Mount Whitney (my mile 1530, trail mile 767) to LeConte Canyon (my mile 1600ish)

I was up before dawn the day after my Whitney summit, determined to get over Forester Pass early in case the previous day’s afternoon storm was repeated. At 13,153 feet above sea level, Forester is the highest point of the PCT and probably the most notorious pass on the trail. It’s also the first major pass that northbound hikers have to tackle, so there’s not exactly much of a learning curve.

I hit the trail as the first rays of sunlight hit the top of the western peaks, and soon came across my first real Sierra creek crossing. The water was only up to my calves, but it was freezing.

I’d downloaded the Lord of the Rings soundtrack in preparation for the Sierra, and listened to it as the mountains rose up from the horizon to meet me. I passed many JMT southbounders over this stretch, all nearly at the end of their 200-mile journeys.

I was amazed at the variety of people that tackle this difficult, remote trail, including many parents with their young children. Kids can be tougher than they get credit for.

I met a JMT northbounder from Boston (whose name I’ve since forgotten) about five miles out of camp, and walked with her for the next couple of river crossings. She fell behind as we began the long climb towards the pass and told me to go on ahead. I’d have liked to keep hiking with her as she was a good conversationalist, but clouds were beginning to form overhead and I was fearful of getting trapped above treeline if a storm rolled in. I hurried to the pass.

After a few hours of steady but not overly difficult climbing, I reached the base of Forester. Huge peaks walled me in on two sides, while the pass loomed ahead. I reached the start of the switchbacks that mark the final ascent and began climbing.

Halfway up I came across a memorial to trail worker Donald Downs, who died at age 18 in a dynamite accident while building this section of the trail in 1930. Beneath the plaque, an assortment of rusted tools that look like they might belong to that era were lying on the ground. Could they be?

Forester Pass

I laboured up the last mile of steep ascent before I came across the infamous chute, essentially a steep funnel of loose talus above a dizzying void. I could see why it would be absolutely terrifying when covered in snow, but thankfully I’d waited long enough. The chute was clear.

I could feel the lack of oxygen in the air as I huffed up the last switchback and reached the top of the pass. I got my first glimpse of the valley on the other side, which was still heavy with snow.

The chute

A father and his young teenage son who were going southbound reached the top a few minutes after me, their ascent having been much more difficult. They’d scrambled up the snow-covered north face all the way from the bottom, as their lower vantage point meant they couldn’t see the well-formed bootpack that led to a snow-free talus field on the opposite side of their approach. I took the talus field down, and spent the rest of the day spreading the word to every southbounder I came across. I felt like a backcountry preacher.

I descended towards Vidette Meadow, where a perfect half-pipe of mountains framed a spectacular view. I stopped for a late lunch at ledge and took a time-lapse.

I wanted to get as close to Glen Pass as possible to give myself a chance at getting over Pinchot, the following pass, by the following afternoon. I spent the last two hours of daylight huffing up the long climb out of Vidette, then made camp at a site about a mile from the top.

It was the perfect spot to watch the sun sink over the horizon, turning the mountains gold and then blood orange as it did so. I could see why John Muir referred to the Sierra as the “range of light”.

I made it over Glen Pass without too much difficulty early the next morning, then began the long descent towards Rae Lakes. The lakes, fed by pure snowmelt, were crystal clear and stunningly beautiful. They were also freezing. I stopped at the shore of one and attempted a swim, but only made it up to my waist before chickening out.

I followed the valley for the rest of the morning before crossing a suspension bridge that swayed wildly over the rushing Woods Creek. Then I began the climb to Pinchot, which felt like the longest and most arduous of all the passes. I spent hours and hours wheezing my way up the steep trail, seemingly climbing endlessly. Awesomely powerful tributaries of Woods Creek rushed beside the trail.

I finally hit the top of Pinchot as the mountains began to cast their shadows over the trail. I descended to the next valley, and made camp next to a pristine alpine lake. Again I was treated to a spectacular sunset.

I woke the next morning to find a layer of crunchy frost covering my tent, my shoes and my bear can. Not wanting to numb my hands as I had before, I waited for the sun to rise over the mountains and dry out my gear.

