CHAPTER THREE
OUT OF THE SIERRA INTO THE CASCADES: NORTHERN CALIFONIA

Echo Lake to Wrangle Gap

June 25 to July 31

599 miles

 

The walk through Northern California would see a wide variety of scenery and more roads and towns than I was used to encountering, along with too much logging and the desolation of clear-cut forests. Much of the walking was in forest on fairly level trails which, combined with much lighter loads, meant that, as I’d hoped, my daily mileage increased without much extra effort or longer days. Larry and I didn’t leave Little Norway until late afternoon however so our first day was just five and a half miles. This took us into the Desolation Wilderness, whose name sounded forbidding but was contradicted by the beauty of the landscape. Apparently it’s named for the amount of bare rock and the thinness of the forest. These of course make it attractive for wilderness lovers and hikers and it’s a very popular summer backpacking area.

Desolation Wilderness was all water and rock with scattered trees. Lakes were everywhere, still half-frozen and shining in the sunlight. The first night we camped above Margery Lake and then passed Lakes Aloha, Heather and Susie the next morning. Above them rose rugged Pyramid Peak and the summits of the Crystal Range, lower mountains than those of the High Sierra but still impressive. There was still plenty of snow on the ground but there was now much more wildlife than we’d seen further south with marmots, chipmunks and squirrels common. Then we climbed to the last point above 9,000 feet on the PCT, 9380 foot Dicks Pass, before descending to pass yet more lakes – Dicks, Fontanillis, Upper Velma and Middle Velma – and then camping in the forest.

Fifteen miles had passed without much effort. The next day we walked twenty-two which, I wrote in my journal, ‘seemed no effort either’. Most of the time we were in pleasant forest with few views. The trail was fairly level so there was no reason not to stride out. After the High Sierra and 900 miles of walking we were very fit. There were plenty of PCT markers on trees too so we didn’t often have to spend time looking for the trail. These markers were inconsistent – common in some places, non-existent in others. That night we camped at 6200 feet, the lowest since Kennedy Meadows, 46 long days ago.

Desolation Wilderness was left for a stretch of ‘non-wilderness’ forest, which means it can be used for logging and other uses, though we didn’t notice any difference this time and soon we were in what is now the Granite Chief Wilderness and back then had the rather cumbersome bureaucratic name Granite Chief Motor Vehicle Closure Area. Here I regretted sending the rope home when we were faced with a ford of the deep and fast North Fork of the American River. Scouting up and down the bank we eventually found a point where it split into two channels, one of which we waded while the other was crossed with a log crawl – a rather tame one compared with those in Yosemite but still exciting enough.

Leaving Granite Chief – we were to become used to rapid changes in land designations and usage in Northern California, the wilderness areas here were much smaller than in the High Sierra and generally not contiguous – we went through a stretch of private property with many threatening no trespassing, keep out and private notices. Ignoring these but feeling it might be wise to be out of sight we camped in a dense stand of firs a few hundred yards from the PCT, which at this point was a dirt road.

During the day I finally identified two big flowering plants we’d seen grow from little shoots to big plants in the last few weeks. The very green thick-leaved bulky ones with spikes of white star-like flowers that were now two feet high and more were corn lilies (though no relation to actual lilies), the aromatic yellow sunflower-like ones were mountain mule’s ears (which is a member of the sunflower family). The first grew in profusion in damp meadows, the latter on dry stony slopes. Both were to be regular companions in coming weeks.

So far my gear had held up well. However on feeling rubbing in my boots I examined them and noticed that the linings were disintegrating. The soles were losing their tread too. I’d been wearing them almost all the time since we reached the Sierra Nevada because of the snow. I had thought I’d have them resoled. Now I thought I’d replace them with lighter footwear more like my running shoes. I was looking forward to hiking in the latter when we finally escaped the snow but I knew they too wouldn’t last much longer.

Heavy rain fell on our ‘private property’ camp and we woke to thick mist drifting through the trees. We were certainly well-hidden. The rain continued all the way to little Soda Springs where we arrived soon after the post office opened, following an early start. Here I collected the smallest food parcel of the walk, just three days’ worth. The Cheese Store Deli provided an excellent second breakfast of an omelette (I really missed eggs on the trail) and coffee plus snacks for the next few days. Soda Springs also had a laundromat, which was sorely needed as it was the first since Mammoth Lakes, now a long sweaty and arduous three weeks behind us. There was a PCT register in the post office full of entries from hikers who’d skipped round the snow and started again from here. Not that they had missed the snow, there was still plenty in the woods, but they had missed the combination of snow and steep mountains and remoteness and with it the glorious High Sierra. Soda Springs was also significant because on reaching it I’d now hiked 1000 miles. At least it felt significant.

