(Editor’s Note: Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access. As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

“Are you a PCT hiker?” the cashier at Elk Lake asked me. “Yeah, what gave it away?” I smiled, standing there with my loaded pack, unshowered and covered with Oregon dust. “There is a notice up over on the wall for thru-hikers” he informed me. I walked over to the far wall where I read “the Sisters are impassable, do not attempt without ice gear.” The Sisters are the first decent sized mountains that the trail passes by in Oregon, still covered in snow even in early August.

I had met several hikers coming south over the past week who had gotten through the Sisters without axes or crampons just fine. I figured that I would keep heading north, and if I hit a problem, I could just turn around and come back. The following day I went through the Sisters without any difficulty. The trail did disappear under the snow a few times, but footprints from previous hikers made it easy to follow. The hike was so simple that it left me overly confident and very unprepared for the challenge that Jefferson Park was about to bring.

Mt. Jefferson is quite a sight to see. In the early 1800s, Lewis and Clark named the towering peak after their president and today the area attracts thousands of visitors a year. Unfortunately, since the Northeast got so much snow this winter, the higher elevations are completely buried making finding the trail a frustrating guessing game.

The first snow patches by Mt. Jefferson were manageable, but one larger one left me completely disoriented. I finally bushwhacked down through some brush, turned left and there the trail was. I was very happy to have found it, but not sure exactly where the spot was on the map.

I continued down the trail only to find more white. The next snow covered area stretched out forever. Footprints of earlier confused hikers spiraled off in all different directions. My map was not detailed enough to be much help. I walked around the snow field for what seemed like hours increasingly worried. Eventually I stumbled upon what looked like two sets of confident footprints and followed them down the snowy meadow. To my shock, they actually did lead me to a trail. Unfortunately, in my confused state, I feared that this was the wrong trail. It lead me to a ridge with two lakes down a ravine to the west. I took out my map and found the two lakes that I thought they must be, but they were to the east of the trail. Luckily, I spotted a campfire down in the ravine and decided to bushwhack down to confirm that the trail really was on the opposite ridge and then bushwhack up the other side to find the PCT.

Getting down to the camp was much more difficult than I had anticipated. The walls of the ravine were steep and every step resulted in miniature rock slides. After about 30 minutes, I stumbled into the camp to discover a group of boy scouts out for a weekend hike.

I have always been a little suspicious of boy scouts probably because when I was growing up, while my town’s boy scout troop was off on all sorts of adventures, the girl scout troop that I belonged to was stuck in a room in the back of the school learning to make beaded lizards and apply makeup. This boy scout troop; however, erased all of my bad feelings. They insisted on giving me trail mix and a granola bar and let me look at a more detailed map which helped me on my way. Sadly, that way was right back where I had come from and I had to scramble back up the ravine to the trail that I had been so sure was the wrong one.

Four last 32 mile days brought me to the Oregon-Washington border and here I stand with one last state between me and Canada. 2,155 miles down, 506.8 miles to go. Who knows what sort of adventures they have to bring.

(Editor’s Note: Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access. As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

About a week after I had passed through the forest fires and thought the smoke filled road walks were behind me, I received word that yet another fire was ablaze in the Marblehead Wilderness. This meant another road walk. Morale was low after this unfortunate obstacle, but in order to keep my spirits up, I had a plan. A crazy plan.

A few weeks earlier, another thru-hiker had mentioned to me how he had heard of people hiking through the 460 mile state of Oregon in just 2 weeks. The idea of passing through an entire state in such a short time, after having spent what felt like years walking through California grabbed a hold of me. So, to keep morale up, I did not take a day off, I did not laze around town, filling myself with “real” food, instead, I charged into Oregon, determined to hike 32+ miles a day and reach the Washington border in 14 days.

