Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail (20 page)

I can’t believe this. The PCT isn’t supposed to have climbs this steep.
In fact, it doesn’t. But it wasn’t until a couple months later in Oregon when we were recounting the whole episode, that I found out this escarpment we were scaling wasn’t the PCT after all. Big John was as down-to-earth of a guy as you could find; but maybe he couldn’t resist showboating what he could do in his big boots.

“Hold on, Skywalker,” CanaDoug yelled back as I rushed right up on him. “If I go down, I’m gonna bring you with me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I would nervously say, and drop back.

But then anxiety and adrenalin would catapult me forward, and I’d be right on his tail again. A fall would have been disastrous for both of us.

Finally, we got to a switchback and I was relieved to resume its meandering route up to the top of the pass. Our climb straight up the face of the mountain had been a fool’s errand. But it wasn’t as dangerous as what lay right up ahead.

A few days earlier a Canadian hiker named Andrew Dawson had arrived at the sheet of black ice at Forrester’s Pass. Not only did Andrew have an utter phobia of the U.S. government, but he was an unapologetic socialist. He simply did not believe in capitalism. Or at least, he didn’t think he believed in capitalism until he arrived at Forrester’s Pass.

Andrew had an ice axe attached to his backpack and was a skilled outdoorsman. He used it to easily traverse the sheet of black ice. While he had been in the act of crossing, a middle-aged southbound hiker had walked up to the sheet of ice from the opposite direction; he was petrified by what he saw.

“Excuse me sir,” he anxiously said to Andrew, who was half his age. “Now that you’ve crossed over, are you going to need that ice axe.”

“I might need it for a few more of the passes,” Andrew had replied.

“Is there any way I could buy it from you?” the man had suggested, “You can buy one when you get to the next trail town?”

Andrew had about ten dollars to his name at this point, and it had been that way for a couple hundred miles. He was a master at living off the food found in hiker boxes in trail towns.

“Yeah,” Andrew had answered cagily. “We might be able to do something like that.”

“Here,” the man had said fumbling through a wad of bills. “Here’s $100 (more than a new ice axe costs).”

“Uh,” Andrew paused, “I think $200 is probably about right.”

The exchange was made and they headed separate ways.

The world has marveled the last few decades at how adeptly

Chinese communists have learned capitalism. But Canadian socialists are quick learners, too!

“I don’t think you’d die if you fell here,” said another Canadian, Josephine, when she arrived at the ice sheet.

“That’s exactly what I was just thinking,” I responded. Which tells you a little bit about what I was really thinking!

Josephine was now right in front of me, and also the only person who was wearing
crampons
attached to her shoes. Everybody had bunched up in a single-file line. I quickly saw why. It was the
fifty feet
from hell—black ice with a steep, bald dropoff for hundreds of feet. And it was all the blacker looking because the sun still hadn’t cleared the granite monolith that towered above us.

Attila was the first to go over and made it without much sweat. One by one hikers slowly made their way across as I watched intently. I was worried that I had only one ski pole to everybody else’s two trekking poles. But my biggest concern, far and away, was my high center of gravity. It’s no accident that great gymnasts are on the lower end of the Bell Curve of height.

“Easy does it, Skywalker,” Attila called over, when my turn to cross came.

I crouched down as low as I could, choked up the grip of ski pole and continually stabbed the ground as I walked very slowly. After about twenty feet I realized the problems wasn’t as much fifty feet of black ice; it was
five feet.

I couldn’t figure out anywhere to put my foot on my next step to gain traction. It all looked like either shaved snow or ice. I stood there frozen.
If I had young kids, I simply wouldn’t do this. I’d turn around like Pepperoni had and walk backwards for two days.
No lyin’.

Normally, you try to step upwards to gain some purchase, but the only spot that looked like it might have some pliable snow was about a foot downhill. But I might not be able to brake after that step. “There’s nowhere to go uphill,” I yelled to Attila. “Should I take a step downhill?”

“No,” he quickly yelled.

That settled it. I wasn’t going to turn around, and I wasn’t going to take a step downhill.

“Sometimes you just have to trust the traction in your shoes,” I had heard someone say a couple days ago.

