endless salad bar, and endless taco bar, and an endless dessert bar.  We stayed for over 2 hours.  It was an awesome pre-dinner.


On the way into town we grabbed 4 sodas out of the cache the hotels had set up as advertising.  We don't drink pop at home, but it contains too many calories to waste out here.  They were a delicious pre-lunch.

Before we caught our bus back to the trailhead, The Barracuda ate an entire large pepperoni pizza himself.  It was just over 2,300 calories.  I thought I would get a slice or two, but apparently not.

But the greatest part has to be the "hotel."  I use that term lightly.  There are hotels in most towns, but our trail budget doesn't really allow us to stay in them.  Plus, we are just too dirty.  They call it "hiker ring" when PCT hikers get out of a bathroom or shower and the highly visible dirt ring lingers.  Let's be real, we're foul.  However, considering that anything even remotely couchlike, a microwave, and hot water are mystical luxuries, we don't require much.

This last night, we stayed at Nature's Inn.  It is a place on the trail people talk about for a good 40 miles out.  The manager is a little wacky and the employees have enough prison tattoos for there to be no doubt they have served some serious time.  You have to share a room with other hikers who are total strangers - if you even get a room, they will house you anywhere, even in a back closet - and often times that can mean sleeping on a couch.  The back patio advertised is a ram-shackled deck sort of thing looking out on 3 feet of patchy scrub grass and the Wi Fi is the world's slowest laptop in the back room.  But everyone tends to come.  Hikers hang out on the front porch swings.  They congregate in the back room with ancient board games containing improvised pieces long since missing the originals.  They laugh till all hours and then pass out everywhere.

Do not be fooled - The Natures Inn is a major destination. 

In every room there are jacuzzi tubs!  This post was written on crinkled, water sploched notebook paper from a full sized jacuzzi with steaming hot water and bubbles!  There was even a fresh new razor to my left and a soda on my right.  There are few luxuries on the trail, but, my goodness, this is one was divine!

It was just like the movie Pretty Woman...you know...if Julia Roberts was a long distance backpacker who hadn't bathed in over a week and there was no Richard Gere.

The Sparrow and The Barracuda's Grand Adventure
Mile Post ~ 270 Miles


The last 2 ½ weeks have been busy ones for the Barracuda and the Sparrow, but I am very happy to report they are in excellent spirits and moving north on schedule.  I feel fortunate to be able to relay their experiences as I have thoroughly enjoyed hearing their voices and talking with them on evenings that cell reception allows.  Each day, as they gain experience and confidence on the trail, they seem lighter on their feet and more absorbed in the thru-hiker culture of the Pacific Crest Trail.  They are now talking the talk and walking the walk. 

Trying to convey another long distance hiker’s experiences, either physical and emotional, seems rather short sighted, as each hiker’s journey is so individual.  I still can’t get my head around how amazing and challenging this PCT hike must be for the Barracuda.  And I never fully understand my amazing wife, so what follows will be my bird’s eye view of their experiences based on my own past long distance hiking.  

(I can tell you one of the Barracuda's favorite things is eating!)

Working Out The Bugs:

I find weekend and week long hiking trips so difficult, because you don’t truly have enough time to learn to live out of a backpack.  By the time a short trip is over, you're just starting to learn all the quirks of setting up the tent, preparing meals, and doing the routine hiking chores.  About the time you figure out how to load your pack just right and how those shoulder straps shift the weight around it is the end of your trip.  The Sparrow and the Barracuda have crossed over that line at this point and have worked out most of these little issues.  They have established a routine, which is truly crucial for the Barracuda, and both of them know their responsibilities. 

This has been a huge breakthrough for the Sparrow, as much of the hiking we have done in the past has been together.  I’ll admit I have a pretty ingrained system that works for me based on my past hiking experiences, and the Sparrow has generously yielded to that pattern when we are together.  As the sole parent hiking with our son though, she has had to throw off those past routines because the division of responsibilities isn’t an option.  Nearly every task, from filtering water to breaking down camp, now resides on her, and my system simply didn’t work for one parent.  The great news is I get the feeling that establishing her own methods and tricks is liberating, as we usually approach a problem form completely different angles.  

(Both the Barracuda and The Sparrow are pretty amazing.)

 The Sparrow, with grace and patience, has somehow managed to figure out how to live out of a pack, route find, plan for water needs in the desert, prepare food after long, tiring days, and set up and take down camp.  While that may sound like what any other hiker does, the remarkable part is that she has figured out how to do all that while also parenting the Barracuda.  On top of the regular obstacles and challenges of hiking, she is mom: checking for blisters, making sure the Barracuda is drinking enough, providing encouragement (often when she is tired), and generally putting her needs behind that of our son.  Words can’t express how awed and impressed I am in her abilities and strength. 