I began the climb towards Mather Pass, which required me to scramble on a log over the south fork of the Kings River. An array of colourful wildflowers followed the trail as it wound its way up. I reached the top of Mather Pass just before 11AM, and met a backcountry ranger who was waiting to radio in her daily check-in.

I’d recently been listening to The Last Season, a book about a Sierra backcountry ranger who disappeared in the mid 90s, and was fascinated by the lifestyles of these rangers who spend entire seasons living in remote cabins to protect their patch of wilderness.

The descent from Mather Pass was the diciest of all, winding down steep banks of loose snow above fields of sharp rocks. I put my microspikes on and picked my way down at a snail’s pace, often stopping to consider each individual step before committing to it. Once I cleared the worst of it I took the spikes off, then began the long descent past Palisade Lakes and into LeConte Canyon.

I came across dozens of southbound JMT hikers, nearly all of whom quizzed me about the conditions on the pass. I was shocked by how many of them had found room in their packs for books, umbrellas, camp chairs and even a ukelele, but almost none had thought to bring microspikes.

A miles-long staircase led down into LeConte, where Palisade Creek was gushing down from the lakes above. It was deafening. After a few bone-jarring hours of descent I finally made it to the bottom of LeConte Canyon and began the gradual climb towards Muir Pass.

I passed the Bishop Pass trail junction and stopped a couple of miles later by the JMT rock monster (see below), where a mum and her daughter of about 12 had made camp for the night. They were hiking a section of the JMT southbound, and quizzed me about my experiences on the PCT before snapping a picture of me being devoured by the monster.

I ate mac and cheese for dinner and crawled into my sleeping bag. I spent a few minutes reading on my phone before I felt my heart skipped a beat, and then struggle to find a rhythm. It thumped irregularly, the rate rising and falling without provocation. My A-Fib was back.

Kennedy Meadows (my mile 1465, trail mile 702) to Mount Whitney (my mile 1530, trail mile 767)

I got a dose of Southern California’s searing August heat the second I stepped onto the air bridge at Burbank. The sun beat down on me as I crossed the street to the rental car garage, but I was thankful for it. Those warming rays had spent the past two months slowly thawing the huge volume of snow that had been dumped on the Sierra the past winter. Now, finally, the trail in the High Sierra was passable again.

On my way out of Los Angeles I stopped at a Von’s supermarket and bought supplies for the first stretch out of Kennedy Meadows. The trail in the Sierra is as remote as it gets on the PCT, making resupply a much greater challenge than elsewhere. Most PCTers resupply by hiking one of several long exit trails over mountain passes to reach towns in the Owens Valley, over 8,000 feet below. The Kearsage Pass trail, one of the most popular exit points, is nine miles long each way. Add a hitchhike in and out of town and your grocery trip is likely to take at least a full day.

I was determined to reach Canada by the end of September, but my two hospitalisations had cost me valuable time. In a bid to make it up I purchased enough food to get me all the way from Kennedy Meadows to Vermilion Valley Resort, 176 miles away. I planned to do the stretch in 10 days, including a day off-trail to climb Mount Whitney, and bought enough food for 11 days. It would be my longest stretch without resupply, and by far my heaviest carry.

With a car boot full of groceries I drove three hours to the desert town of Ridgecrest, where I’d arranged to stay with local trail angel Sandy before she gave me a ride up to the mountains in the morning. I spent the evening trying to cram my huge pile of food into my bear can, repackaging items and arranging them like Tetris blocks.

In the morning, Sandy and two other trail angels drove me up to Kennedy Meadows. We stopped at Grumpy Bears for a pancake breakfast – my last fresh meal for 10 days. I hauled my pack onto my back at the trailhead and felt it sag under its own weight. Buckles audibly creaked under the load, and the straps bit into my chest and shoulders like pincers. Seriously overburdened, I lumbered my way up the trail.

The going was slow and painful, made worse by the rising mercury. Kennedy Meadows is the official start of the Sierra section but I was still basically in the desert, following an exposed, sandy trail as it climbed to 9,000 feet. I stopped for lunch on a bank of the Kern River, and massaged my aching shoulders as I tried to force food into my face to lighten the load.

