Elina Travels

I haven’t yet shared with you all that happened in the desert, and here I am, in the snowy part of the Sierras already. Time is going by so fast. I will catch you up on all that’s happened earlier another time. Right now, I have to share with you what’s happened most recently.

I had been burning up in the desert for about 700 miles, and then, suddenly, as I approached Kennedy Meadows, I saw the snowy peaks of the Sierras forming before me. My hiking partner squealed with delight and I stood there, breathless and in awe. I was so excited for the snow. I was so looking forward to being cold. I was tired of sweating buckets in my tent as I waited out the hottest part of the day and tried to create my own shade by throwing nearly everything I owned over my tent. I was getting sick of constant dehydration, cracked lips, and a throat so dry that it hurt to swallow. I was hurting from having to carry 4 liters of water in my already too-heavy pack. Looking at the white-tipped mountains towering ahead of me, I knew my current problems would dissolve. But I hadn’t really considered the list of new issues that would arise.

I spent most of my first week’s nights in the Sierras shivering in my tent, not sleeping. I would curl up into the fetal position, close up the hole through which my head should stick out from, and breathe hot air into my sleeping bag. Soon, I’d be warm, but just as soon, I’d run out of oxygen and need to peek out to breathe…and I’d instantly be cold again. This was a never-ending cycle. I tried sharing my tent, and when I woke up with my teeth chattering, I’d maneuver my mummified self closer to the person next to me, who was also mummified in his or her own bag, and attempt to absorb some of their warmth, but it didn’t transfer through our bags. I even tried to sleep in one tent with two other people, right between them, and still slept maybe only a fragmented hour or two. I didn’t know what to do and how much longer I could tolerate this. I began to dearly miss the desert.

My sleeping bag was rated 15 degree limit, 27 comfort, and I had a silk liner, an insulated sleep mat, a z-rest, and nearly all of my clothes on me, including my fuzzy sweater and puffy jacket. I wore socks, a hat, a hood over it, my buff around my neck, and gloves. I ate a warm meal and drank hot tea before sleeping. I sometimes even skipped the meal, and tried to set up my tent very quickly (without even staking it down) and climb into bed while my body was still warm post hiking. Nothing helped.

Eventually, the cold and sleep deprivation began to take its toll on me. Little things began to irk me. My hiking partner was somewhere behind me, I thought, and I sat beside a water source for hours thinking I’d see her eventually. She never came, and I continued on without her. The next day, I was told she was actually ahead of me, and I did an extremely difficult 22-mile day of mostly uphill trying to catch her. The day after, I found out she’d gotten off the trail in Lone Pine, a detour I chose not to make, which we both agreed on skipping, as we had enough food to hike to Independence (as that is where our resupply packages awaited us). I was tired of the food I had, though, and it was just barely enough as it was. At the end of the day, after dinner, I wished I could eat another dinner, but I had to save it for tomorrow and ignore my body’s desire for more. My pack’s lack of a proper frame made carrying a bear can very uncomfortable as well, and after 30 minutes of hiking, my shoulder blades began to burn with a tortuous, searing pain, but I had about 11 and a half more hours to go. I wasn’t enjoying myself as much as I hoped I would. I was tired, cold, in pain, hungry, alone, and pretty frustrated. And that was before I got to the snow.

The next three days had more challenges in store. First, there were the constant river crossings. These rivers were swollen and rushing due to the snow run-off, and melting snow is still very, very cold. My bare feet went numb every time I stepped into the water and my shocked body would take a moment to adjust before I could attempt to maneuver my way through as quickly as possible. Then there were the muddy puddles in the trail that were usually unavoidable. I eventually learned to keep my sandals on (instead of take my shoes off, unstrap my sandals from my pack, put my sandals on, straps my shoes onto my back, cross the water, sit down, take my sandals off, unstrap my shoes, put them on my feet, strap my sandals back onto my backpack, etc.) and walk right through rivers and puddles alike. After 6 miles of this, my sandals (which I have hiked in before but only with socks) began to rub on my bare feet so much that I had to sit down and inspect the source of pain. I realized that they had cut into my feet and taken out small chunks of skin, the gashes instantly filling with dirt and sand. My shoes went back on my feet, and the process of putting my sandals on and off continued.