The trail through Oregon is gradual which allows for quick walking. However, high mileage days would not be possible without a light weight pack. The ultra-light mentality has taken the backpacking world by storm but, despite all of gear that is out there, it can still be difficult to cut down pack weight. On my first backpacking trip, on the Long Trail, my pack weighed over 50 pounds. The following year, on the Appalachian Trail, I was able to get my pack weight down to 30. It takes a while to learn what you need and what you don’t need. My latest attempts at lightening my pack have involved switching from a sleeping bag to a down quilt, cutting the last third of my sleeping pad off, and saying goodbye to an extra fleece. My pack now weighs between 20 and 25 pounds depending on how much food I have to carry.

So, with only the essentials on my back, I headed north into Oregon. The first few days of 30s went surprisingly well and took me to the jaw dropping Crater Lake. Crater Lake was formed nearly 8,000 years ago when the summit of what used to be Mt Mazama collapsed during a volcanic eruption. Today, the distance between the rim of the crater and the lake is 900 feet and it is an incredible sight. As luck would have it, that day my 32 miles left me right at the lip of the crater where I made my best camp yet.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

When you live out in the wild you do not get to watch the evening news, go on the internet, or skim the newspaper. When you live in the wild you have no idea what is going on in the outside world. Your world is a quiet trail and a dream of the North. So, when I saw the haze by Carson Pass I assumed it was humidity but then the next day it was thicker and had an oppressive taste and smell. When I went into town to re-supply I heard about the fires- people were being evacuated from their homes and the air was thick with smoke. I soon found out that over 100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail had been closed from Quincy- LaPorte Road all the way to Chester. There is a bus that goes from Quincy to Chester. The two hour ride costs only $3.00. But what do you do when your goal is to walk from Mexico to Canada?

You watch the Bus drive away at 55MPH and you start road walking. The route was simple enough. Turn right on Quincy-LaPorte Road, left on RT 89, left on RT 36 and eventually you will be back on the PCT north of Chester, that is, of course, if you can manage to endure the smoke-filled air, 100 degree heat and dodge the speeding logging trucks. At first the shoulder was so wide it was like I had my own lane, but after Quincy as the road wound upwards the shoulder begin to shrink and soon I had little more than a few inches of white line to walk on. Some of the logging trucks were going back and forth between the fire and a lumber yard and passed me so many times, they started waving. There were trucks and buses of fire fighters going by too.

When I finally reached Chester I saw the fire camps. The towns High School and Junior Highs’ fields were packed with tents where the fire fighters slept. Signs lined the roads saying “Thank You” to the men and women who have come from all over the country to help put out the fires.

After having lived in the woods for two months, walking around so many cars was a little stressful and I was very relieved to get back to the real PCT. A few days later a moment I had been hoping for since the beginning of my trip occurred. I saw a bear. At first I thought it was a dog, but then it flew up a tree. When I took a step closer, it ran right back down the tree and off into the bushes. It was small but looked incredibly powerful.

Later that evening as I was trying to find a flat spot to camp I heard noises coming from the bushes, I turned the corner to see another furry brown behind- two Bears in one day- I could not believe it. I continued quietly surprised by the size of the animal towering over the bushes. Then I realized it was a cow.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

Before this trip I had never climbed above 7,000 feet. I had never been in the woods without re-supplying for more than 5 days and I had only used an ice axe once. The roadless 9 day stretch of the PCT in the High Sierras brought a lot of firsts for me. When I started this stretch of wilderness I felt confident and prepared. Of course, this was all before I had ever seen 13,000 foot passes, had to self belay, or had to go hungry when my lighter decided to stop working.

At 14,500 ft, Mt. Whitney is the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. The Pacific Crest Trail does not travel directly over it, but passes in a valley only 8 miles from the summit. Knowing that I might never be in a position to hike up it again I decided to try for it. My plan was to camp at the base of the mountain, get an early start and summit around 9am. No matter how hot it gets during the day, the high Sierras are cold at night and in the mornings. I started walking in my long johns, rain gear, fleece, gloves and winter hat. The hike up was amazing. The trail takes you past a guitar shaped lake and then switch backs up a steep cliff. The high altitude slowed me down towards the top but the views are so amazing I forgot my exhaustion: desert on one side and mountain after mountain on the other. Once I reached the summit I stayed up there for about an hour just staring out. It was my 21st birthday and not one I’ll soon forget. To celebrate I feasted on a box of Jelly Bellies.