By late afternoon the desert had been replaced by grassy meadows and rolling hills, a prelude to the high alpine range I knew was just ahead of me. The heat, the climb and the crippling weight of my pack had slowed my progress, and I’d barely made it 18 of my planned 20 miles when I staggered into a campsite in pitch darkness. I tried to make myself eat more, but the exertion had killed my appetite. I felt dejected as I crawled into my sleeping bag. Canada seemed to be slipping farther and farther away.

A good night’s sleep gave me a renewed energy the next morning, and I made the rest of the climb to 10,600 feet elevation in good time. I had lunch in a green meadow, and watched a pair of deer chase each other up and down a rocky slope as I ate. I saw only two other hikers all day, and camped alone in a forested area by the trail. Being alone made me more concerned about bears than I had been, so I cooked my dinner far away from my campsite so as not to attract them.

I reached Cottonwood Pass the next morning, where I got a sliver of phone reception at a spot overlooking the Owens Valley. The loneliness of this section of trail had left me feeling more isolated than ever, so I appreciated the opportunity to check back in with the real world. I’d hoped by this point to have teamed up with other PCTers flipping back down to hike the Sierra, but apparently I was the only one out here.

Chicken Spring Lake, just after the pass, is the spot where many hikers say they feel like they’ve arrived in the Sierra. I stopped there for lunch, and marvelled at towering rocky peaks reflected in the lake’s glassy water. Patches of snow still clung to the slopes, adding to the spectacle. A group of trail riders came by on their horses and quizzed me about the PCT.

My plan was to reach Crabtree Meadows, near the base of Mount Whitney, by the end of the day, but the terrain proved tougher than expected. I reached lower Crabtree – about a mile short of my target – at 9PM, and decided to call it a day. I wanted to summit the mountain for sunrise, which requires a 1AM start, but I knew as I flopped onto my sleeping pad that that wasn’t happening.

I woke instead at 4:30, and was on the trail by 5:30. I stopped by the Crabtree ranger station just as the sun was rising and stashed most of my gear in a bear box. I set off carrying only my lunch, my med kit, a water bottle and rain gear. It was a huge relief to my aching shoulders, which were still suffering from the bite of my overburdened pack straps.

The sky was blue as I made my way up through the valley that leads to the base of Whitney, but the surrounding mountain range still blocked any direct sunlight. I was passing Timberline Lake when the first rays hit the peaks of the range. The light reflected off the lake’s perfectly-still waters, which were partially shrouded in mist. I couldn’t recall ever seeing anything so beautiful, on the trail or elsewhere. It felt like this was the reward for everything I’d been through in over 1500 miles of hiking. The diagnosis, the two hospitalisations, the endless pain and sweat. This is what it was all for. Tears welled in my eyes as I climbed.

The sun appeared over the range as I reached the start of the grueling section of the ascent. The long, gradual climb was replaced with a series of steep switchbacks winding their way up the mountain. Slowly I worked my way up from 12,000 feet to 12,500, then 13,000, then 13,500. I could feel the air getting thinner, and I had to stop for breaks more regularly as I climbed higher. The last climb from 13,500 feet to the summit at 14,505 is made along the length of a cresting ridge. I passed a gap in the trailside cliff face about half a mile from the summit, and was confronted with a dizzying view of the valley miles below me.

I negotiated a steep snowy patch just short of the summit and then, all of a sudden, I was there. I passed the stone Smithsonian Shelter and reached the peak – the highest point in the mainland United States. The Sierra Nevada range was spread out before me in one direction, the Owens Valley in the other. I was looking down at the summits of some of the highest mountains in North America. I saw Crabtree Meadows, thousands of feet below. For the first time in a long time I allowed myself to feel proud.

It was a beautiful day, so I lingered on the summit for over an hour. Clouds began to form on the horizon as I began my descent. By the time I stepped off the last switchback, dark storm clouds were rumbling overhead. I was grateful I hadn’t started any later. Freezing rain began to pelt me as I reached Guitar Lake. 20 minutes later it was replaced by marble-sized pellets of hail. I spent the last mile back to Crabtree dashing from tree to tree.

I’d planned to repack my backpack and make it another eight miles or so down the trail that afternoon, but my feet were aching and I just didn’t feel like wandering out into the storm. I retrieved my stuff from the bear box and set up camp next to a group of JMT hikers. I watched some Netflix on my phone, grateful for my first early finish in a while.