I would trust my shoes. I bent into the mountain and grabbed at the ice on the bank above with my right hand. Soon I was across the sheet of black ice, although I honestly am not completely confident the result would be the same if I ever attempted it again.

Hikers generally don’t like to show jubilation and they didn’t here. But there was a palpable relief in the air as we stood on the top of Forrester’s Pass taking photographs, even though deep snow fields lay ahead.

The other side of Forrester Pass was packed with snow, but not harrowing, and everyone laboriously postholed through the field. To my amazement CanaDoug, Miles, and Hat Man spotted a gorgeous alpine lake down a hill to the left and decided to jump in naked. Attila, meanwhile, was torn. If there was one hiker on the trail thinner and less insulated than me, it was him.

“Man, I don’t know if I should do this,” he said as the other three were running down to strip off their clothes.

“God, it would be suicidal for me,” I said.

“Aw, what the hell,” he said undeterred, and began making his way down the hill.

The first three were well built, but hopped out like ants the minute they hit the water. But when Attila landed, it was like he had jumped on a burning stove he was up and out of there so fast.

Their Sierra adventures continued when they got their clothes back on. We rounded a turn in the trail and were confronted with an especially steep descent down a snowy slope. However, there was a narrow path going straight down the hill where hikers had obviously
glissaded
(slide on your butt).

“I love to glissade!” Yogi had declared in her handbook. “It’s also not very smart.”

CanaDoug glissades furiously down forrester’s Pass, while I stand there more confused than ever.

Nonetheless, CanaDoug went barreling down as he emitted some incomprehensible Canadian scream of ecstasy. Everybody immediately followed. Then it was my turn again. Unlike the black ice back at Forrester Pass, glissading was not something I absolutely had to do. So I began trying to sidestep down the bank of snow which ended up being not only exhausting, but fraught with its own perils. I was to quickly find out the Sierras had so many snow fields, it was necessary that I learn a controlled glissade.

Finally, we made it down to a flat enough area to take a long break. It was the seventh day out from Kennedy Meadows and the remaining pickings in my bear canister were slim indeed. Donovan had known I was running especially low on food.

“Hey Skywalker,” he had asked yesterday, “Do you want this Ramen side?”

I had meekly accepted it, and savored every bite of the cold, hard noodles. Now I was within a day of resupply, and relieved about having successfully cleared Mount Whitney and Forrester Pass. Buying Donovan something in recompense when we got to a trail town simply wouldn’t be the same as out here.

“How about this Power Bar?” I asked Dononvan.

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need it,” he said. I wanted it, but didn’t absolutely need it. So I tossed it to him.

That night CanaDoug, Donovan, Josephine, and I camped in some open field after having descended 3,000 feet from Forrester’s Pass. Our spirited conversation got cut short, however, as freezing rain, then snow, drove us into our tents.

What we had to do next was actually quite disheartening, in the scheme of things. To get to the trail town of Independence to resupply—which was absolutely essential—we had to take a side trail nine miles down a 2,500 foot descent. Of course, we would have to do the same thing in reverse after re-supplying, which meant 18 miles of walking and 5,000 feet of descents and ascents without making one inch of forward progress on the actual PCT.

Despite this, morale was high all around as town and hot food lay immediately ahead.

Chapter 21

Scott Williamson
PCT Superstar

“Y
ou just missed Scott Williamson,” No Pain said.

“Dammit,” I anguished. “How fast was he going?”

“Not that much faster than everybody else,” he said, surprised.

“Would he talk to anybody?”

“A little bit,” No Pain said. “But he cut out pretty quickly.”

Later in the day I came upon Backtrack.

“Guess who was at our campsite last night,” he said.

“Who?”

“Scott Williamson.”

“What time did he get there?” I asked.

“Right at dark.”

“Did he take time to eat?” I wondered.

“A little bit,” Backtrack said. “I gave him a Fig Newton.”

“What was he like?”

“He came off as pretty normal,” Backtrack said. “He talked about these green onions he pulls off trees.”

“Did he have a tent?” I asked.

“No, he just threw his sleeping bag down right by the trail. He was gone by 5:00 this morning.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

Any intense endeavor is bounds to have its legends. The PCT is no exception. Scott Williamson is probably too young to be considered a legend. But he is hands-down the star of the trail.