Footloose Scot (3 page)

I turned tracks towards England, and enjoyed the novelty of spending a night in a French country jail—at my own request. It was getting dark and the weather was cold and wet. I was in a small town near Amiens in northern France which had no hostel. I thought to ask the local gendarmerie if I could spend the night in an empty cell. The elderly gendarme on duty though nothing of it, and tossed an extra blanket onto the bunk. "Mais pas de petit dejeuner," ("No breakfast here,") he warned me with a wink.I was mightily pleased as well as grateful, and somewhat surprised. And I had saved an overnight hostel fee. This was an unexpected gesture in an unlikely place and a good note on which to end my first foreign travel adventure.

Little did I know as I hitch-hiked and youth hostelled around Europe that international tourism was about to explode. Pre World War II, Americans going to Europe or Brits visiting Africa tended to be well-heeled travelers, some scholarly and literary, others simply adventurous. The explorer Wilfrid Thesiger
(Saudi Arabia's Empty Quarter
1933), writer Freya Stark
(Baghdad Sketches
1930) and adventurer Peter Fleming
(China1937)
are examples. Many of them took notes and left a record. Paul Fussell's
British Travel Writers between the Wars
details some of the British travel writers.

Once Europe had rebuilt, and increased wages allowed for foreign travel, it was simply a matter of waiting for the tourism and transportation tools to arrive for visitor numbers to increase dramatically. The catalyst might be a guidebook like Arthur Frommer's
Europe on $5 a Day,
a super cheap inclusive tour package providing air fare and hotel, or an 853-seat jumbo jet—or more recently, a 6,000-passenger cruise ship. The age of mass tourism was about to arrive.

In 2010 I sat in a floating restaurant at the entrance to a national park in Malaysia. Sharing the table and the little information which his limited English permitted was a Chinese man in his late twenties. Soon more of his compatriots, now earning enough wages to permit foreign travel, are going to start travelling abroad in serious numbers. International tourist arrivals are due to reach 1 billion in 2012, a 15-fold increase since 1960. What will happen when 1.3 billion Chinese start to take vacations abroad?

There are travelers and there are tourists. For the travelers among us, these figures are not so alarming. Consider that most of the current and future overseas visitors will be tourists and not travelers. These are the inclusive tour participants, the cruise passengers, and those who insist on taxis and staying only at Hilton Hotels, who want pampered, planned trips with no adventure and little cultural experience when travelling abroad. For the traveler there will still be remote rivers to run, mountains to climb and trails to hike; he will just have to go further or off-season to enjoy them. Freya Stark commented: "One can only really travel if one lets oneself go and takes what every place brings without trying to turn it into a healthy private pattern of one's own, and I suppose that is the difference between travel and tourism."

In 1981 I opened an import shop and tea room in Houston, Texas called Glendinning's of Scotland. I couldn't have chosen a worse time. The concept was fine, the location, staffing and stock were all good, but the timing was terrible. Oil prices had plummeted and the local economy was in a nose dive.

I kept the shop going for 5 years, even moving to the prestigious River Oaks Shopping Center as space became available. This did not help much and I was running out of money. I had a closing down sale in 1986 and looked for something new.

I felt like taking a break before looking for a job or trying out another business venture, and fortunately I still had some money left over from the shop experience. I decided a summer hike on a long distance trail would clear my mind and test my health.

There are three long distance trails in the United States. The best known and most written about is the Appalachian Trail, which stretches 2,18l miles from Maine south west to Georgia. The least traveled and longest (3,100 miles) is the Continental Divide Trail, which is largely at high elevation and follows the line of the Rockies from the Mexican border to Canada. The third one, the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) is on the West Coast, and also runs from the Mexican Border north to Canada, 2,663 miles along the Sierra Nevada and Cascade ranges. This was the one I chose.

I aimed to spend six weeks on the trail, and decided to start at the California/Oregon state line and head north through Oregon for six weeks or until I tired, or had an accident. Heading north seemed a good idea since the sun would be mainly behind me. First I had to buy equipment, do some reading, and plan for food supplies.

Buying equipment from one of Houston's outfitters was simple. I bought a two-man tent, sleeping bag, camping stove, boots, a guidebook and maps of the trail, and an external frame backpack. In one of the outfitters stores I heard a couple who were planning a long hike discuss in some detail with the store's sales personnel what freeze dried foods to carry, and how many calories a day would be required to fuel the body. I had no time for that, believing that a menu of tea, oatmeal, and some cookies, plus fresh vegetables and fruits purchased on the route, would be sufficient.