Charlton Lake (my mile 1296, trail mile 1925) to Santiam Pass (my mile 1465, trail mile 2000)

“The trail provides” is one of the many sayings often uttered by PCT thru-hikers. Nowhere has that been truer for me than in Oregon, which I pieced together in sections after getting forced off trail by an Afib episode at Charlton Lake. Exiting from a dirt road with no transport connections in the middle of nowhere created a huge logistical headache, but I managed to overcome it – with a lot of help.

I booked a room at The Graduate Hotel in Eugene after I was discharged from hospital, and resolved to take a zero the next day while I considered my options. Tidbit and I hung out at the hotel bar, which is decked out like a shrine to the Oregon Ducks. We made friends with the bartender, a nursing student named Nancy, who offered to let us stay in her spare room for our second night in Eugene.

We went to see Rocketman the next day, then caught the bus back to The Graduate. It was the grand opening (it had recently been converted from a Hilton), and we got free food and drinks out in the courtyard. I even met Puddles, the Oregon Ducks’ mascot.

By this point I’d decided to get back on trail, but we knew getting back to Charlton Lake was going to be difficult. Instead we caught a bus to Bend, where we stayed with a local trail angel named Heinrich who we’d met hitchhiking at Crater Lake just a week or so earlier. Heinrich took us to the Bend REI, where I picked up my third pair of Altras. After more than 600 miles my second pair was falling apart, and my right ankle was paying the price.

The next day Heinrich took us to see Smith Rock, a local climbing mecca. Afterwards he drove us to Santiam Pass, a busy highway crossing about 75 miles up the trail from where we’d exited. We began the long climb through a hot, exposed burn area into the Mount Jefferson Wilderness. After 14 miles we made camp by the shore of a pretty alpine lake.

We decided to slow our pace for the next section and average only about 20 miles a day to Timberline Lodge, on the slopes of Mount Hood. Somewhere around the base of Mount Jefferson I hit 1,326 miles – the midpoint of the entire trail.

I should have savoured the achievement, but the experience of the past week had left me feeling low. I was acutely aware that my A-Fib could come back at any time and end my hike. I was also unhappy about skipping another section, which only made it more difficult to finish the trail before I miss the weather window at the end of the season. Mosquitos were also swarming us at every turn, sapping our energy and souring our mood. Still, we pushed on.

As if sensing my flagging morale, the trail provided me with plenty of pick-me-ups over the next few days. The area north of Mount Jefferson was full of beautiful clear lakes, which looked magnificent against the backdrop of the dramatic snowy peak. After a long climb I got my first view of Mount Hood from more than 50 miles away.

Tidbit and I came across some snow fields on the descent, so we decided to have some fun. We glissaded down the slopes (albeit pretty slowly), and I found a Complete Cookie still its packaging at the base of a slide. Later that day we arrived at Olallie Lake, where a trail angel named OG was grilling hamburgers for a small group of hikers. He made us two each, which we supplemented with cookies and cider from the nearby resort store.

We experienced more trail magic the next day at a horse camp, where a local woman had set up a mini cafeteria for hikers in a pop-up tent. We made our own sandwiches, ate homemade brownies and drank a few cans of soft drinks each. We camped that night on the shore of Timothy Lake, where I found an unopened can of PBR on a rock. I don’t even like beer that much (I’m a terrible Australian, I know), but in that moment it tasted delicious.

The next day we took a short side trail to see Little Crater Lake, a 40-foot-deep, spring-fed lake that’s so clear you can see the bottom. We pushed on toward Timberline Lodge, where we’d planned to camp. Tidbit decided to skip the long climb up to the lodge, and yogi’d a ride from a couple of day hikers at a trailhead car park.

I really enjoyed the climb, which offered spectacular views of the Mount Hood summit for the last few miles. The last mile or so was a tough slog through soft volcanic sand, but the views made it worth it. I arrived at Timberline just before sunset and set up my tent between it and the mountain. The lodge is a beautiful historic building, constructed during the Great Depression as part of the New Deal. It was also the set for Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. We ordered pizzas at the bar, then spent some time exploring.

In the morning, after stuffing ourselves at the breakfast buffet, we caught the bus down to Portland where a rental car was waiting for us. The plan was to drive all the way back to Charlton Lake, where Tidbit would drop me off. I’d hike the 75 miles back to Santiam Pass, plugging the gap I’d created when I got off trail. Then, I’d try to hitch a ride back to Portland. We camped by the lake before saying our goodbyes in the morning.