The following day the views were just as amazing and I past the highest point on the trail, Forester Pass. Getting there was a little more trouble than I expected. The trail disappeared under snow for a ways so, to avoid post holing I walked around on rocks. Luckily, another thru-hiker was just ahead of me and when I caught up we were able to find the trail again. It took us straight to the base of a cliff that the trail switch backed up. The guidebook describes the path something like this: “the trail will lead you to a wall. Look up. See the “v” shape? That’s Forester Pass. No, I’m not kidding.” When we finally reached the pass, the view on the other side practically knocked me back. I have seen some pretty amazig views while hiking, but none had ever struck me like this one. A valley with endless mountains on either side stretched out before me. Snow bound peaks with sharp edges and blue alpine lakes could have left me staring for hours. While resting at the pass, a large group of weekend hikers came up the other side. “Where are you coming from?” they asked. It always feels pretty good to reply a with a casual “Mexico” whenever someone asks this question. At first they think they’ve misheard “wait, so you are from Mexico?” they’ll ask. Then, after a quick explanation, they’ll understand. One of the hikers in the group knew about the PCT and immediately asked me if I needed any food. Before I could answer, two granola bars were in my hand. Their generosity surprised me and I wish I could have done more than say “thank you.”

The following passes the PCT takes you through are increasingly treacherous. The trail on Pinochet Pass took me a good hour to find after it disappeared under the snow, Glen Pass was very steep and icy on the way down, but it was Mather Pass that left my knees shaking. The hike up to Mather goes through such a beautiful, nearly flat valley, that you hardly expect the treacherous climb up ahead. When you finally reach the rock face the trail sweeps up gradually. I remember then looking up and seeing a steep, nearly vertical switch back in the snow. “There is no way that is the trail” I thought. It was. So, when I reached the edge of the snow, I took out my ice axe, tightened the straps on my pack, took a deep breath and began climbing the snow covered face. It was 5 PM, so I expected the snow to still be soft but the area turned out to be surprisingly icy since a neighboring mountain was hiding it from the sun. To safely climb the slope I used my ice axe to self belay, driving it into the snow next to me after every step, so that if I slipped I’d have something to hold on to. I have a strange habit of counting in Italian when I’m nervous and so I counted, one number for each step “uno, due, tre” trying not to look down “venti, ventuno, ventidue” terrified that the snow would not hold my next step “trenta, trentuno, trentadue . . .” It took me about thirty minutes to reach the top. When I finally did, my adrenaline was pumping so hard that I did not stop to take a break. I just kept right on walking and made camp about 7 miles into the valley.

Food is a big deal to thru-hikers. It is the main topic of our conversations and day dreams. About 5 miles after you have left the last town, you have already planned everything you will be eating in the upcoming one. A thru-hiker burns an estimated 6,000 calories a day and, unfortunately, you cannot carry enough food to replace those calories, so you get a little hungry. At the end of the 9 day stretch in the woods, I was more than a little hungry. I had saved my favorite dinner for the final night: Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese, and I was ready for a feast. I set up camp at dusk, took my stove out of my pack and attempted to light it. Nothing happen. I tried again and again, but it refused to light. I rummaged around in my bear canister as if there might be some extra food hiding in there, knowing full well, that all that was left was one zip lock bag of granola. My breakfast for tomorrow. I decided to eat half of it. There were ten more miles to Vermilion Valley Resort where I would re-supply the next day. I would be hungry when I got there, but that would just make the cheeseburger taste even better. So, I went to sleep, stomach growling, and practically ran into town at the first hint of light the next morning. Vermilion Valley is an exciting place to get to. Not only is it the first piece of civilization after 9 days, but you also get to take a 15 minute ferry ride across the lake to get there. I was waiting for the ferry as excited as a little kid when it arrived. Right on time at 9:45am. It swept me away to a land of very expensive cheeseburgers and ice cream sandwiches, but I was too hungry to care.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

Mojave is the last desert town on the PCT and I was very eager to leave. 700 miles of desert was quite enough for me, thank you very much. All I could think about was getting to Kennedy Meadows and the start of the Sierras. The wind coming out of town knocked me around pretty good and it did not help that there was no water for 30 miles. In the desert you need to drink about 1 liter of water for every five miles, so for 30 miles you need to carry a gallon and a half and it gets pretty heavy. I hiked until dusk that evening and ate a delicious turkey sandwich for dinner that I had bought in town.