Soda Springs lies not far from the notorious Donner Pass, the one pass in the Sierra Nevada widely known in the outside world due to the tragedy that overtook the Donner Party here in 1846. These pioneers were trying to cross the mountains to the rich lowlands of western California but were trapped here by deep snow in the autumn. Rescuers tried to reach the party but did not do so until February, by which time 39 people were dead, leaving 48 survivors. Now the 7200 foot gentle pass is crossed by a railroad and an Interstate highway and it’s hard to imagine how such a disaster could have happened. It’s still often closed by blizzards in the winter though.

With rain still falling and the mist still thick we left Soda Springs in late afternoon to walk through snow for a few miles to the Sierra Club’s Peter Grubb Hut, which was like a large Scottish bothy (unlocked shelter with few facilities beyond a roof). The hut was built in 1938-39 as a memorial to Peter Grubb who died on a cycling tour of Europe and is one of the few such shelters on the PCT. It was basic but dry inside and had a large fireplace. As it was so wet outside we decided to stay and soon had a big fire going that raised the temperature to 18°C and quickly dried out our damp gear. This proved very useful as the wet weather continued. At least our gear could begin getting damp again rather than get even damper. We woke to thick mist and one of those days that thankfully is soon forgotten. ‘Another wet, wet day’ I wrote in my journal after hours of slogging through melting snow in the dripping forest. Where the trail wasn’t snow-covered it was thick with ankle-deep mud. A break in the drizzle came at noon when the heavens opened and we were assaulted by torrential rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Rushing along heads down in our waterproofs we just wanted to make as many miles as possible. Stopping to camp in this didn’t seem attractive anyway. Finally we ran out of energy and made a damp camp in thick mist and steady rain. This dismal dark weather continued all the following day when we walked 19 miles ‘on sodden jeep roads through sodden forest’ to Sierra City (population 225), an old gold mining town in the North Yuba river canyon that now relies on tourism for its main business. The only enjoyable part of the day was the final descent down steep switchbacks into an area of magnificent trees - black oaks, maples, Douglas firs and ponderosa pines. Although we were making good progress the sense of excitement and adventure we’d felt in the High Sierra and Yosemite had gone. The challenge here was simply to keep going, to keep walking through the mist and rain.

Having pitched our wet tents at the Wild Plum Campground we went into Sierra City to collect mail and supplies. Here our luck changed. In the store a man guessed we were PCT hikers and offered to let us stay in his house, something he did regularly for thru-hikers. Bob Frost was a Forest Service Fire Prevention Technician who lived just outside Sierra City. This generosity meant we were able to dry out our gear again and take showers – the first for 23 days, since Mammoth Lakes in fact. I expect we needed them!

Rising above Sierra City and the North Yuba River are the rock towers and pinnacles of Sierra Buttes, one of the highest and most distinctive peaks in the northern Sierra Nevada. (It’s 8591 feet – how the mountains had dwindled since the High Sierra!). The mist had kept Sierra Buttes hidden on the descent to Sierra City but it came into view during the steep and brutal ascent from the North Yuba river canyon and the following traverse round steep scrub-covered slopes. Whilst the summits were impressive the mountainside we crossed had been heavily logged, which somewhat detracted from the wild feel. For the last time we lost our way for a while in an area of confusing partly snow-covered logging roads before PCT waymarks appeared again.

The mix of logging roads and foot trails in clear-cut areas and healthy looking forest, probably second growth, continued for the last 85 miles of the Sierra Nevada. Much of the time we were hiking in red fir forest with few views. The going was mostly good though, with little snow left, and we made over 20 miles a day. At times we could see ahead to the first peaks of the Cascades – the white cone of Mount Shasta, which would be a dominant feature for the next weeks, and the summit of Lassen Peak – which drew us on with the promise of more spectacular landscapes ahead. The weather improved, which helped morale a good deal, and it was hot in the forest. For the first time on the walk I ended days with sore feet, a combination of the extra miles we were hiking, the hard-packed ground and over-heating in my big boots, which I was still wearing for the sections of snow. Fine in deep snow all day these boots were too hot now we’d returned to summer trail backpacking. On one day the temperature at 1 pm was 22ºC in the shade.

Whilst the general landscapes were no more than pleasant the sections of unspoilt forest were often magnificent with big incense cedars, white firs, silver pines, red firs, ponderosa pines and Douglas firs. The flowers were wonderful too – red paintbrush and purple lupins joining the yellow mountain mule’s ears. The trail followed the dry crest of the hills for long distances and for the first time in many weeks we had to carry water. These hills were rolling, green and forested – a far cry from the rugged mountains of the High Sierra, whose snowy peaks we could see far to the south at times.

One steep descent led down to Franklin Canyon and the Middle Fork of the Feather River, across which we were pleased to see a graceful bridge. Other creeks and rivers were bridged too so we had no more difficult fords. Larry had brought some lightweight fishing gear and tried fishing in some of these waters but without any luck.