I spent the day walking from lake to lake, stopping at one particularly pretty one for a midday swim. I camped alone at Dumbbell Lake, on a small peninsula. I went for a short swim as the sun went down before retreating to my tent to escape the growing cloud of mosquitos.

The next day I reached the Three Sisters Wilderness, where the trail left the dense forest that characterises most of the PCT in Oregon, and entered a chain of wide-open plains. It was a nice change of scenery. I hiked for 26 miles – my longest day in a while – so that I would have a shorter hike into Big Lake Youth Camp the next day. The summer camp puts on a nightly dinner for hikers, and I didn’t want to miss it.

I left my campsite early the next morning and soon passed the last of the Three Sisters. The smooth ground under my feet gave way to jagged volcanic rock, and before I knew it I was in the middle of a lava field that stretched as far as I could see. I spent several hours slowly picking my way through the field, praying that I wouldn’t aggravate my right ankle. I eventually made it through, and the trail returned to the forest.

I reached Big Lake in time for dinner, and was greeted by camp counselor PCT Mama. Every southbounder I’d met for the past few days had made me promise to stop in at the camp, and now I saw why. The camp has a whole building dedicated to hikers, with showers, laundry facilities and a kitchen. At dinner time I followed a group of other hungry hikers into the dining hall, where we joined a few hundred Seventh Day Adventist kids for taco salad.

All of us hikers camped on a black sand beach just outside the summer camp’s property. In the morning, we had eggs and pancakes with all the campers. The camp doesn’t charge hikers anything for all of this, but does accept donations.

My plan for the day was to hike the last five miles to Santiam Pass, then stick out my thumb on the highway to get back to Portland. I’d never hitched that far before, and was worried it would be difficult to get a ride away from the trail corridor. Just as I was about to leave Big Lake, a trail angel walked in and asked if anyone needed a ride to the interstate, which was more than halfway to my destination.

I knew I could get a bus to Portland from any of the towns on I-5, so I accepted. It meant I’d skip the five miles between Big Lake and Santiam Pass, which is the first time on this trail I’ve skipped any section with no intention of returning to it. After everything I’d been through in Oregon, I just didn’t care.

I arrived in downtown Portland in the afternoon and rejoined Tidbit, who was staying in a hotel. We later moved to a couchsurfing host’s place on the east side. I spent a couple of days hanging out with Tidbit before I headed to the airport this morning and boarded a plane. I’m writing this from the skies over Crater Lake, on my way back to California to finally hike the Sierra.

Tidbit is staying in Oregon for now due to some commitments, but will join me at some point after the Sierra. The Sierra is supposed to be the most spectacular part of the whole PCT, and it’s coming right at a time when I need some motivation.

The trail provides.

Crater Lake (my mile 1192, trail mile 1821) to Charlton Lake (my mile 1296, trail mile 1925)

Our day off in Fort Klamath was sorely needed, as both Tidbit and I could feel our bodies protesting against the longer days we’d been hiking since the Oregon border. By the time we reached Crater Lake it felt like we were both running on empty. After a night at the Aspen Inn we walked to the Fort Klamath post office, which is only open for two hours a day.

We collected our resupply box and I picked up my new Dirty Girl gaiters, replacing my old pair of Salomons that I’d worn out. A local artist named John offered us a ride on our way out of the post office, then drove us back up the highway to Crater Lake in his camper van.

A bear was crossing the highway just before the park entrance, then scurried off the road as the van approached. We stopped, and I managed to get a great photo of the bear as it paused to look back at us.

Tidbit hopped out at Mazama Village and took the trolley up to the rim, while John dropped me at the trailhead and I walked the 4.5-mile alternate that took me to the same spot. Taking the Crater Lake Rim Trail is technically cheating since it’s not the PCT but almost everybody does it because the PCT doesn’t actually go to Crater Lake.

Instead, it takes a wide arc around the lake that is around five miles longer. I’m not so much of a purist that I’d miss out on such a highlight just to stick to the “official” trail, but I want my path from Mexico to Canada to be connected by continuous footsteps. Thus, I panted my way up the steep climb from the highway to the rim while Tidbit relaxed at the Rim Village cafe.

