This Way to Bear Country

This way to Bear Country!
You'll know when you're there!
As soon as you enter,
You'll feel like a bear!

problem bear

The PCT traverses two "bear countries": central-northern California (the Sierra), and northern Washington (the Cascades). We're talking about black bears, for the most part, though in theory you might still see a grizzly. Bears are unpredictable, not to be trifled with, and I kept my eyes and ears open while hiking in Alaska. But to be honest, driving on a six-lane highway frightens me more than a bear encounter. Even in a bold mood, the bear's after my food--he's not going to eat me.

A bear's opportunistic fixation with food isn't really any different than that of any other wild creature (from mice to thru-hikers)--the bear just happens to be big enough to impose on a human for a meal, and smart enough to remember how. No stealth required, just walks around like he owns the place. That's bad news--for the bear.  Any bear so habituated to human presence that he will raid dumpsters, or mosey into camp and casually walk off with a picnic basket of ClifBars while you're washing your socks is euphemistically labeled a "problem bear." Read between the lines. A fed bear is a dead bear. There's a veritable laundry-list of bear-avoidance tactics that probably really do work to keep both bears and people safe if practiced mindfully. Regrettably, that's a very big if, so in the last decade the park service has been obliged to make some new laws.

bear box

Hanging a bag in a tree is no longer permitted as a food-protection technique in Yosemite. That doesn't mean you can't hang your food for your own sake if you want to and know how, but it means that the park service doesn't think that's good enough anymore, because so few people do it correctly, and because bears learn. (They wouldn't think so if the bears hadn't amply proven the point.) Since the early 2000s (?), hikers in the High Sierra are required by federal regulations to store all food and other odiferous, bear-attracting articles (sunscreen, garbage) by one of two methods: camp in an established site with a food locker ("bear box"), or carry an approved bear-resistant portable container ("bear canister") in your pack.

Bear boxes come in handy when they're available, but often, well, they aren't. Doesn't seem like something you can rely on.

bear canister

Right now the answer is bear canisters.* A bear canister is a "hard-sided plastic or carbon fiber cylinder with a removable lid that is designed to protect its contents (namely, food and other scented items) from bears. The canister’s shape, hardness, and lid seal mechanism (which require opposable fingers to open/close) make it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for bears to access the canister’s contents." [Andrew Skurka]

Canisters receive approval through a highly scientific testing process. Somebody fills the vessel in question with a bunch of tasty treats, then they throw it to Fisher, a 580-lb black bear now living in the Folsom City Zoo Sanctuary because he was a "problem bear." If Fisher manages to decorate his enclosure with a rainbow of peanut M&Ms, the designer heads back to his drawing board; if not, the new article is conditionally issued to a three-month round of beta-testers, who obligingly head out into the woods of bear-country for real-world experience. They report back, and a proclamation is issued.

*Evolution never stills. One bear in the Adirondacks of upstate New York has figured out how to open several models of BearVault, and other bears in the vicinity are catching on. For now, the National Park Service has addressed the matter by revoking BearVault's approval for use in that area.

Bear canisters make most hikers want to cry. I do not relish the thought of it myself. Any material strong enough to keep a bear at bay is bound to be heavy, for starters. The canisters bottom out at just under two pounds, and usually weigh more. That makes a bear can heavier than any other single item in my theoretical pack--including the pack. Picking up a bear canister may coincide with picking up a lot of other heavy stuff, like an ice axe, extra warm clothes, and enough food for a long trek, which doesn't help matters. It's a big load. Shlepping water through the desert is a going to be a chore, too, but leaving Kennedy Meadows should be the absolute heaviest your pack ever gets.

Ursack

All of the approved canisters have hard sides and bear-proof lids--with a "catch," in both senses of the phrase. A screwtop is simple until it's frozen solid; quarter-turn fasteners are the easiest thing in the world until you just don't have a fucking coin. (The Ursack, a soft-sided bag made of kevlar, is probably as effective as anything else at keeping bears out, but isn't yet on the approved list. It also doesn't prevent your food from getting crunched.) Skurka wishes aloud that bear canisters had a flat side, but as I understand it, the container must be both round enough and big enough around that a grizzly can't get a jaw-lock on it--think of a dog trying to bite a fully-inflated basketball. That seems to shake out to at least eight inches in diameter. Ultralight hikers, having gone to a great deal of trouble to reduce pack size and weight, might suddenly discover that the canister just doesn't fit. Because of the rounded shape, too, a bear might decide to send your can rolling into a river or over a cliff...so be careful where you put it down for the night. Because of the hard sides, they have a reputation for being spectacularly uncomfortable, jabbing right up against your spine. And just to rub salt in the wound, they're kind of expensive--$75 to $275 for a [necessarily] very well-built, but very limited-use piece of equipment. Three to four weeks. It isn't required through the Cascades.

The funny part of this, to me, is that's the best we can do for a bear. A oversized, child-proof bottle.