Approaching Belden and the end of the Sierra Nevada the scenery improved as we hiked through what is now the Bucks Lake Wilderness. The PCT ran along the rim of a valley with views over a lake-dotted forest and then descended gradually over ground covered with attractive tough red-barked manzanita bushes. Ahead were views across the deep North Fork of the Feather River valley to the first hills of the Cascades. The final descent to Belden and the North Fork was a leg-hammering steep six miles down 36 switchbacks through dense undergrowth that was head high in places. The guidebook warned of poison oak but I somehow managed to avoid brushing against this innocuous looking but poisonous plant which I only learned to identify from warning notices in the campground that evening.

Belden was a tiny hamlet (population 22) but had a combination post office/store/café and bar plus a campground. As well as my food parcel I had eight letters from home, which were very welcome, and a copy of the North Lake Tahoe Bonanza with the interview with me and Larry in it. I read this with interest and noted in my journal that it was ‘very flattering if not quite accurate’. In the trail register were entries from over 20 PCT hikers who’d skipped the High Sierra and bussed round from Weldon. The next day one more snow-avoiding PCT hiker arrived. Mark had made it from Campo to Yosemite, where he’d waited for two weeks before catching the bus here as there was still more snow than he wanted to deal with.

At 2300 feet Belden was the second lowest camp of the walk so far, only Cabazon had been lower, away back in the California desert. Like Sierra City Belden was in a narrow steep-sided pass that took roads and railways through the mountains and out of which we had to climb. Although the landscape looked much the same we were finally leaving the Sierra Nevada and entering the Cascade Range, which we’d follow all the way to Canada. The Cascades stretch for 700 miles in a straight line and are characterised by big isolated volcanoes surrounded by lower non-volcanic gentler hills. In the North Cascades the range becomes more rugged and alpine. It would be many weeks before I’d reach those spectacular mountains.

As well as increasing my appetite was producing some strange cravings, particularly for tinned mandarin oranges, not something I normally eat so why I suddenly desired them I had no idea. Whenever they were available I ate them. I also longed for eggs, which wasn’t so surprising – my trail diet was low in protein and I liked them anyway. Of course I could have carried both but they were heavy and in the case of eggs breakable. My cravings weren’t so strong that I was prepared to carry the extra weight. At Belden I indulged them by breakfasting on three soft-boiled eggs followed by a tin of mandarins in camp. A second breakfast of microwaved sandwiches and coffee at the store set me up for the long and steep 4,500 foot climb out of the North Fork of the Feather River gorge. From the switchbacks we could look back down to the narrow canyon with its crammed-in road, railway and reservoir. There was more poison oak on the trail and a glorious succession of trees from black oaks and ponderosa pine low down through incense cedars, white firs, sugar pines and finally dense and sombre red firs. I was coming to realise that the real glories of Northern California lay in the trees rather than the mountains.

Now there was little snow left on the trail Larry and I discussed going on our own ways, which meant I could leave later in the morning and walk later in the evening and Larry could do the opposite. We’d become good friends and had happily accommodated each other’s foibles but I was becoming restless and wanted to be alone again so I was free to vary my routine and follow any whims such as making camp at lunchtime by a pleasant lake or hiking into the night. However the first night out from Belden Larry’s stove caught fire with a dramatic flare-up that melted the edge of his tent flysheet but luckily didn’t set anything on fire. The next morning the now cool stove still leaked fuel and so was unsafe to use. For the next week we’d stay together and cook on my stove, which was still working fine.

Once the climb from Belden was over the walking was easy on good trails in gentle forest. Every so often the rapidly approaching Lassen peaks would appear and in open sections we could see crags and pinnacles above us. For the first time we met a trail crew opening the trail by sawing up blown-down trees and checking blazes. In forested areas this is a necessary task every year once the snow has gone. We’d got used to clambering over or round the occasional tree across the trail but horse packers use these trails too and need them clear.

For the first time we also met PCT hikers who were heading south. These two had hiked from Campo to Weldon then travelled up to Ashland in Southern Oregon and were now heading south back to Weldon. They then intended going to the northern terminus of the PCT at Manning Park in Canada and hiking south to Ashland, which meant we might meet up again (we didn’t). That way they should manage to hike the whole trail without having to deal with snow. This approach was practical but didn’t appeal to me. I had a simple view of a long walk. Begin at the beginning and walk to the end. I wanted it to be a continuous journey, broken only by going out occasionally for supplies, after which I would always return to the point at which I’d left the trail. ‘Hike your own hike’ is a popular long-distance hiker saying, which I agree with so I wouldn’t criticise anyone’s way of hiking but doing a long walk in sections in different directions isn’t for me.

The two PCT hikers (one was called Mark, the other’s name I neglected to note) had other information on the year’s trailers, reminding Larry and me that we weren’t actually alone on the trail. They said that many people had given up, including some of those we’d met in Southern California, and that the Forest Service had issued 120 PCT thru-hiker permits by April 23rd when they’d set off. Many years later I learned that according to the PCTA only 11 people finished the trail (which included me, Larry and Scott) so the drop-out rate was very high, mainly, I think, due to the late deep snow in the Sierra Nevada.