The day after, I had three more river crossings and many slushy, muddy sections of the trail to cross. But after several hours of this, came the biggest challenge. I had to cross Forester Pass, the highest point on the PCT (at 13,153ft), and I was not prepared at all. As I had never hiked in the snow before, I wanted to cross this section with an ice axe and crampons, but they hadn’t arrived to Kennedy Meadows in time, and instead, I had to have them shipped ahead to Independence (which came after Forester Pass). I had also planned to hike it with my hiking partner, so that I’d feel safer in case anything happened, but she was nowhere in sight, and at this point, rumored to be off the trail completely.

I began climbing Forester in the afternoon, alone, unequipped, and unsure of myself. All I knew is that I needed to be able to climb the steep, icy mountain and get to the other side, which had a campground where I could lay down and attempt to get some sleep. When visible, I followed the footprints I saw in the white expanse before me. I used my flimsy $20 hiking poles to stabilize myself when I was on ice (by stabbing the points into the snow and moving forward bit by bit, slowly). I sometimes crawled on all fours to prevent myself from slipping. I fell into slushy post-holes and got my leg wet up to the thigh and had to try to pull myself out without allowing the other leg to fall in as well. I tried not to slide backwards as I climbed upwards. I didn’t realize how much more difficult it would the other way around.

When I got up and over Forester, I now had to try to prevent myself from sliding forward. My heavy pack and the un-cramponed soles of my shoes kept trying to propel me forward, and the deep trenches in which I walked were too high up on both sides to allow me to use my hiking poles, and as I said earlier, I had no ice axe. I eventually learned to dig my thumbs into the snowy walls around me and move my feet forward inch by inch.

What didn’t help is that, by now, it was nighttime. It was light outside when I began to hike through the pass, and the sun had begun to set before I was at the top. By the time I got over Forester and had to hike down (there were no campgrounds anywhere on this steep trail except for several miles down once you’ve cross the pass), it was nearly pitch black around me. I used the moon to guide me, and attempted to glissade when it was safe so that I could get to the bottom of the mountain faster (glissading is “the act of descending a steep snow-covered slope via a controlled slide on one’s feet or buttocks,” according to Wikipedia).

I was nearly at the bottom of the pass when the footprints I’d been following began to disappear. There were rocks that were not covered in snow, and rocks do not allow the soles of shoes to leave behind their indentations. I had to take out my headlamp and scan my surroundings, slowly, trying not to leave behind too many of my own footprints so that I wouldn’t confuse them for someone else’s. Often times, a straight path through the snowy white would disappear amidst 100 feet of black rock, and after 30 minutes of searching, I’d find the prints as they veered off way off the course, almost at a right-degree angle. I’d spent enough time being lost that, although I hadn’t seen anyone all day, another hiker who was far behind me, had now caught up with me during the last mile. He was lost too, and his GPS app wasn’t working on his phone. I only managed to find the trail because of the app, and he thanked me profusely and said he wouldn’t be able to find his way down without my help.

At the end of the day, I stumbled to a campground, pitched my tent without staking it down (it was flapping all night and would’ve flown away if it wasn’t for my body weight holding it down to the ground), and allowed my tiredness and feelings of physical defeat to press me into the cold ground, in a crumpled, snow-covered pile of hurting limbs and aching shoulder-blades.

This was my most challenging day thus far on the trail. I didn’t realize that the day after would prove to be even more challenging.