As far as I can tell, none of the available bear canisters actually hold enough food to get you from Kennedy Meadows to your next resupply point. You do the best you can. It's not recommended, but most thru-hikers sleep with their bear canisters under their feet, too, for the same primal reasons that dragons sleep on their hoards. Food sitting 200 yards distant proclaims, "FREE," while the message you're trying to convey is, "This is MINE."

Thru-hikers on the PCT seem to encounter bears rarely, possibly because they [the hikers] tend to travel in groups through the Sierras. (See an exception here.) I expect, too, that most hikers already abide by wilderness practices that will minimize the likelihood of a confrontation, like cooking at a water source and then moving on before camping. Sounds like a bear canister is mostly just a pain in the ass. However, everything I have read suggests that hikers have an extraordinarily precious relationship with the people and the environment along this wilderness corridor. As custodians of the backcountry that they evidently enjoy so much they'd want to spend five months walking through it, I think it BEHOOVES THEM to get a goddam bear canister, by whatever means, no different than a fire permit. You probably don't need it, and if you do need it, it probably won't do you any good, but it's a way of saying, "Yes, this trail and all it stands for are important to me."

BearVault 500

Choosing a canister is a matter of personal preference, like anything else, but designs don't vary enough to be as entertaining as shelters. BearVault's BV500, 41oz, costs $80 from REI, but the company has a special deal for PCT thru-hikers, $65 including shipping to Kennedy Meadows. It appears to be the most popular canister, if you can call anything popular when everybody resents its presence. It's a little larger than its rival, and you can see what's in it without having to rummage. The Bearikade Weekender, 31oz,  costs $250, but comes with rental rates for thru-hikers, too; the cost of renting versus buying a heavier model probably comes out just about even, depending on how fast you travel.

You ditch the canister at Sonora Pass, or Tahoe at the latest. Unless I can sell it afterwards, it stands to become the fanciest cat-food container in Christendom.

In case anybody was wondering, bear spray isn't permitted in Yosemite, and bear bells don't work. But did you know you can get a bear bell at Walmart? It's true!

Make Your Own Damn Stove

Once upon a time, I made Trouble Affogato from a recipe in the Tartine Bread cookbook. The author of the book, Chad Robertson, based the flavors of the affogato on the "house" breakfast at Trouble Coffee (one of his favorite San Francisco beachside cafés): thick-cut, generously buttered cinnamon toast, strong black coffee, and a whole, young coconut, served with a straw and a spoon. Naturally, when Mom and I were in San Francisco last April, we had to go find Trouble Coffee. And reading the Lonely Planet guidebook for directions, for the first time I encountered the full name of Trouble's signature dish:

Build Your Own Damn House.

I have no idea what that has to do with coffee, toast, or coconuts, but I was ensorcelled. "Build your damn house!" turned into the mantra of the year. Or possibly of my life. Their website reads like a scrap off a Dr Bronner's bottle. "Do you have a useful skill in a tangible situation?" God, I hope so. It is one of my personal missions: to have useful skills. Convenience is for the stupid, the lazy, and the infirm. If I can make something myself, I will. It's fun--fun in the way that occupies my brain and my hands at the same time. Change your own damn tires. Bake your own damn bread. Find your own damn Christmas tree. Build your own damn house.

So it was with sore pride that I ordered a tarp-tent, because I just can't pretend that I know enough to make one myself. Sewing isn't the problem--I'm a decent seamstress--but I don't know anything about tarps, or ripstop nylon, and my better judgment says that I will be a warmer, drier, happier hiker with someone else's handiwork holding the roof over my head. I stand in a fair way to order my sleeping bag and backpack for the same reasons. Do you know how to stuff something with goose feathers? Well neither do I. And I am SAD about this. I wanted to make my gear from scratch, really own this project from the ground up.

Lucky for me, there are enough penny-pinching gram-weenies on the Internet to support my fixation and direct this energy toward other, lesser, but worthy projects. Andrew Skurka is one such nut, and he generously shows the whole world how to make a lightweight, portable alcohol stove out of a catfood can. Yeah! Build your own damn stove!

punch two tidy rows of holes in a clean catfood can. done.

Skurka sums up the pros and cons of his approach very neatly:

advantages
-weighs just .3 oz (about 10 grams)!
-costs about $.50 for the cat food can with tax, and $3-$5 for the hole punch.
-will never clog, no moving or delicate parts that can break. Even if it is accidentally squashed, there is a chance that it can be re-shaped and used again.
-serves as a pot stand, which means one less thing to carry.
-burns denatured alcohol, a cheap and widely available fuel that can be purchased at hardware stores (in the paint department), gas stations (HEET gas-line antifreeze), and hiking hostels. You can also use Everclear, or grain alcohol, though this is more expensive. Fuel can be stored in plastic drink bottles.
-uses about .6 oz of alcohol to boil about 1.5 cups of water, depending on the pot, the starting temperature of the water, and the efficiency of the windscreen. The water will boil within 5-7 minutes.