Not far out of Belden we entered the Lassen National Forest and the best waymarked trails we’d yet encountered. There were plenty of blazes and PCT diamond markers on the trees and every junction was signed with mileage figures as well as directions. So when we reached the popular Domingo Springs Campground, where we stayed because it had water, which was rare in this section, we knew we were 53 miles from Belden and had walked 21 miles that day, assuming of course that the figures were accurate (the guidebook made the distances 5 miles longer). These signs made the walking much quicker as we never had to stop to check maps or the guidebook. They also made the walk less challenging of course and I wouldn’t have liked much of the trail to be like this. In fact searching for the trail in the snow and learning how to work out where it went had been interesting and enjoyable even if it did take time. Larry and I had become quite good at seeing the line of the hidden trail through the trees and spotting the occasional faded old blaze. But for now rapid progress on well-marked trails was a pleasant change.

Three days out of Belden we reached Lassen Volcanic National Park, the first national park since Yosemite. 10,457 foot Lassen Peak is the centre of the park and the southernmost of the Cascade volcanoes. It’s not typical though, being much less dramatic in appearance than the others. This is because it’s the only Cascade volcano that isn’t a stratovolcano, which is one made up of layers and layers of lava and other volcanic material built-up over long periods of geological time, a process that gives rise to the classic cone-shaped volcano, of which Mount Shasta is a good example. Lassen Peak however is a single plug of lava that was formed in a single eruption. It’s the largest plug dome volcano in the Cascades – the only one above 10,000 feet in height – and one of the largest in the world.

The area is still active – the last eruption was in 1915 - and there were many volcanic features that I was looking forward to seeing as I’d never been to such a place before. Our entry to the park wasn’t conducive to looking at the landscape though as it was in a cloud of mosquitoes, the worst on the walk so far. I was bitten many times before I managed to soak myself in repellent. Happily the bugs faded away as the sun grew stronger and the day became hotter and drier.

The first sign of vulcanism was a strong smell of rotten eggs from hydrogen sulphide drifting through the trees. Soon we came upon the series of yellow sulphur-encrusted fumaroles (vents) gushing hot water and clouds of steam that made up Terminal Geyser. Then came blue-green milky Boiling Springs Lake steaming gently in the sunshine, its water at a constant 52°C, and surrounded by small smoking fumaroles and bubbling mud pots slurping away noisily. Although we saw no more volcanic activity like this it stayed in my mind and I was aware throughout the rest of the walk that this was a volcanic region and that the earth was dynamic and mobile not far below our feet.

Beyond these fascinating volcanic features we traversed the park in fir and pine forest past several lakes before camping by Silver Lake. Unfortunately water meant mosquitoes and we quickly retreated to our tents and lay inside listening to frogs croaking. Next day the walking continued through mosquito ridden woods past pale early morning lakes and out of Lassen Volcanic National Park (it’s not a big park and the PCT is only in it for about 17 miles). From a ridge we had a grand view back to Lassen Peak. With this volcano behind us we were now truly in the Cascades.

Once out of the protected park lands the trail became a dirt road and we soon reached Old Station, the next supply town. It was now 33 days since we’d last had a day off from hiking so we decided to stay here for a day on the pleasant Hat Creek Campground where we camped in the shade of some superb ponderosa pines. We also planned on hitch-hiking to the much bigger town of Burney some seven miles away in the hope that stores there could provide a new safety valve for Larry’s stove and some lightweight footwear for me – I really needed these now as both my boots and running shoes were disintegrating. Neither had much tread left, which was okay on gentle forest trails and dirt roads but wouldn’t be on any steeper rockier terrain, especially if wet. We spent two hours the next day waiting for a ride – we could have walked there in that time. Burney had socks, books and a Safeways supermarket but no outdoor store so no stove valve or footwear.

From Old Station the PCT runs along the bare and waterless Hat Creek Rim for 30 miles. We were advised, both locally and by Warren Rogers, not to attempt this but to hike the highway instead. In retrospect I wished I’d carried the several gallons of water I’d have needed and stayed on the PCT. The highway was hell and we spent two days on it. At the end of the first one I wrote in my journal ‘a long, hot, dusty tarmac plodding 86ºF day. 16 miles of eternity! I’d rather tackle snow and flooded rivers’. The only point of interest was Subway Cave, a fascinating third of a mile long tube bored out of the rock by hot lava. Otherwise we progressed from café to café with a stop at a laundromat in which I sat in my waterproof trousers so everything else could be washed. I read most of the way along the road – Charles Dickens’ Dombey and Son and Agatha Christie’s The Body In The Library, the only books of interest I’d found in Burney. I wanted natural history guides and books on the Cascades but there had been none.