From my map I saw that Ashland, Oregon was the closest town to my starting point. I took a Greyhound bus from Houston, changing buses in Los Angeles, and arrived 60 hours later in the pleasant art town of Ashland, which had a youth hostel. The next morning I hitched a ride for about an hour to where the Pacific Crest Trail crossed into Oregon. The driver who picked me up told me he was heading off shortly for an adventure of his own - to the Amazon jungle.

August 2, 1986 found me (aged 49, weight 150 lbs) on the Pacific Crest Trail, carrying anywhere from 25 to 45 pounds of gear, food and water. Along the route I picked up parcels of food, which I had mailed in advance from Houston to places along the trail which I got from the guidebook. I wanted to avoid spending time having to come down off the trail, which is usually at 5,000 to 6,000 feet elevation, to visit nearby towns for provisions. When I had just picked up a food parcel, and when I stocked up on water because of a dry stretch ahead, then I would be at my maximum 45 pounds omit parentheses of weight. The guidebook gave specific details of water sources along the route.

With a spring in my step and an adventure ahead of me, I started north on a well-trod and easy to follow trail ascending gently in a comfortable temperature through a forest. After three hours I reached a ridge, came out of the forest and had my first glimpse of the route ahead: pine trees as far as the eye could see, with some lakes in the foreground and in the far distance the vague outline of some peaks. The lakes were pretty to look at and by early evening I was ready for my first campsite. But I had reckoned without mosquitoes, which appeared to be waiting just for me. They were huge, and they were everywhere. Their attacks were so persistent that I retreated to my tent and didn't even light a fire or cook supper. I spent a frustrated night in a stifling, airless tent snacking on cold food.

By the third day I was glad to leave the mosquito zone and was untroubled by mosquitoes again. I love the outdoors; I enjoy sleeping out and cooking on open campfires. Following the trail was usually not a problem, it was wide and clear, and at any intersection there was often a sign. I could have managed without the guidebook except for its advice on water sources.

Crater Lake was the first major attraction: a caldera filled with blue, clear water surrounded by sheer cliffs. The surface area was only five by six miles, but the color and the symmetry made a pretty picture. I camped at a designated site in Crater Lake National Park.

The trees thinned out and the route headed due north, passing a string of volcanic mountains such as Mt. Thielsen (9,184 feet), Three Sisters, Mt. Washington, Mt. Jefferson and, just before the Columbia River, Mt. Hood, Oregon's highest peak (11,249 feet). I climbed the first peak, Mt.Thielsen, and looked north along the route I would follow. I passed by the subsequent peaks in order to get some mileage under my belt. The trail was always on public land, National Park, State Park, National Forest or Bureau of Land Management.

It was on this part of the trail, just past the last of the Three Sisters Mountains, that I stopped by a stream for my lunch break. I was drinking tea, and had almost dozed off when a voice said "How're you doin', man? Everything okay?" I looked up and saw the smiling black face of a young man in the uniform of the National Forest Service. He wore a backpack and carried a shovel. I told him I was fine, and asked him to sit down. He said he had been transferred from Atlanta, GA, his home, to the Willamette National Forest division. "They sent me here because I'm black," he said. His easygoing attitude and smiling face showed he was happy with the posting, whatever the reasons. He said he had enforcement duties but few hikers gave him any problems. I asked him what he would do if I broke a leg. He said he would radio for help, probably a helicopter, and added, "You're not fixin' to do that are you?" and he laughed.

I was well-equipped with maps which were vital for locating water sources. I aimed to cover fifteen to eighteen miles a day, with Sunday being a rest day. Each day I would aim to get twelve miles done by early afternoon, since the last few miles were sometimes a challenge. Carrying 40 pounds over eight hours at 6,000 feet is wearing. The Pacific Crest Trail was designed for pack animals, so the gradients are not as steep as the Appalachian Trail. Still, to reach a water source, I would sometimes need to cover twenty miles, and the last four miles were punishing. Whatever the distance I would gratefully collapse on the ground at my night's stopping place.