disadvantages
-because the stove is only 2.5 inches in diameter, larger pots may not be stable enough.
-because this stove is a side-burner, smaller pots (e.g. 600 ml mugs) may not receive enough of the flame. In this case, it’d probably be more efficient to make a top-burner model instead.
-does not have a simmer feature, i.e. there is no control over the flame output. This will not be a problem if the extent of your backcountry cooking skills is boiling (the only thing necessary if you are content with pasta, couscous, dehydrated and freeze-dried foods, potato flakes, soups, etc).
-no OFF switch. The stove will burn until there is no more fuel to burn, unless it is smothered with a pot/mug, dirt, or water. It is extremely difficult, though possible, to blow the stove out.
-not as fast as a white gas or canister model. If eating dinner 2-3 minutes earlier is important enough to you that you are willing to carry at least an extra half-pound, by all means… 

The one thing he fails to mention about the Fancy Feast stove--because he is plainly not a cat-owner if he had to go out and buy a can of food specifically to this purpose--is that it feels like a kind of talisman. This stove was within reach all along and I had no idea. I've opened literally hundreds of those cans and dispensed the contents to my cat-friends while waiting for water to boil for coffee. It's the morning ritual. I hate canned catfood, I think it is wasteful and disgusting, and I wish my idiot cats would deign to eat food-grade roast chicken and turkey giblets like reasonable creatures. But the trashy canned food always makes them so happy, without fail. By the time I get to Tahoe and am heating up water for the ten-thousandth goddam packet of Idahoan instant potatoes, that will be something worth remembering.

"grease pot" from Kmart; homemade Fancy Feast stove; aluminum foil windscreen; fuel from hardware store

A lot of hikers have the Evernew titanium 0.9L cooking pot, and that's nice, I suppose. (SCORN.) But I've actually never bought a new pot, not ever, and I'm afraid that if I shell out $60 on a piece of cookware I won't be content to back away slowly when a bear invades my camp to steal my rehydrated potatoes, I will indignantly yell, "Hey!" and fight him for the fancy titanium pot.

Wandering through some Make-Your-Own-Gear literature one day, I discovered several voices lauding the cheapness, lightness, and versatility of Ye Olde Grease Pot. The grease saver costs $10 at Kmart, and the funny part of this story is that Mom and Dad already owned one. Aluminum isn't as durable as titanium, of course, so you probably want to avoid stepping on your cookpot just as you avoid stepping on your stove, but even if I manage to destroy it utterly--or lose it to a bear--I'd have to replace six grease pots before I could justify the titanium model. And I dunno, it kind of suits the Fancy Feast stove, don't you think? They're a pair.

pour a little fuel in the can, light it, and allow it to warm up 15-20 seconds

center your cooking pot over the stove and wrap the windscreen around it

when the water boils, add your food, and put the lid back on

hot dogtopus' garden (in the shade)

I don't remember the last time I ate Top Ramen. It's pretty gross, even after I'd gussied it up (those are good local hot dogtopi, not Oscar Meyer). Plainly, what one can cook on the trail directly impacts what one eats, but that isn't a discussion I'm prepared to have yet. We'll talk about food later. Right now we're talking about stoves. Do you want a catfood can? I have lots! Make your own damn stove! 

Sheltered

The Appalachian Trail has existed in one form or another since 1923, and for reasons relating to the aims and mindset of the generation that constructed it, the trail includes a network of 250 timber shelters. They aren't houses, of course, with doors and flush toilets, but they're places to get out of the rain, some have privies, and they are supposedly arranged at intervals along the trail that coincide with a day's hike. AT authorities actually prefer that hikers stay at the shelters. Questions of insects, rodents, crowds, and personal inclination all figure in at some point, but a hiker on the AT might feasibly decide to dispense with the weight of a tent and rely on the trail shelters. 

shelter on the Appalachian Trail

No such option on the Pacific Crest Trail; it was built on an altogether different set of philosophies. I understand that it rains a hell of a lot less on the Crest than it does in the Appalachians, however, especially during the narrow weather-window available to thru-hikers, so ultralight disciples, in particular, tend to chafe at the notion of hauling the "unnecessary" poundage of a shelter over the PCT. Applying their fiendish minds to the matter during the off-season has resulted in a whole slew of options for regular folk like me. 

Option number one: go without! Also known as cowboy camping. Ha ha ha ha ha. On fine nights, great. Sleeping out is always an option. 

Bottom line: don't be stupid, woman. 

cowboy camping

Option two: a tent. Tents are heavy! In addition to roofs they have floors, walls, mosquito netting, poles, stakes, rainflys, and big bags to hold all that shit together. They'll keep the rain outside, for the most part…but the same tight-as-a-drum model that keeps the falling water outside also holds a lot of water inside, in the form of condensation, brushing against your gear and your person. Not good! One option, almost the default these days, is a double-walled model, but it weighs even more than its simple-minded predecessor, because the inner "wall" is made of mosquito netting, so you have to carry a rainfly and all of the trappings in addition to the body of the tent. And I don't care how flipping simplified or lightweight the manufacturer makes the tent materials, that's a lot of shelter to be carrying around on your back. They aren't any less expensive than cottage-industry variations, either. The one-person tents I looked up at REI bottomed out at a "hyperlite" 2 lbs 2 oz lbs for $400…or 3 lbs 11 oz for $119. (That's "trail weight," too, which excludes stakes and stuff sacks.)