For once I carried a few tins a short distance for the evening meal – mushroom soup, cheese ravioli, strawberries – which made a nice change from dried stuff. To add to the discomfort of the road walk, which had left me with sore feet and one big blister, the night was full of mosquitoes, necessitating sealing myself into the tent where it was then uncomfortably hot (never below 16°C). I lay sweatily on my sleeping bag and didn’t sleep well. A second to-be-quickly-forgotten day on the road and we reached McArthur-Burney Falls State Park where we rejoined the PCT. The park store sold me a natural history guide to the Cascades and for fifty cents we were allowed to camp in the picnic area where we were joined by another PCT hiker, Susie, who was doing the section from Lassen Volcanic National Park to Canada. Not far away was Burney Falls itself, an impressive spring-fed 129-foot waterfall. A sign said that in the summer the river above the falls dries up and water spouting through holes in the rocks is all that feeds the falls but this early in the season both river and springs were flowing strongly.

Five mixed mostly forest walking days led to the next town, Castella in Castle Crags State Park, where Larry and I finally went our separate ways. For the first two days the mix of unsightly logged forest and fine untouched forest continued with much of the walking on logging roads with too many huge logging trucks roaring along them in clouds of dust and diesel. There were cows grazing in this multi-use forest too. With little snow anymore I wore my running shoes without socks as it was very hot, which meant I had to remember to apply insect repellent to my ankles as well as my face, arms and hands because mosquitoes appeared quickly in shaded areas, especially near water. As I’d discovered back in the desert at the start of the walk when it was hot my boots were more comfortable on my back than on my feet.

At times we hiked on thin trails above steep volcanic scree slopes with views of Mount Shasta, which towered some 10,000 feet above the surrounding green forested hills. This 14, 179 foot volcano is the second highest summit in the Cascades and the most southerly of the line of stratovolcanoes that stretches the length of the range as well as one of the largest stratovolcanoes in the world. Its beautiful white-capped cone would be visible and eye-catching for many days. John Muir and a companion were once caught in a severe blizzard on the slopes of the mountain after a spring ascent and survived the night lying by some hot springs where they were alternately too hot or frozen (Muir had wanted to continue the descent, it was his companion who insisted on staying by the springs. His account can now be found online - http://www.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/writings/snow_storm_on_mount_shasta.aspx).

Camps in this section were all in the forest but that didn’t mean finding suitable sites was always easy. Often the trail traversed steep ground with no suitable terrain at all. Twice we pitched our tents on the trail itself as it was the only flat ground available. We just hoped bears didn’t use the trail during the night - we were seeing bear droppings regularly. At dubious intersections we left arrows in the dirt and little cairns for Susie, who was somewhere behind us. Just once she caught us up and we camped together and she showed us a beautiful obsidian Native American spearhead she’d found on the trail. To counter the mosquitoes she was taking vitamin B12 and Brewer’s Yeast tablets, which she said had some effect. I was putting plenty of fresh garlic in meals as it was also supposed to repel mosquitoes. I didn’t notice it making any difference but it did make the meals taste better. We never saw Susie again after this one camp and I never heard if she reached Canada.

Often the trail ran through open meadows and across dry, dusty hillsides replete with lovely flowers and with excellent views of the surrounding hills and the already very familiar cone of Mount Shasta. Altitude changes were mostly small but there was one seemingly endless, hot, twisting, foot-hammering, fly-ridden descent down to the McCloud River at just 2,600 feet. This descent actually took three hours and left both Larry and me with aching feet and legs. Relief was provided by a friendly family, who were car camping near the river, and who plied us with chili beans and beer.

The highlight of these hot dusty days was my first ever sighting of bears in the wild. On hearing a sound in the meadow above us we looked up and there just fifty or so feet away was a light brown bear (all the bears this far south are black bears but that doesn’t mean they are black or even dark) with two cubs feeding on berries, of which there were many – raspberries, blackberries, red currants and gooseberries. When one of the cubs started to move down the hillside towards us the mother stood up to get a better look at us. Remembering stories of she-bears defending their cubs we walked on briskly. I was excited and pleased at finally seeing a bear. It seemed an essential part of a PCT hike. They weren’t reputed to be a problem here though and I hadn’t hung my food since leaving Yosemite.

Later the same day we were molested by wildlife however - in the form of butterflies! We’d stopped for a snack beside a small stream in a deep gully when a cloud of black and white butterflies with orange tipped wings (called, I learnt later, Sara’s orangetip butterflies) appeared and flew all around us landing on our arms, shoulders, backs, legs and packs. The air was filled with fluttering wings and I found this a strange and magical experience. There was probably a prosaic reason for it, like salt in our sweat, and if they’d been flies we’d have hated it but because they were so beautiful and delicate it felt very special.