  

The Terrain:

(A water cache provided and stocked by trail angels.  This is the only water source available for many miles.)

 Based on my short experience on their first day, I can only say it is hot!  The Laguna mountains and San Jacinto mountains have offered a harsh introduction to the trail, with full exposure to the sun on very hot days.  They have climbed ridge-lines in full sun and traversed ranges in high winds.  Several days have broken the 100 degree marker, and water is scarce.  Budgeting water and timing water sources has required a pacing schedule that has necessitated planning, and once or twice hiking a mile (or three) with empty water bladders.  One rule of hiking that quickly becomes apparent when you lift a backpack is that 1 quart of water weighs 2 pounds.  Some of the hiking has required the Barracuda to carry 2 ½ quarts and the Sparrow to carry up to 6 quarts of water to reach the next source.  Even with a light base weight, this quickly adds to their loads. 

The irony is that they also face dramatic swings in temperature at night.  While the days may be scorching, the evening temperatures often drop into the 30’s.  Because they are becoming use to the heat, the contrasting evening temperatures often find them wearing every scrap of clothing they own.  

(A cold start after a colder night.  The temperatures will quickly warm up.)

  

The Hiker-Trash Culture:

The Sparrow and the Barracuda are not alone one this journey to Canada: each year the PCT hosts a new batch of migratory hikers all striving to make the trip.  These are fellow travelers who have trod the same ground as them, feasted on the same natural wonders, and suffered the same challenges.  This forms bonds unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced, and the Sparrow and the Barracuda have made quite a few amazing new friends.  Hikers, like everybody else, are drawn toward the Barracuda, and his charisma and zest for fun has even gotten tired trail hikers to play tag after a long day.  The Sparrow has found support and friendship among the community, and it is great to hear her talking with these hikers.  They are a tight knit group, and the cost of entrance to the group is shared experiences and miles.  I am thankful for each of these people.  Though I don’t know them, they have camped with my wife and son when they were close to the Mexican border for added security, provided encouragement and warm smiles, bartered and given food to an always starving stinky boy, literally  given the Sparrow the shorts she lives in, and made the trip one that the Barracuda will never forget.  If you’ve never experienced the long distance hiking community, it is simply unbelievable and will quickly renew your faith in humanity.  

I'm counting the days until I can meet up with the Sparrow and the Barracuda.  I can think of no better way to spend the summer than hiking with my crazy family. 

Hiking is dangerous business!

This sign showed up in the scrub desert just outside Mt. Laguna.  It seemed a bit nonchalant, but then what do I know.

Pacific Crest Trail – Update on the Kick Off

 

 (The Barracuda standing at the official start of the PCT in Campo, CA.

Behind him you see the ominous fence marking the U.S/Mexican border.)

If this format doesn't match what you are use to seeing, it is because I, Jules, will be posting weekly updates to the blog while the family is hiking the PCT.  I will do my best to keep the same tone and vibe you are use to reading, but I will confess upfront that I am a bit of a Luddite and not very computer savvy.  This post will also be a quick update, but I will post again this weekend with more details. 

As I type this, The Barracuda and Brynn are well into their first hundred mile section of the PCT.  After all the stressful days of planning and packing, I think they were both happy to be underway and in the car this past Thursday.  After a two day, 18 hour rode trip, we made it to Campo, CA.  I was lucky enough to hike the first 20 mile section with them and see them off.  Despite truly sweltering conditions and many dry water sources, they are in great spirits and moving north.  As you can imagine, I'm quite proud of them both.   

 I'm going to bed and then get to get up in less than 2 hours.  The car is mostly packed with roadtrip junk.  The house is mostly filled with maildrop boxes.  The sink is still mostly crammed with dishes (which might just wind up unwashed).  My brain is mostly still going on overdrive.  I'm pretty sure I'll leave my hiking shoes at home, or that I will forget to bring a memory card for the camera, or that I'll lose my ID along the way and be arrested by border patrol for being "ethnic looking."  But, then again, isn't that part of the adventure?

The snaggle tooth is the seat of his power, and yes he is as tall as a standard bar stool, only bigger.
Optimus (aka The Moose) came from one of Jules' students.  He needed a home, Jules needed a Mastiff, and one day Moosey followed Jules home from work.



On Saturday early morning, The Barracuda let Optimus outside to go potty.  He was limping a little, but with his giant size that isn't odd first thing in the morning.  Often times he flops his big Moosey butt down and winds up lying funny on one of his hind legs.  We left to go visit a friend's farm, but when we came home he was still limping.  We checked him out, but couldn't find an issue with his paw.  Then we noticed the large lump on his back hip.  In three hours, it looked like it was his front paw that was hurting instead.  By that time it was Saturday evening/night and we decided to take him into the big city animal hospital on Monday.  There aren't too many vets that know what to do with a 220 lb Mastiff.  Our rural area helps quite a bit since there are many "everything" vets, which are both large and small animal vets all in one building, but it is still an issue sometimes.