Don't get me wrong--20 years ago, or even less, there wasn't much of an option. I get it. But my MacBook Air bears very little resemblance to its gargantuan forebears, and tents have evolved just as surely as personal computers. I don't know why anybody would choose a conventional tent for a long-distance hike unless she just didn't know better. The trade-off, I suppose, is that tents are readily available from any outfitter, they're familiar, and they're well and truly durable against anything but avalanche and ursine assault. 

Bottom line: tents are for backyard camping, not for long-distance hiking. 

REI Passage one-person tent - 3 lbs 11 oz - $119

Option three: a tarp. Crazy Ray Jardine endorses the tarp approach, and backs up his enthusiasm with a variety of home-assembly kits for purchase--and to his credit, the tarp is a very old, time-tested piece of work. The theory is simple: sling a waterproof sheet of something between two trees, or drape it over a framework of sticks, hold out the corners with stakes or guy lines, and you're set. Any child who has ever made a blanket fort understands the principle of the thing. 

There are a thousand variations on how to pitch a tarp. The teepee, the yurt, the umbrella--all types of tarp. You could make a tarp out of animal skins, or oilcloth, or nylon. Tarps in their simplest form are lightweight and easily packed; if you're clever enough, you can make the poles and stakes out of available materials, rather than having to carry them with you. Having no walls, a tarp will not keep the mosquitoes out, but it's nothing if not well-ventilated, so no worries about condensation, and ounce per ounce it provides a great deal of covered "living space." They're inexpensive, easy to make at home, versatile, and durable. Lots of smart hikers carry tarps.

In practice, however, pitching a tarp well--e.g. in such a way as to shed rain, or against the wind, or without the use of trees--requires a little know-how and a good deal more familiarity with the usefulness of the landscape than I possess. There are vast open stretches of the PCT where I would have to get creative with sagebrush, big rocks, or sticks I'd dragged from lower elevations. It also usually requires…um…knots. As it happens, I know ONE good knot: The Grapefruit Knot. You tie an overhand knot over and over and over again until the balled-up result is about the size of a grapefruit. (It will not come untied.)

Bottom line: this is a skill set I would like to acquire, but I am too cautious and too inexperienced to brave a tarp this time around. 

ways to pitch a tarp

Option four: a bivy sack. "Bivy" is short for bivouac, one of my favorite British English words, because when used as a verb it sounds so much more interesting than camping. The etymology of the word traces to keeping watch--in other words, staying up all night. Ha ha, isn't that telling? Essentially, a bivy is a specialty garbage sack that you slide over the outside of your sleeping bag, with a little peak to go over your face. (As I write this, I'm imagining the horror going on inside Kim's head, and it is very funny.) I think it looks like a giant slipper, or maybe a crocodile. Or maybe a shroud. Lots of ultralight hikers like bivy sacks, sometimes used in tandem with tarps. Definitely not for the claustrophobic. There is no place to store your gear in a bivy, but it keeps the mosquitoes out while you're sleeping, and the vapor barrier means you sleep slightly warmer than cowboy camping. It would probably work great under the right conditions. But I can't claim that looking at pictures of bivy sacks inspired me with confidence. The tough ones are heavy GoreTex, but just like a raincoat, no matter how clever the fabric or design, when it rains--and it will rain--sooner or later you'll get wet. 

Bottom line: when I asked Matt--trail name Boomer, PCT class of 07 and 08, self-described ultralight fanatic--for help planning this trip, his very first piece of advice was, "DON'T get a bivy. I had one my first year and wound up calling it my Sack of Sadness." 

Outdoor Research bivy sack - 2 lb 7 oz - $300

Relatedly, though this isn't a real option: I was examining shelter options on an ultralight gear website and shouted across the room, "Burdick, what's a bothy?" 

I could almost see the blue-painted Scotsman unfurling himself proudly from behind Paul's eyeballs as he put on his best professorial voice. "A bothy is a hut. Usually kind of a shack. Angela and I stayed in one in the Highlands…" 

"Yes, I know. I know the traditional application of the word. I mean in relation to gear." 

"A bothy?" 

"Yes, a BOTHY. Like a bivy, but not. I can't find a picture of one that's been set up, what is it?" 

"A bothy?"

"A BOTHY." 

He squinted at me. "…but a bothy's a hut--" 

"Google it! B-O-T-H-Y, bothy." 

Turns out a modern bothy is an emergency shelter--a kind of poncho that fits into a stuff sack, and is held up by the opposing backs of the occupants. Lightweight! Two, four, six, and twelve-seat models! Can you imagine twelve people sitting in a contented circle like this, singing kum-bye-yah while the rain fell outside? Holy mother of god. We had a good laugh.