A final hot waterless day with excellent views of Mount Shasta again and ahead to the massive ramparts of jagged Castle Crags took us to Castella and the Castle Crags State Park in a crowded valley with the Southern Pacific Railroad, Interstate 5, local roads and the Sacramento River all crammed in side by side. At the post office we found a note from Scott and Dave to say they had hitch-hiked here from Burney to avoid the last less interesting section of the trail as they now hadn’t enough time left to finish the whole trail due to commitments in the autumn. So they were ahead of us now. The note went on to say that when they reached the next supply point at Seiad Valley they were going to hitch-hike again to Crater Lake in Oregon. I didn’t expect to catch them up. They also said that their stove had actually exploded! Larry wasn’t the only one to have problems. As we were all using the same model of stove I decided I’d better buy spares for my so far trouble-free one.

We also met a hiker here who’d we’d met on and off several times since the Mohave Desert crossing. He was always in town ahead of us and usually said he knew direct routes he’d learnt from rangers. Only once did we meet him on the trail though. He didn’t look as though he’d been hiking for months, his leg muscles just weren’t hard enough and he didn’t have the skinny, famished look of a thru-hiker. His stories didn’t ring true either and I found him rather irritating. We didn’t want an argument so we didn’t express our thoughts but just tried to ignore him. Maybe he did know those ‘secret’ (his words) routes, maybe he had hiked the whole way. I found that hard to believe though. Of all the PCT hikers I met he was the only one whose stories didn’t ring true and listening to them made me uncomfortable. I was later to hear from people who saw him hitch-hiking. Now skipping sections of the trail due to pressures of time or the snow or because you think they’ll be dull is fine if that’s what someone wants to do but pretending to have hiked a trail seems pointless as well as dishonest. After all, the person who really knows is yourself.

Although it was only a week since the last day off from the trail at Old Station I took another here as a local man we met offered to drive us to the town of Mount Shasta where he said there was an outdoor store. This was an opportunity not to be missed. With a population of over 3,000 Mount Shasta seemed enormous. I felt a little overwhelmed on the busy, noisy streets. I hadn’t been anywhere this big for several months. There was indeed an outdoor store, The Fifth Season mountain shop, and it was excellent. After much deliberation and against the advice of the staff who couldn’t believe I was going to try and hike 1200 miles in them I bought a pair of lightweight trail shoes, which was a new concept in hiking footwear in 1982. I was not yet totally convinced this was a good idea – in my journal I wrote ‘I hope this is sensible!’ Throwing caution to the winds I sent home both boots and running shoes.

There were other purchases too. Larry was very pleased at being able to buy a fuel cap for his stove. I bought one too, just in case. Other additions to my load were a tiny guide to Pacific Coast trees and a rather heavier guide to the birds of the Western USA plus a couple of novels. The most expensive item was a camera lens. Since ruining my 75-150 zoom lens during a creek ford in the High Sierra I had been left with just a 28mm wide angle lens, which was fine for big spreading landscapes but rather limited for some other shots. (Why I’d only taken those two lenses I don’t know now, presumably to save weight). In Mount Shasta I found a photographic store and bought a 50mm lens, which would be good for close-ups of flowers, self-portraits and other pictures where the 28mm wasn’t ideal. It also meant I had two lenses in case I wrecked another one.

At Castella Larry and I finally parted. It was nearly three months since I’d hiked alone and I was looking forward to the solitude and the freedom to make decisions as and when I chose. I now had 1200 or so miles to myself. Unsurprisingly my first decision was to have a leisurely breakfast while Larry’s was to set off within minutes of waking up. My pack was heavy as it was 160 miles to Seiad Valley so I was carrying ten days supplies, though I hoped it would take less time than that (it took eight days in fact). The PCT makes a huge loop westwards here, leaving the Cascades for the Klamath Mountains, before returning back east. From the map it would seem more logical just to head north and cut the distance. But long distance-hiking isn’t about logical routes, it’s about the best routes, which means the most scenic, adventurous, challenging and exciting, and the Castella to Seiad Valley section went through the most impressive mountain landscapes since the High Sierra. There were magnificent forests too and two wilderness areas (four now, two having been designated since my walk). However there were also logged areas and rather too many ugly road scars. Wilderness here felt constrained some of the time.

As was now usual when leaving supply points there was a steep climb to start with, this time up 4,000 feet, an ascent mitigated by superb views of the huge cliffs and sharp spires of Castle Crags, now the centrepiece of the Castle Crags Wilderness Area. The trail was often in low chaparral- type bushes rather than forest, which was great for the views but not for shade from the hot sun. At one point a big green rattlesnake lying on the trail gave me a fright when I suddenly spotted it not far ahead. I hadn’t seen one since the desert and had forgotten all about them. This snake didn’t rattle but just crawled slowly away while keeping an eye on me.