So my joyride has come to an end in Bishop. I went biking too fast and too riskily one too many times (maybe newfound bravery after climbing Forrester?) and I took a tumble last night. I flew over the handlebars and landed on my tailbone and bruised and scraped myself up pretty badly. Some wonderful hikers took really good care of me and carried me home and bandaged me up and now I’m sleeping on my stomach for a while and walking really slowly tomorrow. One shoulder blade and half a buttcheek is smeared on the road somewhere, haha, but the rest of me is intact and nothing is broken. I’m so lucky this didn’t end up any worse, and I do think that I’ll be able to get back to hiking in a few days!

This is why I’m in town relaxing and having fun. I just crossed Forrester Pass at night by myself with no crampons or ice axe. I deserve wine and cheese and foot massages, I think.

 Let me tell you about magic and miracles and blessings and strange coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all but rather fate or the universe or God. I can explain it by telling you about my day. Today, we woke up in the desert beside a water source that we suffered to get to the night before. We had been pretty seriously dehydrated, extremely nervous, and in pain but in a hurry to get to water before nighttime or else we’d have to dry camp and try to ration our water and deny ourselves a drink when we so badly want one all night and morning, just so we’d have enough to hike to water with the next day. It was a hot, dry stretch in the desert, and we woke up at 4am and set out early in order to get through it while it was still somewhat cool.

I’d been hiking with my new hiking partner, Tumbleweed, and my friend from home, Cap-Cap, who’d come out here to join me for a week or two, and we got split up during the day. I told them I’d stop at the first shady spot and wait for them, but my pace has quickened lately, I feel strong and powerful, and I ran eight miles with a 38lb pack on my shoulders in the 100 degree weather without a break, without a drink, and with hardly even being too out of breath. I loved this feeling. I was finally there. I was at the place that all hikers eventually get to, when they realize that their bodies of flesh and blood and tissue and arteries and fragile bones can feel like an invincible machine made of steel and powered by an incomprehensible, unyielding fire. I realized if I didn’t stop now, I wouldn’t stop for hours. But I wanted my friends to catch up, and so I found a shady spot beneath a tree, pulled out my Trip Tarp, lay down on it, and thought I’d wait out the heat. It was 10am. I’d been hiking since about 6am. I’d take a break and continue hiking at 4pm, when it would start cooling off.

A hiker I recognized walked by and I invited him into my little sanctuary. Another hiker walked by, limping, and we offered her reprieve as well. She had a swollen ankle, and my fellow hiker and friend, K-bar, massaged her foot, I put icy-hot patches on it, he wrapped it tightly with gauze to compress it, and then we had her elevate it (all things I’m familiar with because I’d been through a very similar experience with my foot injury.)  

 We’d soon figured out that we could set up the tarp as a canopy by sticking hiking poles into the grommets and tying it to a tree. We crawled underneath and listened to music and read books aloud and tried to ignore our sticky, sweaty bodies and tried to pretend we weren’t thirsty at all.

By 4pm, my friends hadn’t caught up, but we couldn’t wait any longer. The canopy was amazing, but the sun was relentless, and the burned-down forest had no living trees, and our skinny tree with branches but no leaves didn’t offer much shade as the sun got hotter and hotter. 

We had been lying to ourselves, telling ourselves we weren’t thirsty, but when there was very little water left and we began to realize that the situation could soon become very dire, we hurried out towards the water source, which was still about nine miles away. 

The girl who was hurting, Love Giver, was my hiking partner for the day, and she turned out to be a beautiful, gentle soul I hadn’t really had the chance to get to know earlier. We talked about life and love and how magical the world out here was and how the trail sends you what you need and how we all have things to work on, and connected wonderfully as I kept her talking to distract her from the pain.

I had a wonderful hiking partner, Vanilla, to hike with me and help me feel safe out here when I was hurting. It was my turn to do the same for someone else. I gave her all of pain killers and some of my vitamins and anything that could help her heal and feel less pain and remembered how the same was same was done for me.