I power walked the whole way to the cafe, and surprised Tidbit when I rocked up earlier than she’d expected. We strolled out to the rim, and I got my first view of Crater Lake. As advertised, it was enormous. The lake lies at the bottom of a volcano’s caldera, which stretches all the way to the horizon when viewed from the rim. The original volcano, Mount Mazama, tore itself apart in a massive eruption around 7700 years ago, creating the huge crater.

The lake is fed only by snowmelt and rain, and sparkled a brilliant blue beneath me on what was a cloudless day. In the middle of it all was Wizard Island, the beginnings of a new volcano, jutting out of the lake near its western shore. Hordes of tourists swarmed the rim trail closest to the car park, but disappeared as we followed the trail away from the village and around to the north side of the rim.

Snow covered the north end of the trail, forcing us to walk along the road for a stretch. We stopped for one last look at the lake at its northern end, then rejoined the PCT a few miles later. We trekked through nine miles of flat forest in the dying light to make it to a water cache at a junction with a forest road just outside the park boundary.

We climbed half way up Mount Thielsen the next morning, then followed the trail as it skirted the mountain’s slopes. We hit snow on the north face, and had to strap on our microspikes for a steep descent into the forest. We had no idea we were descending into insectoid hell.

Melting snow, as it turns out, creates a lot of stagnant ponds, which are a favourite breeding ground for mosquitos. Thousands of them swarmed us as soon as we reached the cover of trees, forcing us to cover our faces with our bug nets. I was glad to be wearing long pants. We hiked on, praying that the swarms would dissipate somewhere. They didn’t.

Tidbit and I had decided to push all the way to Windigo Pass, making it a 30-mile day. From Windigo, Tidbit could take a 20-mile alternate to the resort at Shelter Cove while I would hike the PCT, which is eight miles longer. The 30-mile was tough but fast, as the mosquitos left us no opportunities to take a break. They were in absolute plague proportion at the pass, so I put on my rain gear and sprayed myself with DEET before making dinner. I dived into the tent the second I’d finished eating.

I wasn’t really in the mood to hike 28 miles the next morning, especially while being attacked by yet more mosquitos, but I resolved to push on. The extra miles would earn me a zero in Bend, the next town, while keeping me on schedule to finish my hike in mid September.

It was a miserable day of hiking, with no reprieve from the winged blood-suckers. I scoffed my lunch while they buzzed around my face, and jogged sections where they were particularly bad. The snow-covered Diamond Peak was the day’s only highlight, but I couldn’t stop to appreciate the views.

My ankle began to complain five miles from the resort, and it was nearly 9PM by the time I limped to the campground. Tidbit had already set up the tent and had spent the afternoon hanging out with other hikers after getting a ride from the camp hosts at Crescent Lake, half way between Windigo Pass and Shelter Cove.

We lingered around the resort past lunch time the next day as we washed our clothes and filled up on scrambled eggs and hamburgers at the resort cafe. When we finally rolled out at 2:30 I was feeling queasy. I was trying to stop myself vomiting as we walked the road out of the resort, but when we started going uphill I couldn’t hold it any longer. I puked in the ditch, and spent a few minutes feeling sorry for myself before we hiked on.

I figured I’d have lost a bunch of electrolytes when I retched, so I dropped some Nuun tablets into my water bottle. We made it 14 miles before we decided to make camp, where we were again swarmed by millions of evil f**king mosquitos. I munched on a Clif bar in my tent, not willing to brave the mozzies to cook.

As I lay back in my sleeping bag, I felt my heart flutter – just like it had back near Idyllwild. I held my finger against my neck and took my pulse. It had almost no discernible rhythm. I realised I’d slipped back into atrial fibrillation. I went to sleep and hoped I would cardiovert naturally.

I was still in A-fib when I woke up the next morning. Elk Lake was 31 miles ahead. I hoped my heart would return to normal on the trail, so we packed up camp and headed north. When we reached Charlton Lake four miles later it was still beating erratically. I tried meditating, coughing a lot and a bunch of other tricks to stimulate cardioversion, but with no luck. We spotted a couple of canoers as we worked out what to do, but decided to push on.

