I think it was the 4th of July
It was a bit cold on waking. My fingers weren’t up to par. The tent was down and rolled quickly. But I could not get the lid off my bear canister. The plastic was unmovable at that temperature. You needed strong manual dexterity to push past the little bump that latches the large lid on the canister. Even the large paw of a bear can’t span and push in the little notch. I must have spent a half hour on this before The plastic softened and let me in. The canister not only houses my food, it also houses any thing that has a strong odor. I wanted my tooth paste. I believe if Terry had been with me, I would have been audibly whining over my struggle. But I have no reason to vocalize without an audience.
The morning was picturesque. I moved from mule’s ears to volcanic formations. From no apparent crawlers to lizards. After a couple of hours, without seeing a human, Stack came walking my way. They (this pronoun is not used as plural, but rather as gender-neutral) told me about a poor night’s sleep in the hammock because they forgot an important attachment for the hammock’s stability. So it goes..
At 11:55 I had hiked 7 miles. At noon I came upon four trail angels. They had chairs and tables set up and a huge spread of food. They drove their RVs up a forest service road. The four angels hadn’t see many hikers. It appeared to me that the PCT hiker population had been reduced about 90 percent. In 2014 when Terry and I hiked the PCT, I went ahead to Sierra City via car while I nursed a sprained ankle. It was the Fourth of July. The hikers seemed to come off the trail in droves. Now no one. Just me with more food in my pack than I could eat plus free drinks on ice and many homemade selections. I sat awhile in peace. No jets. No contrails. No fireworks. Just a virus potentially lurking anywhere people meet.
I can only think the animals, the land, the skies have never in their lifespan witnessed such peace. I carried on nourished with an iced Frappuccino and a bar with caramel m&ms and peanut butter cups. What could go wrong?
Five miles forward, I started to hear “civilization.” It sounded like shouting voices, and jet skies. I could see Jackson Lake. By that time my shoulders were sore and my blisters hurt. I was coming down a hill unprepared for what awaited me. The trail ended at a paved road. Usually when you come to a road the trail clearly continues on the other side of the road. Nope. There was a small group of teenagers playing football in the street. I didn’t expect they’d be of any help and they weren’t. I walk back and forth on the road looking for an arrow or a sign or a local person. I did not whine or vocalize my frustration. I wasted about 45 minutes when a guy in a truck slowed and asked it I needed help. He thought I would get back on the trail across the bridge and to the right. It didn’t look like it could be the PCT or any trail. And then I saw the little triangular PCT sign on a tree. In three miles I found the campsite. There were several sites. All mi were empty. I had eaten dinner, another P,B&J while walking. I had spotted an evening grosbeak. It was almost 8:30 and I was ready for bed.
In the gloaming, I set up my tent, unfurled my bedding, set my bear canister away from my tent and crawled into my shelter. I fell sound asleep. Shortly I was wakened by a guy asking if he could share the camp with me. But of course.
Mountain Peace 