I find myself awake in a soft bed. Groggily I glance over at the bedside clock and see that it is 7am. Not too long ago I would have been hiking already. Now I lay there, debating whether or not to get up. Eventually I drag myself out of clean sheets and 20 feet later I am standing under a hot shower. By now the grime and caked on dirt of the trail is gone, and showering is less of a strenuous chore and more of a luxury. After my shower I put on clean clothes, washed just yesterday in the machine upstairs, and head to the kitchen. My parents are up reading the newspaper, getting all the vital information from around the globe. Connected. I grab a cup of hot coffee, already prepared, and settle into a cushy chair to sip, relax, and begin my final blog.It is the 18th of August, a mere 5 days since I came off the trail, and I am not unaware of how drastically my life has changed. A morning like this, even one week ago, was just a dream to me.
There are so many different reflections, observations and ideas floating around in my head that I hardly know where to begin. It's funny, despite all the solitude and hours in which to think about life, now that I am done with the trail everything seems somehow more complex. I suppose I should start with what the PCT really is to me, and why I feel that it continues to attract so many. I would guess that the epic adventure is a part of human nature, incorporated through thousands of years of psychological evolution. Perhaps the earliest hunter-gatherers needed to be semi-nomadic in order to allow their summer and winter grounds time to regenerate. Or maybe hunters ranged far and wide to show physical prowess, endurance, and hunting skill. Whatever the reason, we see extraordinary examples of exploration and adventure throughout human history. Heracles, Odysseus, Shackleton, Lewis and Clark, Mallory, Earhart, etc. The list goes on and on. But equally interesting is the observer's fascination with these individuals. After all, a handful of individuals, driven toward adventure, could be dismissed as having unique personality quirks. However, the enduring tales told about their exploits suggests that there is an underlying human interest that touches us all.
On the trail I met a number of day, weekend, and section hikers. It was easy to dismiss their enthusiasm because they obviously shared a common passion for the wilderness. I also, though, visited a number of towns. In towns I found that I was equally likely to find sympathy and interest from a college jock as I was from an overweight chain-smoking grandmother. Which, of course, is not to say that everyone wants to hike the PCT. I think people just want to embark on an adventure that will endure as a great epic, if only in their own minds. Maybe they want to finish the family quilt, sail to Hawaii, or raise a family whose health and wellbeing will carry their name well into the future. I have no answers here, only speculation.
What I do know is that the PCT attracts all kinds. There is a spectrum, ranging from those who have never backpacked a day in their life to wilderness zealots who fashion themselves to be a new John Muir. Their reasons for hiking are equally diverse; to lose weight, find god, find themself, find a partner, test a relationship, see the country, see the wilderness, challenge their endurance, on a whim, on a dare, even in a wedding dress in one case. But really most of us on the trail have a number of reasons. I could tell you I left because my life was a mess and I needed time to straighten myself out. That is partially true. But the PCT has been a longtime goal of mine, from even before I made a mess of my life. I could also tell you that, as a former runner, the personal challenge was appealing. But even that doesn't quite ring true. I guess I learned on the trail that sometimes the reason we do things is emotional, and that you can never quite fit emotions into the tidy packaging of logical reasons. You try your best to translate between the two, but ultimately you have to be satisfied with "well, I guess there are a lot of reasons really," and leave it at that.
Regardless of my reasons for going, I found so much more on the trail than I ever could have anticipated. With so much time for introspection I got a lot of things figured out. I went over literally everything I could think of. As I told a dayhiker "I ran out of things to think about 2 months ago." I got closure on some things from my past, made plans for my future, and had some valuable insights about myself along the way. And, of course, I saw some spectacular sights and met some amazing people along the way.
Speaking of amazing people, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who touched this journey in some way. First and foremost I owe a huge amount of my success to my parents, who worked tirelessy to handle my resupply, and who generously met me at various points along the way. Without their help the trip would have been feasible, but much harder and less enjoyable. In many ways, this wa their journey as much as mine. I would also like to thank the Henderson family for their continued support. They took me in for a bit of much needed rest and gave me rides, food, a place to stay, and most of all support. I was also lucky enough to have the support of John Curtis - who found me the real deal on Mexican food in Southern California, John Licwinko - who followed along and shared with me a great book for the trail, Sandie and Donald - who met me at Cascade Locks and gave me lunch, and Jeff Boggess - who was kind enough to send me his fantastic Trail Butter to sustain me on my final leg. Of course there were so many others along the way that helped by lending physical or emotional support. Thank you to the trail angels, who left snacks and drinks that gave a welcome pick-me-up during the day. Thank you to the folks who cheered me on and boosted my morale. Thanks to the fine Christian gentleman from the Walker Pass area who let me use his shower(sorry I forgot your name). To the nice lady in Big Bear City, the Hawaiian surfer who gave me a ride into Ashville, and to all the others who picked up a weary and smelly hiker to take them along on their way. And, last but not least, thanks to you, the reader. I wrote my blog religiously before bed each night. Often I didn't have reception to post it, but I still typed it out on my phone, saving it for when I did. The whole time I felt like I was truly interacting with you, and that made me feel connected to the world even in the most remote corners of the trail. You have been amazing to follow me for a minute, an hour, or throughout the entire trip. You have shared this epic with me, thank you.