I quickly adjusted to being on my own, relishing going at my own pace, stopping when I wanted and camping when and where I liked. I also started to see more wildlife and soon realised just how much more disturbance is caused by two people compared with one. Mule deer were common, some with fauns, and I saw another bear, further away this time, and many birds, only some of which I could identify. Less pleasant were the nasty biting flies that became increasingly common. The dry terrain meant there were few mosquitoes but also not many creeks so I had to carry water some of the time. Although walking alone I did meet other people both on the trail and at camp sites as the summer hiking season was now in full swing.

I was also soon very pleased with my new footwear, the shoes proving much cooler than the boots whilst giving more support than the running shoes. I also felt more secure now I had footwear that wasn’t falling apart. However other equipment was beginning to show signs of wear. My clothes had many holes in, especially my shorts, but most serious was a problem with my pack. I’d noticed since Castella that it seemed to press on one hip and felt unbalanced. I thought I must have packed it badly but on examining it one evening I discovered that the internal metal frame had snapped at one corner so that side was less supportive than the other. The frame was bolted and sewn-in, making removal difficult, and the pack was a British make so I doubted I could have the frame replaced here. It looked like I needed a new pack, an expense I could do without. That would have to wait until I found another outdoor store though. In the meantime I had to manage with the discomfort. I remembered the pack bouncing and bursting open as it slid down Glen Pass back in the High Sierra. The frame had probably been weakened then. Just to add to my annoyance I also discovered I’d lost my Swiss Army Knife.

Mount Shasta still dominated the views though I was now heading away from it towards the peaks of the Trinity Alps and the Marble Mountains. The PCT cuts through a corner of the first and then spends rather more time in the second. These would be the first wilderness areas for quite a while and I was looking forward to being away from logged areas for more than short periods of time.

The trails initially were well-maintained and well-blazed with many PCT markers. This ended abruptly when I left Shasta-Trinity National Forest for Klamath National Forest. Immediately all the blazes and markers ended and I promptly took the wrong trail, though only for a few yards as I quickly realised it was heading the wrong way.

For one day I was in the Salmon Trinity Alps Primitive Area (designated the Trinity Alps Wilderness in 1984), enjoyable wild country with rugged rocky ridges and beautiful lakes, then it was back into Klamath National Forest with its continuing lack of signs and plenty of side trails where I could go wrong so I had to concentrate on the route. Although the mountains here were much lower than those in the High Sierra, apart from the stratovolcanoes with summits in the 7,000-9,000 feet range, timberline was also much lower at around 6,000 feet (due to being at a higher latitude) so the rise above the forests was about the same. The PCT was often at or above timberline between Castella and Seiad Valley so there were more views and less forest walking than in the lower section before Castella. The timberline trees here were often western white pines and I noticed that they had downward curved snow-shedding branches like the red firs, something they’d lacked in the High Sierra where they grew lower down.

As I traversed on a good trail above the South Russian River I had my third bear sighting, this one quite a small animal that ran off crashing through the undergrowth as soon as it saw me. This area wasn’t a designated wilderness when I was there but just two years later it became the Russian Wilderness to protect the granite peaks, glaciated valleys, lovely lakes and magnificent forests. I had a camp by Paynes Lake, set in a beautiful glacial cirque with a steep rocky peak at its head and big red firs and mountain hemlocks on its shores. Other hikers were leaving as I arrived, one of them with a pack donkey. No-one else arrived and I had one of the most beautiful campsites for many weeks to myself.

Mount Shasta came into view again as I approached the Marble Mountain Wilderness. It didn’t seem to be getting any further away. The landscape became more rugged and dramatic as I entered the Marble Mountains, especially on a traverse around Kidder Valley. There was much rock, snow and meltwater along with many nice little mountain pools. I was even more impressed on my second day in the Marble Mountains starting my journal entry with ‘A splendid day! Best mountain scenery since the High Sierra’. Timberline trails, lovely high mountain pools, marble pavements with above the rocky peaks of Black Mountain and Marble Mountain itself DASH this was wonderful hiking country. Some of the peaks, notably Black Mountain, were built of pale limestone with dark caps of metamorphic rock and reminded me slightly of the hills Penyghent and Ingleborough in the limestone country of the Yorkshire Dales in the Pennine hills of England.

Other hikers warned me that bears sometimes raided camp sites here so as there was plenty of bear dung on the trail I hung my food at my one camp in the Marble Mountain Wilderness. Although I had no views from this camp below Buckhorn Mountain the fine trees made up for it as did the bird life. Two kestrels flew overhead as I approached the site and once camp was made I watched three red-breasted nuthatches flitting about in the branches above my tent. High above a red-tailed hawk circled then a tiny rufous humming bird flew into camp and whirred in front of a flower before buzzing away.