Jules helped Optimus out to go potty Sunday early morning and it was obvious Moosey was starting to hurt.  He isn't a fussy dog.  Yelping or whimpering means quite a bit.  It became apparent Optimus was losing mobility fast.  We hadn't thought about that.  If your giant dog (who is far bigger than either adult in the family) can't move, you can't move him.  He just can't get to the point he is completely immobile.  We went to church and arranged for the local vet (a church member) to come over that afternoon and check Optimus out.

When we got home, that wasn't even an option.  We took him to the emergency hospital in the big city that afternoon.  They knew when we brought him in that it wasn't good.  He was in late stages of a systemic problem and had almost reached paralysis in his right side.  It took less than 36 hours for our very young doggy to go from big slobbery to critical condition.

The beginning of Optimus' life wasn't very happy.  We rescued him from an unstable situation.  He had had lots of pain and fear somewhere judging from the nightmares we frequently had to talk him down from.  More pain and fear wasn't something I was willing to put him through, especially since the vets didn't know if they would be able to fix it.  They weren't going to flat out say it, but the options were pretty minimal. 

We buried him today, out on the sand flat which he loved so much (in what must have looked like a Mafia hit to anyone who didn't realize we owned a dog that big).  Guadie came out to supervise, nudging and smelling her treasured brother and bringing all of us to tears.  We called on St. Isidore, the Patron Saint of Agriculture, to look out for Optimus (Isidore was his patron saint due to how much Moosey loved food).  

Ashes to Ashes.  Stardust to Stardust.

Death is something our family has seen a lot of due to working with at-risk teenagers.  When The Barracuda was about 5, he was completely amazed to go to a funeral for an adult. With wide-eyed astonishment he declared, "Adults die?"  (It was a parent of the year moment for Jules and I).  So we are grieving slowly, coming to terms with what we can in the quiet silence of the woods.  The Barracuda is whittling a memorial and Jules is getting Optimus' paw prints framed.  Guadie is still looking for him and perks up anytime she hears his name.  It might have only been a year, but the big, drooly, stinky, stubborn mutt was definitely a member of our family.

Moosey liked to eat things - drywall, the couch, paint, 2x4's, anything dead, the digital camera, my clothing, insulation, library audio books, anything plastic and expensive.  Moosey stank worse than any animal I've ever known. He snored like a 90 year old man, grunted whenever we asked him to move more than about 4 yards, farted more often than should have been normal, belched audibly, sneezed in your face and groaned from the strain of sleeping on the couch 16 hours a day.  As far as he was concerned our 380 square foot house was the basecamp of the Optimus theocracy which worshiped his awesomeness.

Damn dog was so spoiled.  He's still a puppy in this picture.  We had to upgrade his belt  collar when he outgrew that one.  In the end, half of him hung off the sofa most of the time and the pillows worked wonders as a drool bib.


 
Moosey was very stubborn, very drooly, wandered off frequently, had more confidence than anything I've ever known, and in general was Jules' favorite creature on earth. He liked to give hugs, loved to snuggle, and would crawl into your lap whether you wanted him to or not.  Any sort of contact normally resulted in a need to change clothes due to the 6+ inches of drool (and whatever he recently ate) dangling down from his massive lips.

Afterall, the entire reason Daddy was on the sofa was to snuggle, right?.  What evening would be complete without an Optimus drooling in your lap?


 As annoying as all that sounds - and at times was - it quickly became incredibly endearing and very soon Optimus had his own voice in our family (it sounds something like Forrest Gump since genius is not a major character trait).

He loved his boy something fierce and the feeling was mutual.  Though he was rare to growl, don't mess with his boy.


His head was huge, his body bigger, and his visual spacial skills were seriously lacking.  He'd frequently lock himself in the bathroom, step on your unsuspecting foot, or knock you over with his giant behind.  Watching him eat was legendary, watching him drink water was a bit upsetting to your stomach, and often Guadalupe would stare at him in complete bafflement/awe as he ate or drank. 

The dog loved to eat snow.  He wouldn't touch it once it fell to the ground, buy anything in the air was fair game

You will be missed you giant, snaggle-toothed lummox.  There is nothing in creation which could ever possibly replace you.

So, what do we do without television?  We read and snuggle a whole lot!

 The Moose loves to snuggle more than anything and has discovered reading time is the best time to sneak (I used this term lightly) up onto the couch with others.  Unfortunately for the reader, he is too big to fit anywhere but onto your lap.