photos from northern California

7/23

The chains were broken and we hurdled the high and stony wall into Oregon. After 1750 miles in this tortuous golden state, I have reached the northern yard, every step beside my brothers Furniture and Rally. We have walked on the edge of death and on the edge of society, and now we crossed the edge of America's most prosperous state.

7/16

Slowly I have slid into a strange canyon in time, a little current of doldrums in this rapid experience. For the last weeks we have been stricken with the Oregon fever, quickly cutting away these fatty Northern miles in California. Since July fourth we have traveled 400 miles, and there are only a paltry 120 separating us from the Golden State exodus. Consistently we hike from dawn to dusk, moving like a tenacious solar operated train. Scenery has blurred together between 30 mile days. I have a slippery footing on where I have been at what time, seeming to slide through a wormhole in the woods. My communication skills and vocabulary are deteriorating. Day hikers greet me enthusiastically and all I can do is look right through them. Hopefully I can take some time to relax in Etna, the next town.

Water, 7/13

Water is a divine thing, but because it is common in the commercial world, its divinity is not recognized. It is simply there, like the way asphalt is there beneath car tires. But when not harnessed into a state of thereness, it has an agency of its own. Tom Robbins said water invented humans as an expedited means of transportation. A woman I worked with painted hearts on her water bottles because she believed that the clear creature is an embodiment of love. Scientists study the mystery in the language of ice crystals. And now I have had my own engagement with the spectral being. For hundreds of miles I walked across frozen water, morphed into ridges and valleys, and I stepped on settlements of thousands of crystals. I walked through creeks and rivers constantly, hating every minute of wet feet because of the busy flow, one ripple after another. I used to fall asleep in a fortress of fear, because wherever I was, I heard water running, running and never resting, even when I was. And now as I walk on sand and rocks and the dry corners of this Earth that have not been loved for a long time, I think of ice cubes in my water and blue glacial lakes and lovely energetic creeks. What a clever opponent he can be.

some photos from the few of weeks...

7/7

After 32 miles, mosquitoes die when they drink my blood, because it is too hardcore. The snow is relenting and the sun is glinting.

7/5

We celebrated the nation's birthday simply by relaxing around Sierra City- an antique American mountain town, the icing on California's cake. Milkshake and Cliffhanger shared a room with us, and we all shared sickeningly wonderful amounts of food. I finally capitalized on my idea for a stout beer float, which paid wonderful dividends. We almost died as passengers in a speedy hitchhike, but here on the trail again things are calm, easy and serene, and it seems the snow is finally slackening its grip. If you think of the impediments to where you are going, you will always be slower than just simply walking.

7/2

There is a feeling and struggle I believe that Franz Kafka once articulated. There is a demon against which we struggle who has no throat that we can strangle, a villain that has no heart that we can stab, a computer that has no microchip to step on. Essentially the struggle that infuriates me most is one man against nature- one tiny piece of a system glitching against its maker. That is what snow is to me. There are thousands of acres of thick and ripple ice burying the hiking trails. Getting lost is an ordeal of every hour, and gentle switchbacks have become sloping chutes over canyons. What was once a meditative ramble is a struggle- a contest of every hour. And there is no frosty snowman to decapitate or break. There are limitless expanses of land with no neck to strangle.

In practical news though, the battle is going well. Rally and I rushed 14 miles today to meet his friends Macy, at a remote road, bringing tidings of burritoe, cooking and stout beer. Ed joined us for the lazy feast, and we slowly ambled seven miles farther to an old stone hut, where I split wood to feed the stove, and we spread our sleeping bags on old mattresses. It is funny to think that 22 miles constitute an easy day, and resting before nine is early. Sierra city is 34 miles away, and so is ice cream.

7/1

Things change quickly. The landscape melts and morphs, creeks flood, snow melts, friendships form and flowers bloom. Yet you could never watch any of these things happen with any sense of satisfaction. You must turn your head around when you have forgotten about the road behind you and then you will remember. Someone found us loitering outside the sporting good shop in South Lake Tahoe and took us into his home. Rally and I both received new packs, and are soaring like sparrows. Today is July 1st and still we are lost in the snow, but found in life.