As we hiked, I came across a hiker who’d drank his water and still had several miles to go. The day before, during another long, dry stretch, I’d been getting somewhat worriedly low on water, and a hiker gave me an extra 8oz of water. Now, again, was my turn to give back. I offered the thirsty hiker a glass of water, and he guiltily but happily took it, then hurried on to make it to the water source as soon as possible.

Love Giver and I hiked into the night at her pace and got to the campsite everyone had gotten to at 3pm, at 9pm. Everyone was sleeping. We filled up on the water we’d been so desperately hoping for tonight, laid out our sleeping mats and sleeping bags, and cowboy camped beside it. Cap-Cap and Tumbleweed camped without water and join us the next morning.

That morning, while lounging about in the sun, decisions were made. Love Giver could barely walk without causing herself excruciating pain. She had medicated herself and pushed on all day the day before, but another day of that required more energy than she could muster. And, after another seven miles to water, there was a 40 mile waterless stretch. I could hike from nighttime until morning two times in a row, running almost the entire time, thirsty, concerned, but alive and still in decent shape, but at a slower, injured pace, it could be very detrimental to one’s health.

We scrambled for ideas and then figured out that, less than a mile away, there was a dirt road that our GPS told us was an 8 mile walk to a paved intersection. K-bar, Vanilla, Tumbleweed, Cap-Cap, and I went with her. Less than two miles in, the road got very difficult to walk; the sand was very soft, and our feet fell in to our ankles with each step. It was hot and almost entirely treeless. And then, a strange sound! Machinery? Nearby? A saw? A dirt bike? A car? A miracle?

It was a tractor! K-bar went up to Jack, the man in the tractor, and explained our situation. By chance, he was going to be off of work in 20 mins (we could’ve just missed him if we were a little too late!) and would take us off this terrible dirt road in his truck.   

We waited, then piled in, and found out that this dirt road had been modified, and the eight miles the map showed were actually 20, and they were all up and down on a dusty road with nothing but desolate desert all around, the tallest shrub being half my height, with zero shade or water anywhere. We would’ve had a lot of difficulty getting down that road without help!

As he drove our happy rescued selves toward town, we asked him how close he could get us to Lake Isabella (we were only 47 miles away on foot and about half of that by car), and he said he lived there. Strange coincidence yet again! He took Love Giver and K-bar (he was exhausted from having to do 7 miles with no water the day before) to a nearby hotel to rest and recover, and the rest of us were dropped off at a restaurant, where, unfortunately, the cook was just closing up and heading out. When he realized we wanted to eat, he offered us a ride to any restaurant in town. We didn’t even need to ask! How wonderful! When we jumped out of the truck, we all ran towards a Mexican food restaurant, where we all gorged ourselves until I got sick. My dehydrated body couldn’t process so much food so quickly. After the worst stomachache of my life and a half hour of thinking I was going to puke, my hiking partners and I went to the store where they hydrated me with lemon ginger drinks and Gatorade, and I was back to normal.

While still at the store, I am told to hurry outside because a ride is waiting for us. Vanilla had randomly asked a man in line, “Do you happen to know anything about camping near Lake Isabella?” The man answered, “Don’t camp at the lake. Camp at the river instead.” Vanilla asked, “Can you take me there?” And then we were walking through tunnels beneath roads and discovering a beautiful private campground right alongside a clean, swiftly but gently moving river.

This would be our home tonight. We bathed in the river, cooled honey apple cider in the cold water, and while the guys went to buy snacks at a nearby store, the girls set up a lovely campsite.

We lay there for hours talking about the trees and stars around us and how much there is left to see and feel and know and fell asleep happy, knowing that, tomorrow, we would hitch a ride to town to eat at the restaurant where the awesome cook worked, who told us to come by and hang out and wait for him to get off work, after which he told us we’re welcome at his house for showers and beds (and maybe more food?!).

Everything has fallen into perfect place today. So many blessings and gifts, all rolled into one big, eventful day. But the very best part was finally being out of the desert, if only for a little while.