As I write this blog and look at the trail behind me, I begin to reflect on the trail ahead. I am adjusting well to society, which is good. It was a bit overwhelming at first, with so many sights to take in, and a sea of humanity to contend with. I think the hardest thing to cope with is seeing all the difficulties we face as a society. It is easy to forget the problems of humanity when you're out on the trail worried only about your own survival. But once you get back you're plugged back in, and you see the challenges everywhere. I remember, for example, my parents and I stopped into a restaurant on the way back from the airport. As we sat waiting for our order another couple entered and sat in a booth across from us. The gentleman was so morbidly obese that the server had to move the table to accomodate his girth. I looked around and noticed that he was not, by a long shot, the only morbidly obese person there. This was not something I was accustomed to seeing on the trail, as you can imagine. Which made me think of the Dicky-do.
An acquaintance of mine once told me the story of the Dicky-do. I'll leave my source anonymous, since he is actually related to the Dicky-do and I would hate to embaress him. He was at a funeral in the deep South when the time came for eulogies. His cousin eventually got up and stepped forward. I don't know the details of why he felt it was relevant, but his speech began thusly: "Now I'm a Dicky-do, cuz my belly sticks out more than my Dicky-do..." Why do I relate this story? Because, dear reader, I returned home and am concerned about our health as a nation and as a global community. So do me a favor and look at yourself in the mirror. You don't have to be honest with the world (hell, I know I'm not. I didn't even hike the PCT, I just outsourced and found a team of five Malaysian orphans to do it for me). But please be honest with yourself. Are you a Dicky-do (or, I suppose for the ladies, a Booby-do)? If you are, please get out and do something good for yourself. I'm no doctor, but I can recommend eating healthy and taking a hike. Or pick up a new hobby like biking, swimming, or bulimia (just kidding about that last one, anorexia is better for your teeth). Just be healthy, you'll be glad you made the effort. Trust me, it's not a problem that I can't relate to on some level. I lost 22 pounds hiking this trail and, though I look skeletal at the moment, I realize my eating habits from the PCT will quickly put that weight back on, and more. I'll have to be careful about reducing my caloric intake and setting up an exercise routine soon. Bummer.
Alright, there's my contribution to solving the world's problems. So what else does my future hold? You may have noticed that the picture quality for the last week of my blog was greatly increased. This is because there are limits on the size of images submitted by phone. The last few blogs were posted from my computer after the fact, and therefore the images were of better quality. I will be going back through the blog and replacing the low quality images with higher resolution, so if you are interested in seeing them please check back in. I should have that done in a week or so. Other than that, well, I really enjoyed the adventure. Moreover, I enjoyed blogging about it. With that in mind, this will not be the last of either for me. I have some ideas for my next great journey, and will be adding a new blog to this site when that happens. If you are interested in being notified when it is up, or if you have any questions or comments about this adventure, please send them to james.shimp@gmail.com
In parting I'll say that the strangest thing about being home now is the free time. I wake up and have nowhere to go and nothing to do. My day is not pre-planned as it was on the trail, which carries with it benefits and difficulties as you can imagine. I'll have to dive back into regular life and navigate all the nuances of survival in the wilderness that is civilization. But you know what? I can't wait.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Final Morning
In the morning I got up and packed slowly. I had 8 miles to the trailhead at Manning Park, where I would meet my parents at 9. I snapped a picture of the sign welcoming me to Canada and then moved on. This was the warm down hike on which I would allow myself one last chance to take it all in. I found myself smiling the whole way, and took one final self-portrait to mark the occasion.
I walked as slowly as I could, and still I arrived at the trailhead before I knew it. I met my parents, who brought me back to their hotel so I could clean up before the drive down to Seattle. From there we would fly back to San Francisco and drive to their house in Shell Beach.