The start of the following day was a disappointment. The guidebook refers to the mountains after Mojave as the “foothills of the Sierras,” so I was a bit disheartened when the trail brought me through hot, dusty hills that looked suspiciously similar to the previous 700 miles. Around midday I took a break under a small Joshua tree and hung my umbrella from its stubby branches for a little extra shade. About twenty minutes later, quite a parade began to march by. Five thru-hikers who I hadn’t met before passed my resting spot. And so I met Los Tres Amigos, Miss Potato Head, and the Germanator. They came about five minutes apart, each introduced themselves, made a comment like “thank god we’re almost out of the desert”, and before marching onward shook my hand (all except the Germanator, who bumped knuckles “because of the germs” he explained).

Vincent, one of the 3 Amigos, came by just as I was packing up and I ended up hiking with him to the next water cache. I learned that the 3 Amigos were brothers who had grown up in a mixture of Iowa and Mexico City. They had caught the hiking bug during a trip on the Via Alpina in Europe and decided to see what adventures the PCT had in store for them. Miss Potato Head and the Germanator had been hiking with them ever since Wrightwood where they had been caught in a wild snow storm. Their story of what happened next was so fantastic I almost had trouble believing it. During the blinding snow storm they lost the trail and after a little wandering discovered a road which they decided to follow. They followed pavement for a couple of miles and stumbled onto some combination of a restaurant and ski lodge where the owner insisted that they stay. He gave them free shelter and some food. Unbelievably, the following day a pro snow boarder showed up, took them up the mountain and gave them rides on his snow mobile. I probably would not have believed this story if Miss Potato Head had not confirmed it. Miss Potato Head was the only female hiker my age that I have met. Also a college student excited to see the world.

That night we camped next to one of the last water caches on the trail. Water caches are specific places where trail angels leave gallon jugs of water to help hikers through particularly dry areas. As a rule you cannot depend on these water sources because oftentimes they are empty. Luckily, this one had an unbelievable amount of water. We all watched the sunset from the hillside there and spoke eagerly about the Sierras, only 50 miles ahead of us.

Two days later we arrived at Kennedy Meadows, the entrance to the High Sierras. Kennedy Meadows was bustling with excited and nervous hikers. Excited to be out of the desert and so close to one of the most amazing mountain ranges on earth, and nervous because of the treacherous terrain that lay ahead.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

It started with High Octane, Chick Magnet, and Bobcat. I had not seen another hiker for days and all of the sudden there they were. Trudging up the hill ahead with worn packs and trekking pole

Every year, because of the small weather window, most PCT thru-hikers end up clumped together in what is known as “the herd.” They start in late April to avoid the worst of the desert heat and finish before the snow comes to Washington’s mountains in the fall. Along the way a tight community forms and as a part of that community you are given a trail name. While I was on the Appalachian Trail I was given the trail name Lost because . . . well, lets just say that the trial took a turn and I didn’t. I decided to keep the name mostly for sentimental reasons. Since I had started about half a month after most hikers, it took me until Agua Dulce to catch up. Hiking alone has its advantages. It allows you to travel at your own pace, take breaks whenever you want, and think. Nearly three weeks of hiking alone had been more than enough time to think and I was very ready to be part of this “herd.”