A mile later the trail began a gentle climb which left me panting for breath. We stopped by the side of the trail as I agonised over what to do. I remembered Frodo’s advice to us hikers back in San Francisco – “make good choices” – and decided to turn back. Tidbit and I returned to the lake, and found the car park the canoers had come by.

We waited for an hour or so until they returned, and I explained my situation. They were a friendly elderly couple, and agreed to take us back to civilisation. The couple were staying nearby in Oakridge, but drove me all the way to the nearest hospital in Eugene.

I was admitted right away, and was immediately attached to a plethora of electrodes. I’d been expecting a long stay, like my first hospitalisation at Eisenhower, but the doctors at PeaceHealth wasted no time. Given I’d already been diagnosed and knew exactly what was going on there wasn’t much to do but shock me back to normality. They put me under, and then it was all over. I walked out of hospital less than three hours after I’d arrived, sporting a new bright red burn mark on my chest from the defibrillator.

I was stressed out and worried my hike was over. Now stranded in Eugene, we had no idea what to do. I booked us a room at a hotel downtown, and we ordered a Lyft to take us there. The driver who picked us up, a cheery local guy named Chris, offered to take us on a tour of Eugene since I was new to town. He switched off the meter and took us to the spot where legendary Olympic distance runner Steve Prefontaine died in a car accident back in the 70s.

Eugene is the US capital of track and field athletics. The University of Oregon, which is based in the town, is the training ground for America’s Olympic track athletes. Tidbit, a former college track runner, was nerding out. We drove by Hayward Field then stopped for ice cream at Prince Pucklers, a local cult favourite. “Oh hey, that’s Marcus outside,” said Chris. “He’s a Heisman Trophy winner.”

I’m a big football fan, so I went outside to see who it was. It was Tennessee Titans quarterback and Oregon Ducks alum Marcus Mariota. “Holy shit, are you Marcus Mariota?” I asked. “Yep,” he replied. He let me get a photo, then we chatted for a second about the trail. It was a happily bizarre end to my weirdest day on the trail so far.

Seiad Valley (my mile 1027, trail mile 1656) to Crater Lake (my mile 1192, trail mile 1821)

Independence Day in Ashland was like a city-wide party. Tidbit and I walked along the main street as we watched the miles-long parade, then enjoyed hearty lunches at an English pub (the irony). At a street fair, we watched pro-choice protestors face off with pro-life protestors welding signs with pictures of aborted foetuses, until the police got involved. Only in the land of the free.

We stopped by a microbrewery on our way home, then sprawled out on our trail angel’s garage floor to pack resupply packages for the trail ahead. I also finally managed to replace my trekking pole tips, which had been worn down to nubs. It was tricky to get the old tips off, but we eventually managed with the help of boiling water and some pliers.

I could have stayed in Ashland for weeks – maybe even a lifetime – but with full stomachs and rested legs, Tidbit and I decided it was time to get back on the trail. That was a little easier said than done, as we’d skipped up from Seiad Valley for Independence Day. Luckily a trail angel named Tor responded to our Facebook plea for help and offered us a ride. He picked us up from the Ashland UPS store where we’d mailed resupply boxes.

Tor dropped us at Seiad around noon, but warned us that the trail ahead was overgrown with poison oak that was impossible to avoid. He suggested we hike a parallel forest service road that makes the same 4500-foot climb before rejoining the trail. We took his advice, and spent all afternoon gradually working our way up and out of the valley. It was hot, especially in some recently burnt areas that offered hardly any shade. We stopped at a waterfall near the top and cooled off.

At the top we ran into Grit, who’d just hiked up the trail. I asked her what the poison oak was like – she told me it was no big deal. My inner purist wishes I’d stuck with the trail. That’s the problem with listening to warnings on the trail: sometimes the information is out of date, and it’s pretty much always subjective. One person’s “impassable overgrowth” is just a minor annoyance to others.

Just before camp that night I spotted my second bear of the trail. As I climbed a ridge, I saw the jet-black bear scurrying down the hill at full speed to get away from me. We stopped for the night at a spot with a spectacular view of the valley below, with Mount Shasta looming in the distance. I watched my last sunset in California (for now) before crawling into my sleeping bag.