Terra Nova bothy

Option five: a hammock. To be used in tandem with a tarp. Comfy! Gets you off the cold ground! Bonus points for awesomeness! Actually, this isn't an option at all on the PCT, because you really need trees to make it work. Hammocks are for shorter trips in well-forested areas, and for pirates. I think it would be fun. I also think my grapefruit knot would be a disaster here. But you should know that camping hammocks, they exist! 

camping hammock (and tarp)

Option six: a tarp-tent. It's exactly what it sounds like. Tarp-tents represent the synthesis of the best features of tarps and tents, and guess what?--they were invented and manufactured by thru-hikers. That's another way of saying tarp-tents are a relatively recent innovation. People realized that their trekking poles could double as tent-poles, and the prototypes evolved from there. Unlike a tarp, it has a floor, mosquito netting, and zippers. Unlike a tent, it has no rainfly, and relies on the ventilation of the mesh bottom to prevent condensation. You might pay a little more for the privilege of carrying a lot less--an exchange that each hiker must decide upon for himself.

The man behind Zpacks, Joe Valesko, started building tents after finishing the AT in 2004. He makes his tarp-tents out of Cuben fiber, a sailing material which, as far as I can tell, weighs about as much as Saran Wrap, and withstands almost exactly 2600 miles' worth of continual abuse before evaporating like an invincibility charm in a video game. 

Zpacks Hexamid - about 1 lb with all the trimmings - $360

Ron Moak at Six Moon Designs makes tents, tarps, and net tents. They're very nice, at very agreeable weights and prices, but I've read enough warnings about silicon nylon to make me believe it isn't for beginners. It's tougher than Cuben fiber, but evidently the material tends to stretch, losing the tension in the pitch--which means you'd need to adjust it about an hour after the initial setup, every night. Though that's probably true of every tarp-tent.

Six Moon Designs Lunar Solo 2012 - 1 lb 7 oz - $200 (without stakes)

Henry Shires, mastermind of Tarptent, produces tarp-tents made of ripstop nylon--heavier and a more hard-wearing than Cuben fiber--with various features at various weights and price-points. He still offers the pattern for his original tarp-tent on his website, free of charge, for anybody with the wherewithal to construct her own. I like that. 

I looked long and hard at the Sublite, the lightest tent in his lineup at 20 oz. Unfortunately, the Sublite requires not one, but both trekking poles, so not if, but when I break/bend/lose one of them--or fling it over a cliff/at Paul/at Sasquatch--I'll be up shit creek where my shelter is concerned until I can get a replacement. Furthermore, the poles for the Sublite have to be able to extend to at least 140cm, meaning I'd have to start with new, longer models than the ones I've got at present. (My poles are probably wrong, since they're snowshoe poles, but I'm going to let them do what they can.)

Bottom line: I'm now the proud owner of a Tarptent Contrail. Here it is!

Tarptent Contrail - 1 lb 8.5 oz - $199 (photo by Caleb Cross)

And here is mine!

water bottle for scale

It actually weighs in at 1 lb 11 oz on my kitchen scale, possibly owing to the inclusion of stuff sack and stakes. And since this isn't something I could just pop out to the shop and buy ready-made, I think it's fair to acknowledge that with seam-sealant and shipping, the tarp-tent comes to $217. (This information is for reference use only; I'm not complaining.) Sets up with one trekking pole and some stakes. (Or rocks. Or whatever.) I might want a couple more stakes.

entrance

footbox

For one person, it's huge. I'm sure it will "shrink" as I experiment with throwing a lot of gear inside, but I could easily lose a full foot off the floor-length and not know the difference.

Please refrain from judging my shelter by the weakness of the pitch shown here. That's the fault of the operator, not the manufacturer. Henry Shires shows us how to do it right. It'll get better! One of the reasons I wanted to choose a shelter early was to get in some practice setting it up, taking it down, setting it up, over and over and over again. And packing it up, because tents, like Christmas lights, never fit back in the original container.

portable house

I can't believe I'm doing this. 

Take a Few Steps

The guy who made this film--here introduced as Buster--happens to be someone I know.

I met Collin in Antarctica, where he was a Dining Attendant (dishwasher); when he said that he hailed from Fairbanks, I offered my condolences and admitted that I had just fled from there. He asked good-naturedly if I wanted "to do that thing where we find out how many acquaintances we have in common," and I declined (politely, I hope, but vehemently, I'm sure). Eventually I heard that he'd played the fiddle in many of the same music groups as Maureen, a violist/barista I knew from the ACRC. At some point during the season Collin gave a presentation on his solo bike tour through South America that was pretty awesome. I wouldn't say we were friends--but it's funny how paths cross this way. I had no idea he was on the PCT last year.

Downhill to the border, I got it. Thanks, man!