After the first 500 miles of desert, the Pacific Crest Trail dives into the Mojave. The name alone is enough to intimidate a person. I had heard horror stories about dehydration, heat stroke, and getting lost on that forsaken stretch of trail and was more than a little nervous as I approached it. The first glimpse of the Mojave is from the surrounding hills. You can see the heat shimmering off its floor and a flat, endless stretch of dirt. On the morning that I was supposed to reach the desert floor, my pack felt unusually damp against my back. I ignored it at first but then my back kept getting more and more wet. I could not believe that I was sweating that profusely, so I finally took off my pack to see what on earth was going on. My Platypus had a hole in it and half a liter of water had leaked out. The most difficult stretch of the Mojave Desert was 4 miles away, and there was a hole in my platypus. Luckily, one of the kindest human beings on earth was also only 4 miles away in a place he named “Hikertown.”

When I reached Hikertown I thought I must be in the wrong place. A long row of small buildings decorated with a western theme stretched out before me. I was about to turn around and check the guidebook’s directions again, but then a man appeared and started walking towards me. “Welcome” he said eagerly and quickly ushered me into the little piece of heaven that Hikertown is. He showed me where I could get water, shower, sleep, and then took me to a final building where four other hikers were already hanging out watching TV. About 10 minutes later the owner of Hikertown let me and a couple of other hikers take his car to the nearest store where I was able to resolve my water problems. Despite all that they do for hikers, the owners of this place do not charge a cent.

Later that day I entered the aqueduct section of the Mojave with a full stomach and a little more confidence than before. Two sand and heat filled days later I was standing at Willow Springs road, hitching into the last official town in the desert, appropriately called: Mojave.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

Snow. It is the sort of thing you day dream about in the desert. The sort of thing you almost forget exists. Several scorching days after Warner Springs I woke up at the base of the mountains leading to Big Bear, CA. By 9 AM I usually had shed my fleece but on this day noon had come around and I was wearing both my fleece and my raincoat to stay warm. By 4:30 PM the long hike up was wearing me out so I decided to have an early dinner. I sat down on my Therm-a-Rest and boiled up some macaroni and cheese. That is when it started.

When I saw the first specks of white falling , I thought I was seeing things. Hadn’t it been over 100 degrees the day before? Wasn’t I just half a day from the desert floor? But then the specks of white changed to flurries and the flurries changed into a downright snow storm. White covered my pack and I quickly took out my umbrella to keep things dry.

And so there I was in the middle of the snow storm shivering and eating my mac-n-cheese as fast as I could so that I could get going. By 5:30 PM I was on my feet walking again and everything was covered in snow. I walked into the dark with my head lamp on, not wanting to stop it was getting so cold. My surroundings blurred by as I trudged on and on. Then, quite suddenly, a red cooler appeared to my left waiting with a sign on it that read “Welcome thru-hikers.” It contained a bag of oranges. They were nearly frozen, but they were delicious. My first piece of trail magic. Trail magic is the name given to any sort of help locals are kind enough to give to thru-hikers. This was pretty good trail magic.

Exhausted, I set up my tarp a few yards away and fell asleep with an orange dessert in my stomach. The next morning arrived with the cold hard thud of my water bottle slipping out of my pack’s pocket. It was frozen solid. Normally I’d sleep with my water in my sleeping bag to prevent this from happening but with last night’s exhaustion I had forgotten. Luckily my Platypus had not frozen so I had just enough water to get to Big Bear and when I arrived at the road, more trail magic was waiting. A cardboard box filled with sodas! “Welcome to Big Bear PCT class of 2008” a sign read.

My mother probably loses sleep over the thought of me hitch hiking but the towns along the Pacific Crest Trail can be 10 to 30 miles away. There is no way to re-supply other than to wait by the side of the road, thumb out, hoping that some kind soul will take notice and give me a ride. You try to make yourself look presentable. You wash your face with what water you have and pull back your hair and smile as the drivers pass. On this particular morning I was very lucky. A nurse was driving by on her way to work and pulled over when she saw me standing there in the snow. “Where are you headed?” she asked. “Anywhere with a grocery store” I replied. She told me to hop on in.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

On May 11th my Aunt, Grandmother, and cousin drove me to the Mexican border and at 6:30 I turned north and began my walk to Canada. The three of them hiked the first couple of miles with me and it was strange to be standing there alone in the wilderness when they turned back. I have been planning for this adventure for such a long time I still cannot believe that it is really happening. Even now, seven days into the trip, I have to stop and think “Wow, I am really here, this is really happening.”