I have a lot of mixed feelings to work out, and so many people to thank for my success in this journey. I am writing this particular blog from the comfort of my parents' house and am trying to readjust to society now. I will publish one last post on my reflections and progress on readjusting to life "on the outside." Please check back in as I should have it up within a day or two.
Thanks for sticking with me, I MADE IT!
I walked as slowly as I could, and still I arrived at the trailhead before I knew it. I met my parents, who brought me back to their hotel so I could clean up before the drive down to Seattle. From there we would fly back to San Francisco and drive to their house in Shell Beach.
I have a lot of mixed feelings to work out, and so many people to thank for my success in this journey. I am writing this particular blog from the comfort of my parents' house and am trying to readjust to society now. I will publish one last post on my reflections and progress on readjusting to life "on the outside." Please check back in as I should have it up within a day or two.
Thanks for sticking with me, I MADE IT!
One Day More
It hit me when I woke up and began packing camp: this is my last full day of hiking on the PCT. I almost couldn't believe it. In fact, I still had so far to go that I really didn't believe it. Not completely anyway.
The trail continued through Methow Meadow and the adjoining forested valley before my last major climb of the trip. I had a 2800 foot climb up to Glacier Pass, which is a saddle between my valley and the next, then up the mountain to the East of the pass. Before I could get there I stumbled across a female bear and her cub. I was hiking fast and came around a corner to find myself face to face with the bears. The cub bolted uphill and away from the trail, which was fortunate for me because that put momma bear between me and her baby. She stood her ground, about 20 yards to my left, and stared at me. Her posture was not threatening, but it was clear she was ready to rumble if I came any closer. After a minute of this she must have decided that the baby had a good enough head start, because she began slowly to lumber off in the same direction.
After Glacier Pass the trail undulated along ridges, with no more than 200 feet of elevation change in either direction. Before long it descended to Harts Pass, which has the last road access of the trail. Despite being a minor road, there were plenty of dayhikers out, and I chatted a few of them up. I got a lot of early congratulations on finishing the trail from these folks, which made me think of how supportive the people I met trailside have been throughout my journey. You would think this is a trip all about wilderness and introspection, but in fact there is so much more than that. It is also an opportunity to view humanity and civilization in a different and more appreciative light. As I've said before, I was getting pretty jaded about people when I worked in insurance. Out here I see a lot of good, which is refreshing beyong belief. I also come to appreciate the great works of man in addition to the raw beauty of nature. Imagine being in the woods for days/weeks and then coming across something as seemingly simple as an expansive concrete freeway. We take them for granted in our day to day life, but imagine the knowledge and engineering that went into such a massive project. Think of the history, dating back to the first Roman road and before, that would one day lead to what you are seeing now. More importantly, think about how these ribbons of concrete and asphalt are the veins and cappilaries through which the lifeblood of commerce flows. Each car is more than a flash in the sun and the gutteral cough of a combustion engine. It is the physical manifestation of the human need for direction, adventure, interconnectedness, and to see what lies over the horizon.
At Harts Pass I saw a sign indicating that I was 35 miles from the Canadian border (pictured). Once more I was reminded of how far I had come. Still, 35 miles is a full day of hiking in itself, so I refused to allow myself to get excited just yet. I continued on, topping a couple more minor climbs, 600 feet for one and 1400 feet for the climb to Woody Pass. After the latter, the trail took a gradual climb up to a cirque where I watched the fading light play over Hopkins Lake. I still had 12 miles to the border, but this was my last sunset of the trip, so I paused long enough to enjoy it. As it turned out, it was also one of the most spectacular sunsets (pictured). Ridge after ridge marched away to the West, each one fading a bit into the haze of forest fires. The mountains were painted a faded purple, while above the sun performed a light show across thin wisps of cloud. The sky turned from yellow to pink, and it was a bit sad to think my journey was also in its final transition to the peaceful slumber of night.
I made a couple more miles before it became too dark to see. I stopped for my last supper on the trail. I watched as the stars blinked into place to witness my last push to Canada. With a sigh I packed up and turned on my headlamp. From here it was a long gradual downhill to the border, and I was content to hike it in the dark. The rhythm of my footfalls and the pattern of my breathing lulled me into a comfortable frame of mind, in which I could pass mile after mile with ease. I soon found myself switchbacking down toward Castle Creek and, just as I realized where I was, the journey was over. Materializing out of the darkness was the set of wooden posts marking the end of the trail (pictured), along with monument 78, which marks the Canadian border. I had hiked 16 hours straight, and made 51 miles today to get here.