One more day of hiking and I arrived in Seiad Valley beside the Klamath River. The last seven miles were a hot and tiring road walk, necessary because of the need to use the highway bridge across the river and because the land alongside the river is private and there’s no access for hikers. The town was another tiny one set in a steep-sided canyon but as elsewhere it had the necessary facilities for hikers – post office, café, store, laundromat and shower. I was surprised (and pleased) to meet Larry here as I’d guessed he would be far ahead by now. He had taken two fewer days than me to get here but was then held up because the post was delayed and he needed his supply parcel as it contained new boots. Apparently this delay was due to a chemical spill on Interstate 5. We pondered how events outside the wilds and seemingly irrelevant to the PCT can still have an effect. In Seiad Valley I also learnt that the smoke I could see to the west was from a big forest fire covering 2000 acres. I hoped it wouldn’t advance near the trail.

In my mail were the maps for Oregon. Soon I would be leaving California, having walked some 1500 miles through the State. Mike had sent more copies of the North Lake Tahoe Bonanza which I mailed to Warren and TO friends and family back home and also to Delree, the woman who’d given us a life into Los Angeles from Acton to buy gear for the High Sierra, as I had a letter from her with a new address – she’d left Acton and moved into L.A. I gave a copy of the newspaper article to the store owner too, who put it up on the wall. Also in my mail was a new pair of shorts – ‘just in time!’ I wrote in my journal. The old ones were becoming rather risqué.

Larry’s new boots finally arrived the next day and we left Seiad Valley together for the usual steep hot dry climb, this one for 3700 feet to Lookout Spring where we found a trail crew at work. The leader, Bill, had built the stone trough and put in the pipe for the spring four years earlier and was now clearing it out and putting up a sign. He and his partner were out for 10 days on the PCT doing trail work with four horses for themselves and their supplies. We were grateful for their work and especially the spring, whose water we drank copiously. Setting out in the middle of the day, necessary due to waiting for Larry’s boots, was not a good idea. Early morning would have been far cooler for this steep climb.

Leaving the trail crew at their work and with full water containers we went on a short distance to the Lower Devils Peak Lookout, which lay at the end of a narrow rocky ridge. The old disused lookout was just a roofless shell set on a small flat area above steep drops. The place made for a fine campsite with wide-ranging views. A red sunset and a bright half-moon lit the sky and I was looking forward to sleeping out in such a splendid spot. Mosquitoes defeated this idea however and, as I had for many nights now, I pitched the tent to fend them off.

Larry left an hour before me the next morning. I never saw him again. Hiking together had worked well and we’d become friends without ever being really close. I realised that I didn’t actually know that much about him. We’d not discussed our home lives much or our views on matters outside hiking and the wilderness. Mostly we didn’t talk at all beyond practical matters to do with the days hike and camp site. He’d been part of my life for most of three months however and suddenly he vanished from it.

With my new tree guide I was able to identify two new ones the next day – graceful Brewers Spruce and sparse Knobcone Pine. I was still enjoying the wide range of trees in the forests, something that was to be one of my main memories of the PCT. The day was again hot and there was no water on the trail except for a couple of springs. I camped by the second one at Alex Hole. The guidebook said the next water sources were 15 and 25 miles away so I’d need to carry full bottles from here. I was now heading back east to the Cascades at the end of the PCT’s loop into the Klamath Mountains.

‘A lazy day. That is, I felt slow but still did 16 miles’ is the start of my entry for the next day. Somewhere on a heavily logged slope I crossed into Oregon, saying farewell to California after 1550 miles and four months. The border was unmarked and the location uninspiring. Today there’s a PCT sign and a hiker registration box. Overall it was a day of pleasant hill crest walking with many views – Mount Shasta still and my first glimpse of Mount McLoughlin, the first volcano in Oregon.

Along the trail I found several notes giving route advice addressed to Susie, who I’d last seen two weeks before, from one Jay J.Johnson, who I’d heard about from other hikers. He was on an amazing journey. Nearly nine months previously he’d set off to walk south on the 2,000 mile Appalachian Trail in the Eastern USA, then row through the Everglades, cycle across Texas and start back north on the PCT. I wondered if I’d meet him and hear about this epic journey. The notes were untouched but old-looking, which suggested Susie was some way behind me and even more behind Jay.

Apart from the notes several kestrels, one harrying a soaring red-tailed hawk, a couple of deer and some crashing, whirring blue grouse were all that added interest to the walking until I reached Wrangle Gap Camp, described in the guidebook as ‘the answer to an exhausted hiker’s prayer. This little-used recreation site …. has a large stone shelter complete with fireplace, 2 stoves, tables and even a sink with running water!’ Given this description I was a little surprised when I arrived to discover ranks of white tents and a shelter full of trestle tables and cooking gear. Even more startling were the lines of people sitting at desks writing away furiously! A bizarre sight in this forest setting, looking as it did like a displaced examination room. Which, in fact, was what it was for the writers were students on a geology course finishing their final reports. Being outnumbered I camped some distance away in the woods and managed to do without the sink and its running water. Later in the evening I chatted to the friendly students who were from the Southern Oregon University in Ashland.