The desert in the morning is perfect. Cool and full of life. It is only the first week of my hike and I have already seen three hummingbirds, a horny toad and a bobcat. Unfortunately, the cool weather of the mornings does not last very long. You can see dawn’s ribbon of light approaching long before it hits. It may be beautiful, but it is a reminder of the heat to come. I have been trying to get as many miles in during the mornings as possible. I usually start walking at around 5:30 after a quick breakfast, stop at noon for a siesta and set up camp at 7.

There have not been a lot of people out on the trail and after the first two days of my hike I did not see a single person for the next 48 hours. It is nice to have the trail to myself but I am definitely looking forward to catching up to other thru-hikers who started earlier than me. The trail has been so beautiful and the views so varied that there is no opportunity for boredom. I am so excited to see what is around the next corner that I have to force myself to rest when it is time to take a break.

Two days ago I passed through what is called Scissors Crossing, a notoriously hot and exposed piece of desert. Even by eight thirty the sun was so brutal, I felt the need to take out the umbrella I keep in my pack so that I could walk under a little bit of shade. As I was approaching the road, I saw a wooden structure off to my left with a sign on it that read “Welcome PCT 2008 hikers.” It was filled to the brim with gallon jugs of water. After three days of extreme heat, it was pretty much the most beautiful thing you could have put before me. If I hadn’t been so tired I probably would have jumped up and down.

Yesterday afternoon I made it to Warner Springs (mile 110) and tonight I will be heading back out onto the trail. I feel safe and happy and cannot wait to see what lies ahead.

My name is Kristin Gates. I am a junior at Colby College in Maine and this is the first installment of my adventure on the Pacific Crest Trail. In mid-May I will be heading down to Mexico to begin a walk north on the PCT. The Pacific Crest Trail is a 2,655 mile footpath that stretches from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington. It starts in the scorching deserts of the south and after crossing the Mojave, climbs up into California’s high Sierras and then north through Oregon’s Cascades and Washington’s rugged wilderness.

When I was thirteen years old I made a promise to my Great Aunt that I would live life to its fullest. Unfortunately, she passed away when I was fifteen and, by the time I turned nineteen, I had never done anything particularly exciting with my life. By the fall of my sophomore year in college I had followed all the rules and done everything that was expected of me. But then, a fear that had been sitting in the back of my head began to creep up on me. A fear that one day, when I am old and gray, I will look back on my life and realize that my dreams had never been accomplished. That next semester I traded in my school bag for a backpack and my books for maps and a compass to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

In March of 2007 I flew down to Georgia by myself, got a ride to the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail from a hostel owner, and spent the next four and a half months walking north. Over two thousand miles later I was standing at the summit of Mt. Katahdin in Maine finishing my first thru-hike.

I went back to school in the fall, but the trail stayed with me. Lecture halls and labs left me longing for the freedom of the mountains. The world seemed so big and I could not bear to be trapped in such a small corner of it. That was when plans for a new adventure began to develop and, like so many travelers before me, my dreams turned to the west. I decided to try for the second jewel of the Triple Crown, the Pacific Crest Trail. The Triple Crown includes our country’s three main long distance trails: the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail. I had first learned about the PCT while I was preparing to hike the AT. I remember smiling as I read its description and wondering if the trail would be in my future. By January of 2008 I decided that it was. Over the coming four months of my summer break, from May until September, I hope to make my way from Mexico to Canada.

The puzzle pieces are starting to fit together now. My gear is organized, my thru-hikers permit has come in the mail, and my plane ticket to California has been purchased. Now, all that stands between me and this adventure are the last 12 days of spring semester. Only 12 more days and I will be free. It is time to wipe the dust off my old boots. It is time to take a walk.

I will be updating this blog when I pass through towns to re-supply about once a week. I hope that you will join me on what promises to be an amazing adventure.