Making Weight

"In order to reduce their hiking time, and thereby increase their chances of completing the trail, many hikers try to reduce their pack weight substantially. Since the creation of the Pacific Crest Trail there has been a large movement by hikers away from large heavy packs with a lot of gear. The PCTA cites Ray Jardine’s book, Beyond Backpacking, as a 'how-to' book for ultralight hikers. In this book Jardine explains how to trim every extra ounce from one’s pack weight by doing everything from cutting extra straps off your pack to eating only food that does not have to be cooked."[wikipedia]

Time was, a 5-lb nylon tent with poles, stakes, and a rainfly was looked on as lightweight, and indeed, it doesn't weigh very much by itself. As much as a sack of flour from the grocery store. But imagine loading that 5-lb tent along with a 4-lb sleeping bag into a frame pack that itself weighs 5lbs. You've  gone from a bag of flour to a bag of Iams cat kibbles--what? this is how I measure!--and you haven't even packed your raincoat, never mind any food or water. It adds up quick. For a weekend camping trip in the backcountry, the weight doesn't matter too much. Shlepping a big load is an inconvenience, but not a hazard--you park your car and take all day to trudge ten miles to a likely campsite, where you set down your 40-lb pack, wipe your brow, and start cooking hot dogs. No problem! But for a thru-hiker, someone walking 8-12 hours every day, that kind of cross is frankly unhealthy to bear for 2663 miles---not to mention slooow.

Enter Ray Jardine. The old boy had some very good ideas about long-distance hiking, many of which were quite shocking to conventional backpackers in the early 90s--like wearing plain running shoes, instead of sturdy, military-style leather boots. The nerve! Sneakers weigh less, dry faster, and require no breaking in--meaning they're much kinder to your feet. Jardine found he didn't need the questionable "support" offered by those cumbersome, abrasive boots, either, once he'd applied the same theory to other pieces of equipment, because he was carrying a much lighter pack. Essentially, at some point he decided that he wasn't hiking in order to camp, he camped in order to hike, and this changed his approach to the equipment. He endorsed making one's own gear from scratch, the better to understand it and tailor it to one's needs. His philosophies changed the paradigm, spawning a whole style of backpacking now contentiously known as ultralight. 

Jardine's ultralight philosophy has grown sufficiently in popularity that a number of "cottage industry" outfitters now make gear specifically designed for the purpose of long-distance hiking. You don't have to sew your own pack in order to get one that weighs less than five pounds anymore--although you might save some cash, as well as weight, if you elect to make your own gear, because some of the too-light-to-be-true stuff is awfully pricey. (There are status-seekers in every crowd.) Long-distance hikers shop with a careful eye towards balancing weights and dollar amounts. This is why they spend so much time poring over gear specs, scrutinizing the fine print, and arguing with strangers in public forums. Does the 25 ounces include the tent stakes? How many folk actually take those sleeping bags out into 20-degree weather to determine the temperature rating? Are they publishing the weight of the small-size rain jacket, or the large? What an outfitter chooses to call "ultralight" may or may not weigh less than the complete works of Shakespeare--on the other hand, something "ultralight" may or may not withstand the abuse of a 2600-mile trek. And of course, over time the definition has both narrowed and expanded, such that now we have "traditional," "lightweight," "ultralight," and "super-ultralite" designations, plus varying numerical quantifications for each, depending on who you ask. One of the most efficient ways to get a roomful of hikers worked up is to wonder aloud what ultralight means. 

Jardine's a nut, no question, and I find it helpful to ingest his theories with a grain of salt, just as one would read the work of any prophet---I'm fond of hot drinks, for instance, and I wouldn't dream of thru-hiking the PCT without a way to heat water and cook food (campfires are forbidden in many areas). But as someone who moves often and aspires to exercise an "ultralight" lifestyle, I appreciate a lot of the principles behind his fanaticism. Simplify, simplify, simplify. Extra pockets on your backpack are like extra rooms in your house: you WILL fill them. Find two uses of all of your equipment. Shop used. Repurpose ordinary objects. Get as much information as possible beforehand so as to make informed choices and avoid packing anything "just in case." Above all, be creative! You're carrying your brain around anyway, so might as well put it to work.  

Relatedly, some of the cuts in pack-weight are only feasible when one possesses the knowledge and experience to implement them--and I am not an experienced backpacker. I'll learn fast, I have no doubt, but right now it's all conjecture. It's good to have Paul and Matt as sounding boards. 

The flip side of inexperience, however, is that I own virtually no gear. Paul's in the tricky position of owning packs and garments suitable for mountaineering, and having to decide whether they'll work for a long-distance hike, or if he ought to make the [not insignificant] investment in lighter gear. There's no pondering whether my existing "gear" will do the trick--it won't. What gear? My pack? A freebie from the car insurance company in Germany. It's fun to look at, with all the brightly-colored patches I scavenged off of Girl Scout uniforms, but by itself it weighs only slightly less than a gallon of milk. My sleeping bag is a synthetic job from L.L. Bean that compresses to approximately the dimensions of a car tire. Even my raincoat is shot. I have nothing PCT-appropriate but a pair of convertible pants and some bandannas. It's somewhat freeing to be able to choose my purchases specifically for this adventure. 