We reached the Oregon state line late the next day after some more ridge climbing, and made our first camp in the state at another beautiful spot. The sky put on a show, as if to welcome us to the beaver state. I’d crossed into Oregon 629 miles earlier than most PCT hikers thanks to our decision to flip north, but reaching my second state still felt like a huge achievement.

My first full day in Oregon was spent hiking through green pine forests full of moss and lichen, with many great view of the yellowed grassy hills of the Rogue Valley. Some graffiti on a trail marker gave us a warning: “Don’t believe their lies, Oregon is NOT flat”. Hikers often describe Oregon as “flat” because it is, comparable to the Sierra section most have just hiked through, but a glance at the state’s elevation profile reveals it’s not a walk in the park. Sure, the highest point is less than 8000 feet, but there is almost no point in the whole state where you’re not either climbing a big hill or coming down it.

By the early evening Tidbit and I reached Callahan’s, a lodge on the highway that leads to Ashland. The resort is famously hiker-friendly, and offers bottomless spaghetti bolognese to hikers for $14. I had two big plates of it. We picked up the first of our resupply packages from the front desk and stuffed the contents into our food bags. Another box was open on the table, full of Clif bars and peanut butter. Attached to it was a printed email from the sender, explaining that he’d quit his hike and wanted the contents given away to other hikers. I salvaged three or four Clif bars and added them to my food bag. Score! Once packed we hiked out into the night, making it two more miles down the trail before we camped near a dry stream.

We made long miles the next two days, pushing to make it to Fish Lake resort. The second day was 29 miles – Tidbit’s longest ever – which we hiked in record time in order to make it to the restaurant at the nearby Lake of the Woods resort before their advertised 9PM closing time. We practically skipped over 10 miles of volcanic rocks in barely three hours to make it to the highway by 7:15PM. Tidbit, who usually hikes behind me, blazed past me about an hour before the end. She was breathing like a woman in labour. “If I slow down I won’t be able to keep going,” she said. “I’m just running off the adrenaline from the pain.”

Pilot Rock, home to a colony of Peregrine Falcons.

We tried desperately to get a hitch, but car after car passed us by without slowing down. Finally, just before 8, an old man driving home to Klamath Falls pulled over in his pickup truck and gave us a ride. We reached the resort by 8:15, and limped up to the restaurant. I tried the door, but it only rattled. Two other hikers we knew, Shelby and Super Trooper, unlocked the door and came outside a moment later. “Are they closed?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t know, we just ate,” Super Trooper said.

I walked in to find the waitress mopping the floor. “Are you closed?” I asked. “Yeah, it was really slow so we closed early,” she said. It took all of my self-control not to have a full-blown tantrum. “But we hiked so far to be here before 9!” I said. “Sorry,” was all she could offer.

I stormed outside and gave the bad news to Tidbit. We were both tired and grumpy. Super Trooper offered us a ride back to Fish Lake (on the same highway) with his family, who had come to collect him and Shelby for a wedding. We were about to take up their offer when the restaurant manager came outside, evidently having taken pity on us. “I can make you guys a couple of burgers if you want,” he said. We got them to go, and rode back to Fish Lake with Super Trooper and Shelby.

We slept in the next morning, and spent the first half of the day doing laundry, showering and charging our electronics. We finally hiked out at 2PM, and got a hitch back to the trail. We made it 18 miles by sunset and camped in a burn area. As I was making dinner we both heard what sounded like a low animal call. We couldn’t work out if it was a bear or an elk, or something else. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

It took Tidbit and I two more days to get to Crater Lake, hiking through bright green forests, areas scarred by fire and past snowy peaks. At a junction a day’s hike south of Crater Lake Tidbit and I both separately went the wrong way, thanks to some idiot who’d marked an arrow on the ground pointing in the wrong direction. I made it nearly a mile before I noticed, and had to backtrack. Lesson learnt: always check the map.

The trail was surprisingly dry and dusty, requiring us to carry heavy loads of water for long stretches. The weight wore us both down, and by the time we reached Mazama Village, on the outskirts of Crater Lake National Park, we needed a break. We booked a room at the Aspen Inn in nearby Fort Klamath, where we needed to pick up packages anyway, and took the afternoon off.

The motel’s owners were incredibly friendly. They didn’t have any washing machines, but they gave us a bucket and a drying frame so we could do laundry ourselves. For the first time since Etna I slept in a real bed. It was heavenly.