"All I want now is a fucking egg McMuffin and a prefab cigarette." - Salty, on Sonora Pass

6/27

When all the pieces are broken, nature usually manages to put them together again. Before dawn I began walking north, navigating snow fields and switchbacks. I waited on a high ridge and watched my lost friends appear on distant switchbacks, meandering like ants. We rambled through volcanic landscape and let the sun shine on our dry and treeless trial. Tonight we are camped by a frog kingdom in a meadow 9,000 feet high, and shared a campfire with the Israeli gears, who are hardy souls. Tomorrow we will raid South Lake Tahoe's collective pantry.

6/26

I spent the morning horrendously lost in the white oblivion of snow fields. Rally and Furniture were far ahead already. I was ready to cry out that it's almost July. But Simon, the English hiker and extraordinary orientier, wandered into my path in time to rescue me. I was ready to blaze ahead in search of my friends, but chose his company instead, since he wired my interest with stories of mountaineering in glaciers and continental bicycling tours. Somehow, though, I've separated myself from company and am here alone on this dusty ridgeline.

6/24

It has been so long since I've written, and I have passed so many waypoints on this fated roller coaster that already are fading in my mind. The last week is another chapter in the grueling expedtions through the snow with Furniture and Rally, who have kept me sane and alive through most of this. A human alone in this landscape would simply be swallowed- lost inside a cosmic case of infinitely unfolding dimensions.

A week ago we left the highest of the Sierra for a town called Mmamoth, the only local resupply point inna wide wilderness. A certain Jill at the local outfitter took us into her home where we ingested copious amounts of pizza and good company. We set out with nine days of food, intending to reach South Lake Tahoe, 290 miles north. But sometimes nature kinks even the most well-laid plans.

The snow was only worse, piled high in deeper canyons and deeper forests. It took hours to reach Donohue Pass, a lingering spot on the darkening horizon, as we slipped over miles of sun touched snow. The ground does not thaw evenly and rather than a level sheet of ice, snow at high elevation transforms into suncups- ridges and cavities about a foot deep. Walking on this ground is like strapping on roller skates when you are blind drunk and trying to run. Snow fell on us as we crested the infernal pass and we slid down the north slope quickly on rocks and chutes, trying to escape the dark storm. But of course there is sun behind all clouds.

In the canyon we walked along a meandering creek in meadows of green and shadows of mountains. Birds and butterflies ushered us through, but the most joyous part was simply walking on dirt; soft, wet dirt which was so often buried under snow. After a 28 mile day, we discovered Tom, the traveling trail angel waiting in the Tuolomne Meadows parking lot, the first pavement we had seen in 220 miles. We descended on the nearest mountain town to ravage the unsuspecting local apple strudel population.

But back on the trail and heading North things became tumultuous again. The snow is packed deep stilll, and it is almost July. Route finding is challengning, and looking at maps and pausing to orient habitual. We have gone many miles without seeing dirt. Thus far through the high Sierra, perhaps 70% of the trail is under snow, 20% under water, and the precious 10% is what it should be. Hiking through snow is as absurd as strapping on skiis to walk on the beach. The north face of every mountain is white and packed in ice, and what appears on the map as switchbacks is in reality a steep chute from ridge to canyon. What would be a dry and easy grade is now a slick and slow descent with ice axe in hand. Since Tuolomne meadows every creek has been flooded with snowmelt. What is describeed in the guidebook as "rough" or "tricky" is actually potentially lethal. I have wathced my friends slip and fall in rapids belly high. We cross on fallen trees when we can, even if it means walking a tightrope over black water. This morning I felt stunned from the waist down after fording a creek and then walking on snowpack. I think it qualifies as half hypothermic. The food we inteded to last nine days has only made it six, and tomorrow we will take the 30 mile hitchike to Bridgeport, California. It's easy to forget we are in the golden state. In pleasant news, today is my birthday and we are camped on warm rocks.