Triangulating from the physical state in which I left for the Ice, I'm willing to bet that after six weeks in the desert, I will arrive at Kennedy Meadows barely clearing 100lbs. At that point a hiker acquires a large resupply of food, plus a bear canister (essentially a big screw-top tupperware to keep your food from the bears), and a lot of burdensome heavy stuff for snow-travel, like microspikes and an ice axe. This is all on top of your "base" weight, the stuff you've been carrying from the beginning. Conventional wisdom advises that, all told, one leave Kennedy Meadows for the Sierras carrying a pack no greater than 30% of one's body weight. At least the math is easy.

Introduction to the PCT

Let's talk trail!

"The Pacific Crest Trail traverses 2,663 mi (4,286 km) through California, Oregon, and Washington. It aligns closely with the highest portion of the Sierra Nevada and Cascade mountain ranges, which lie 100 to 150 miles east of the coast. The southern terminus is on the US border with Mexico, near El Campo, California, and its northern terminus on the edge of Manning Park in British Columbia, Canada. Its midpoint is in Chester, California (near Mt. Lassen), where the Sierra and Cascade mountain ranges meet. President Lyndon Johnson defined the PCT and the Appalachian Trail as National Scenic Trails with the National Trails System Act in 1968, although the PCT was not officially completed until 1993.

"Thru-hiking is the term applied to completing a long-distance trail from end to end in a single trip. Although the actual number is difficult to calculate, the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) estimates that out of approximately 300 people who attempt to thru-hike the PCT each year, around 180 complete the entire trail. Most hikers travel northward. In a normal weather year, northbound hikes are most practical due to snow and temperature considerations. The timing is a balance of not getting to the Sierra Nevada too soon, nor the Northern Cascades too late. Deep snow pack in the Sierra Nevada can prevent an early start. Thru-hikers have to make sure they complete enough miles every day so they will be able to reach the opposite end of the trail before weather conditions make sections impassable." [wikipedia]

So here are the parameters for a thru-hike of the PCT. In a normal year, the snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains effectively barricades all comers until the middle of June. It takes roughly six weeks to travel the 700 miles from the Mexican border (El Campo) to the last major resupply at the foot of the mountains (Kennedy Meadows), so counting backwards brings us to a start date of approximately May 1. May Day. M'aidez. Many hikers, anticipating a gentle break-in period, intense desert heat, and possibly a number of days off to ease those initial blisters and tweak gear selections, plan to begin a little earlier. Accordingly, the Annual Day Zero PCT Kick Off ("ADZPCTKO," christ) takes place over the last weekend in April (this year it's the 27th-28th).

Once a hiker has successfully plowed through the late-season snow of the Sierras--an enormous undertaking--what remains is to cover an astronomical number of miles and finish the trail before it starts snowing in the northern Cascades--in a normal year, around October 1. This presents a relatively narrow weather-window for covering such a distance, and in order to complete the task in a timely (and safe) manner, a hiker has to average at least 20 miles every day. Every day. For five months. Wearing a pack. Just for reference, my longest hikes in Alaska were about 18 miles, carrying only water and snacks in a daypack--and I didn't do much the day after.

I think the reason the PCT works as a thru-hike has something to do with the rubber-band principal. You get six weeks in the desert to warm up (literally) and make mistakes before tackling the mountains. The Sierras stretch a human being to the limits of their endurance--or maybe just my conjectural limits of endurance. I'm a good walker, but I am not a mountaineer. You traverse steep, ice-covered passes that give me the flipping whim-whams just looking at the photographs. There's the snow, the altitude, the river-crossings, and the fact that entering those mountains--the most difficult terrain of the whole trail--you happen also to be carrying the heaviest load (bear canister, ice axe, cold-weather clothes, seven to eleven days of food). Your concept of normalcy is destroyed, and your body expends an ungodly amount of energy to travel 10-15 miles in a day. Fortunately it's some of the most breathtakingly beautiful wild land in the country--perhaps the panoramic mountain views will distract me from the plummeting scree immediately below.

Providing that one doesn't break during this trial, one turns into a hiking machine. Strong. Burdens lightened, you come down out of those mountains flying. All of a sudden a 30-mile day over rolling hills feels effortless---except that you're consuming whole pizzas and quarts of ice cream at every town. The force of that released momentum carries you as far as the Columbia River (Cascade Locks)---sea level---and at that point, staring into the dense rain-forest and steep climbs of Washington, you're exhausted and starving and discouraged, but having come so far you'll be damned if you quit. So you keep going.

This is just my theory, of course. They say that if a hiker can make it as far as Yosemite (Tuolomne Meadows, actually, but whatever), he is likely to finish the trail.

To say that I don't know if I can do this would be the understatement of the year. It sounds grueling, and crazy. But look at the photos!

Pilgrim

I think it was the evening of my birthday, while Mom and Paul and I were at dinner, that I first heard my mom say, "When you go hiking." Not if, but when. Until then, the whole concept of walking the PCT for the summer felt like a thought exercise that took place almost exclusively inside my head, not too dissimilar from those thought exercises in which I produce a brilliant creative work and live in a castle by the sea filled with rescued cats. Something to dream about. All of a sudden, there it was: when you go hiking. She said it, not me. You're going.