It might be an already cleared campsite, with rocks delineating a fire circle, or there might be no evidence of previous use. Camping was permitted anywhere except in meadows or close to water sources. I would put up my tent, a two-person Sierra Design Clip Flashlight, in about four minutes, and then start a fire. Although I had a stove, I preferred in dry conditions to light a wood fire which provided color and movement. I would find two small rocks and place a couple of metal rods one foot in length across them to support the pan. I always started with a cup of hot tea, a habit from Boy Scout days in the U.K., which I am still practicing 30 years later on hikes in northern Mexico.

I was usually alone, but never lonely. Absorbing the glorious scenery, keeping up a good pace and doing the chores connected with camping took up most of my time. I quickly learned a few trail lessons. I found that, when jumping across a creek wearing an external frame pack, a split second after I landed the pack's impetus followed and I would have to brace myself to avoid losing my balance. Wading across a mountain stream in late afternoon when the snow melt has tripled its size, I made sure to find a stick or tree branch to act as a third leg while crossing. I would take off my socks, but wear my boots. Bare feet in glacier-cold water on smooth round stones do not make for a firm foot hold. Better to wear boots and allow a little time after crossing the stream for them to dry out.

Day followed sunny day with not a cloud in the sky. Patches of wildflowers, paintbrush, lupines, yellow monkeyflower and shrubby cinquefoils, still bloomed in late August while snow-covered glaciers were visible on the higher peaks. Bird song was a constant accompaniment, and one day I had a bear sighting at 50 yards. Each morning I would cook my oatmeal and drink some tea, sweetened and with a squirt of lemon juice concentrate. I would look at the map and guidebook to determine where the next water source was; then I would strike my tent, roll up the sleeping bag, pack the backpack and hit the trail.

Usually I would meet a few people each day on the trail. Sometimes the trail would cross a highway and I would see passing cars. Otherwise I had the world to myself. I carried no music player, but I sometimes read a newspaper which arrived in my food package. Most hikers on the trail were travelling north like me, but I also met a few through-hikers heading south. I also encountered family groups out for the day or Sierra Club groups picking up litter and cleaning campsites. The trail was in good condition, with little sign of abuse. I often found campsites swept clean with a tree branch with a spotless fire pit, and I made sure I left no trace when I left.

On the fourth or fifth day out I heard footsteps behind me. It surprised me to be overtaken because, having just started, I was moving along in top gear. I paused to let a young couple pass. They stopped and we chatted. I was plainly a novice with my still shiny equipment. They had clearly been on the trail for a long time. The young man had a wispy beard hanging way down his chest; the bronzed young woman in shorts glowed with energy. Their worn backpacks loaded high above their heads told of many months hiking. They explained that they had done the Appalachian Trail the previous winter and were now doing the Pacific Crest Trail also in one season. I was mightily impressed. The total mileage of the two trails was 4,844, and they were already two thirds of the way to completing the PCT with only 700 miles or so left.

I spent the night with these super-fit through-hikers. They seemed intrigued by me as a trail novice older than many hikers, and we had a long conversation. In the morning they were ready to leave before I was. I told them to go ahead and that I'd see them later along the trail. They moved off. I was taking my time pulling on my boots, when I felt I was being observed. Squinting sideways I saw an eye observing me from behind some bushes. It was one of the couple. They were checking that I really was ok. I didn't let them know I had spotted them checking up on me or say anything when I met up with them later. In the demanding and competitive world of long distance trail hiking I felt this was a nice example of thoughtful caring for a new comer.

A few solo hikers stick in my mind. There was the young man heading south carrying a folding garden chair. He told me he had caught some critical comments from others on the trail for carrying such a modern intrusive device. To him it was important to sit in a real chair at night, and I agreed with him. There were also elite hikers on the trail who would usually greet you with the question: "Coming far?" Your answer would qualify you as a serious hiker or not. Here was American competition in play as usual.

Further north, I met a young man who was leading a white horse and was accompanied by a black dog. He was standing barefoot outside a disused cabin where he planned to spend the night. He said he was heading all the way to Mexico, and after that he just didn't know. He suggested I stay the night and we could talk a bit, cook some food and share experiences. I had only done fourteen miles and was preoccupied with achieving my daily mileage. So I said no, saying I had to move on, and thus passed up the chance of hearing an interesting story. This stupidity gnawed at me for the next two days - what's the point of simply doing mileage when opportunities to share and learn are passed by?

HIGH ALTITUDE TRAIL