I set up my tent slowly on the only flat spot available, which happened to straddle the border. By coincidence I lay down, my head in the US and my feet in Canada, as if the trail somehow knew my feet were taking me North but my thoughts were already home with friends and family. I lay for a while looking at the stars, not really thinking much at all. I had made it, and that was enough for now. Later I would allow myself all the time in the world for reflection and nostalgia. For now, I let the full weight of exhaustion, held at bay for so long through momentum and will power, to finally take me completely. I slept deeply and peacefully.
The trail continued through Methow Meadow and the adjoining forested valley before my last major climb of the trip. I had a 2800 foot climb up to Glacier Pass, which is a saddle between my valley and the next, then up the mountain to the East of the pass. Before I could get there I stumbled across a female bear and her cub. I was hiking fast and came around a corner to find myself face to face with the bears. The cub bolted uphill and away from the trail, which was fortunate for me because that put momma bear between me and her baby. She stood her ground, about 20 yards to my left, and stared at me. Her posture was not threatening, but it was clear she was ready to rumble if I came any closer. After a minute of this she must have decided that the baby had a good enough head start, because she began slowly to lumber off in the same direction.
After Glacier Pass the trail undulated along ridges, with no more than 200 feet of elevation change in either direction. Before long it descended to Harts Pass, which has the last road access of the trail. Despite being a minor road, there were plenty of dayhikers out, and I chatted a few of them up. I got a lot of early congratulations on finishing the trail from these folks, which made me think of how supportive the people I met trailside have been throughout my journey. You would think this is a trip all about wilderness and introspection, but in fact there is so much more than that. It is also an opportunity to view humanity and civilization in a different and more appreciative light. As I've said before, I was getting pretty jaded about people when I worked in insurance. Out here I see a lot of good, which is refreshing beyong belief. I also come to appreciate the great works of man in addition to the raw beauty of nature. Imagine being in the woods for days/weeks and then coming across something as seemingly simple as an expansive concrete freeway. We take them for granted in our day to day life, but imagine the knowledge and engineering that went into such a massive project. Think of the history, dating back to the first Roman road and before, that would one day lead to what you are seeing now. More importantly, think about how these ribbons of concrete and asphalt are the veins and cappilaries through which the lifeblood of commerce flows. Each car is more than a flash in the sun and the gutteral cough of a combustion engine. It is the physical manifestation of the human need for direction, adventure, interconnectedness, and to see what lies over the horizon.
At Harts Pass I saw a sign indicating that I was 35 miles from the Canadian border (pictured). Once more I was reminded of how far I had come. Still, 35 miles is a full day of hiking in itself, so I refused to allow myself to get excited just yet. I continued on, topping a couple more minor climbs, 600 feet for one and 1400 feet for the climb to Woody Pass. After the latter, the trail took a gradual climb up to a cirque where I watched the fading light play over Hopkins Lake. I still had 12 miles to the border, but this was my last sunset of the trip, so I paused long enough to enjoy it. As it turned out, it was also one of the most spectacular sunsets (pictured). Ridge after ridge marched away to the West, each one fading a bit into the haze of forest fires. The mountains were painted a faded purple, while above the sun performed a light show across thin wisps of cloud. The sky turned from yellow to pink, and it was a bit sad to think my journey was also in its final transition to the peaceful slumber of night.
I made a couple more miles before it became too dark to see. I stopped for my last supper on the trail. I watched as the stars blinked into place to witness my last push to Canada. With a sigh I packed up and turned on my headlamp. From here it was a long gradual downhill to the border, and I was content to hike it in the dark. The rhythm of my footfalls and the pattern of my breathing lulled me into a comfortable frame of mind, in which I could pass mile after mile with ease. I soon found myself switchbacking down toward Castle Creek and, just as I realized where I was, the journey was over. Materializing out of the darkness was the set of wooden posts marking the end of the trail (pictured), along with monument 78, which marks the Canadian border. I had hiked 16 hours straight, and made 51 miles today to get here.
I set up my tent slowly on the only flat spot available, which happened to straddle the border. By coincidence I lay down, my head in the US and my feet in Canada, as if the trail somehow knew my feet were taking me North but my thoughts were already home with friends and family. I lay for a while looking at the stars, not really thinking much at all. I had made it, and that was enough for now. Later I would allow myself all the time in the world for reflection and nostalgia. For now, I let the full weight of exhaustion, held at bay for so long through momentum and will power, to finally take me completely. I slept deeply and peacefully.
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