And so far, that seems to be the trend. I broached the idea, and now everyone around me is more convinced than I am that this summer I am going to walk 2650 miles, from Mexico to Canada, along the rocky spine of the western United States. I guess that after you've announced to your friends and family that you're going to Antarctica, nothing surprises them.

The truth is, I'm terrified.

But the more people I tell, the more real it becomes, and the less monumentally terrifying those 2650 miles appear. It's like casting a spell, the reality reinforced with every repetition. So far, the reaction to this mad scheme both horrifies and heartens me: hardly an eyebrow raised. Of course you are. Once I'd decided to quit my job on the bread line, I spent a looot of time in internal monologue, reasoning to myself that this year is my opportunity to hike---my Scout is dead, my lease will be through, my job has no hold on me, I am young and healthy and untethered---and having worked up all of these good arguments nobody wants to hear them! They're just going along with it! Does nobody realize that I am OUT OF MY FLIPPING MIND?

Or maybe you've already concluded, as I have, that I must do something--so why not this? Mom and Dad--acknowledging the letter, if not the spirit, of my thanks-giving plea--delivered a staggering token of their faith and support to my bank account for Christmas, as if to say, "Whatever you do, do it RIGHT."

Bearing that in mind, and because April looks a lot closer from this side of New Year, lately I've devoted a lot of time to reading handbooks, gear reviews, trail journals, gear reviews, planners, gear reviews, tutorials, and more gear reviews. Incredibly, hikers obsess more over their tools than cooks--one must whittle an entire lifestyle into a package that can be carried across three states on foot, and this provokes a lot of conviction, with concomitant heated debate. It's overwhelming to read, to listen to. But in the process of plodding through this, gradually a kind of order emerges from the chorus of opinions. A kind of plan.

I'm still trying to formulate a explanation for why I want to do this, as opposed to anything else---producing a brilliant creative work and living in a castle by the sea filled with rescued cats, for instance.

I'm not really sure. Nobody can acquire a degree at a liberal arts college without brushing against the subject of pilgrimage: in literature, religion, art, history, it's everywhere. Why people go, where they go, what stories they tell, what symbols they bear. As a person always on the move, the topic interested me.

When I was in Spain, my class visited a number of monasteries and cathedrals in Burgos and Leon that were decorated with scallop shells. It's a recurring icon across northern Spain. Our guides told us about the Camino de Santiago, the wayfarers that pursued it, and the seashells that they carried. The shell served countless metaphorical functions in art and stories, but above all it marked one as a pilgrim (as opposed to a vagrant), and when affixed to a house or other edifice it meant that one could find help and hospitality within. Of course there's a whole commercial enterprise that's built up around the Camino as well. Plenty of tourist traps. But the salient point was people still do this. They still go on pilgrimage. Even godless heathens like myself. Someday I would love to walk that road, from Le Puy to Santiago de Compostela.

As much I'd like to identify as an pilgrim, however, some important distinctions get in the way. Pilgrims embark on their journeys with a specific destination in mind: Mecca, Jerusalem, Lhasa, Canterbury, the Ganges. These sites have existed for centuries and were built on geography and sets of beliefs that have nothing to do with me. Furthermore, once they've reached their destination and found their redemption (or not), pilgrims go home again. I am, by comparison, a godless drifter---or perhaps irrevocably American.  This country pays homage to the spirit of what it holds sacred with a very different set of pilgrimages: the Appalachian, the Continental Divide, and the Pacific Crest Trails. The trail itself is the destination.

The first I heard of any of them was when I was working at Two Fat Cats in Maine. A man came into the shop to buy a large cake, which he intended to deliver it to his daughter and her friends, who were thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, and he wanted me to write across the top, "Katahdin or Bust!" Intrigued, I asked him about Katahdin, about them, about their quest. After he'd left, I commented to my friend Sue, the principal cake decorator in the shop, that the Appalachian Trail sounded freaking awesome. Sue said she'd heard a lot about it, living on the east coast, and had always wanted to try it someday. We made a pact that we would go together---someday.

That was probably in August 2008---by the end of that month I'd left Maine and moved on to new adventures. Years later I picked up Bryson's A Walk in the Woods and rekindled the fire---then went to Antarctica, where I sat through a fellow galley-rat's presentation on the AT's heretofore-unknown-to-me western sister, the PCT. It sounded EVEN BETTER. Wilder. Drier. A pilgrimage from Mexico to Canada. States I had once lived in, names that sounded vaguely familiar, and a landscape I had never experienced--something about it was meaningful. I let the seed of that idea take a long time to germinate. And here's a crazy thought: all I have to do is fly from here to San Diego and walk back again. Mom and Dad can pick me up in Canada.

I am planning to go on a long and difficult walk for five months because...it just seems like the thing to do. Because...it's terrifying...which is another word for wildly exciting.