My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking (2 page)

  Those two trips showed me that I had a lot to learn. I was carrying car camping gear on backpacking trips. It was heavy and not really effective nor efficient. I had a small flashlight, changes of clothes, a big freestanding tent, and an inexpensive, heavy sleeping bag. The cooking system mimicked a campfire. It was sooty, messy, heavy, and time consuming. I carried extra paraphernalia that was never even touched.

  I loved thinking about the self-sufficiency; power and adventure of trail life. Sadly the realization struck; I was going nowhere. All the gear I created and sewed would do me no good. My life was
shaped
by the doctrine of a male dominated, fundamentalist church, locked in
to
a loveless marriage to a man demanding I give up my interests. If you give up your interests and passions, then you give up your identity.

  His decision was final, no more backpacking for me. Obey, or be thrown out. I thought
i
f I quit attending that church and the lock of marriage was broken, the door
to a new life
would open and I could go free. But th
at life
had been built for 25 years, firmly cemented into a foundation of fear and guilt. It would take over 5,000 trail miles and three years to break down most of them. 

Transition

  My husband issued a list of ultimatums, limiting my freedom and personal choices even more. He planned to sell the car he had given me, and keep the money himself. All the clothes that I wore and all videos I wanted to see would be subject to his approval. I must quit the job I had just found, and have no personal money. I could not go on existing like this. The will to live had drained away, just as my identity had. When I wouldn’t agree to his terms, the line was drawn, and he coerced me to leave the family home “for the children’s sake”. He felt I was corrupting our children.

  Several months after my divorce, I moved to the mountains of Georgia. I was hired immediately by a hospital as a full time cook.  Rainmaker and I had met in a hiking-oriented Internet chat room previously. When he extended the invitation to accompany him for his second year’s hike on the Pacific Crest Trail in 2000, I accepted without hesitation. The previous year, 1999, he hiked from the Mexican border, just south of Campo, California, to Sonora Pass, California. He would resume at Sonora Pass in the High Sierra in July, and reach Crater Lake by mid September. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Rainmaker was incredibly experienced, and I expected to learn a great deal. I got much more than I bargained for.

Chapter Two

Pacific Crest Trail 2000

   David “Rainmaker” Mauldin thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail in 1992.  His journey was 2,162 miles, and lasted seven and a half months. One evening he suggested, “You should write down why you want to do this. Some people think it’s all about fun. Then, when it quits being fun, they go home.”

   At first I resisted, thinking, “I have no clue. Why does there have to be a reason? Why does it need an explanation?” But, because of my great respect for him, I took a lot of time to think it over, pondering the purpose while earning enough money cooking at a hospital. Finally, in February 2000, I wrote this:

I guess that’s what my purpose in pursuing these trails is,
to use and explore every inch and fiber
of myself, of my world.
Pressing to the outer limits of my abilities,
and when I have been there, to press further.
Wondering if what I am will serve.

Hoping to realize that what I am has served.

There is a line in the movie Ben Hur.
In the hull of the slave galley,
where the men are chained to their oars,
the captain of the ship warns them,
"You are here to serve this ship. Row well, and live."
That line always runs through my mind when I think of my body.
It is here to serve my purposes.
I feed it, and allow it rest,
but I chain it to my will.

Soloing on the Pacific Crest Trail 2001

Some athletes have that sort of attitude.
The record setters.
Not content with what has been done.
Looking to push the limits.
Asking their body for more.

Survival, in extreme conditions has always fascinated me.
It takes an indomitable spirit.
Willingness to do whatever it takes, and never say die.
There are stories of men and women eating ants,
bark, cadavers, and sled teams.
Reports of coming back from nowhere,
when given up weeks earlier as dead.

People improvising shelters and clothing, living and surviving.
Forcing their bodies on,
though in pain and agony.
It’s not fun.
It’s not a good time.
It’s life with the minimum of resources.
But I think it then becomes
the ultimate experience.

So I am wondering.

Wondering what every mountaintop will feel like.
Wondering what each valley will hold.
Wondering what it will be like to ask my whole being
to surrender to the primitiveness of self-reliance.
I am not going alone this time,
but it is my responsibility to hike the miles, and survive.
I am not afraid.
It takes a measure of misery to make memories.

I think I will love it all.

Until then I will be wondering.

   It took a lot of emotional energy to write those lines. They come back to me unexpectedly during difficult times on the trail. Pressing the outer limits of my abilities, and when I have done that, to press further. It amazes me what inner strength can be summoned, and I am forced to wonder, are there really any limits?

   As I started assembling my gear for this two-month journey I soon realized Rainmaker would have to be asked for his advice. He never boasts or brags and his wealth of knowledge is not revealed unless requested. He has hiked the European Alps solo, forced to stay in his tent for three days while stranded by a snowstorm, reading by candlelight, listening to the avalanches nearby. He has cooked supper in Denali Park, Alaska, while watching a pair of grizzlies playing and roughhousing just a hundred and fifty yards away. All over Europe and the United States, Rainmaker has gathered a wealth of knowledge. He will share it willingly, but only if I asked.

   My gear for this first long journey finally assembled, included:
A North Face synthetic, youth sleeping bag, rated for 20 degrees which weighed 2 pounds, and a Z-rest sleeping pad, cut to a length of 36 inches, weighed 8 ounces.

   Rainmaker showed me his esbit stove, and I bought one just like it. It uses solid fuel tablets, and is the size of a stack of playing cards. Twenty-four hexamine tablets, a lighter, some matches, a 20-ounce capacity aluminum pot with lid (found at a garage sale), aluminum foil windscreen, plastic cup and spoon together weighed in at 16 ounces. That was my cooking system.

   To carry water I used four 32-ounce capacity plastic soda bottles (6 ounces) and one 20-ounce capacity plastic sports bottle (1 ounce).
   My external backpack weighed 2 pounds, 14 ounces and my silnylon pack cover weighed 2 ounces.
   The Murphy bag (basically a repair kit), and medical bag were 8 ounces. It included a pack pin and ring, safety pins, electrical tape, needle and thread, a couple rubber bands, Imodium (anti-diarrhea tablets), sunscreen, Ibuprofen, Neosporin, a one ounce bottle of rubbing alcohol, and cotton balls.
   My personal hygiene kit with toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, lotion, comb, toilet paper and trowel weighed 6 ounces.
   Tyvek ground cloth, and aluminum stakes together weighed 17 ounces. The tyvek was my part of the shelter that we brought. The new, two-person tent I made, the Lakota, weighed 2 pounds, 2 ounces. Rainmaker carried it.

The Lakota tent Rainmaker and I designed together. It has a 5x7 foot floor, a front and rear vestibule, and Velcro closures. There is over 30 feet of Velcro on this ultralight tent. It was our home for 9 weeks.

  The clothes I brought
included a pair of full-length Lycra pants, and some nylon shorts for town weighing 11 ounces (for both). I had two pairs of 100% nylon socks, a pair of heavy socks, undergarments, and nylon scarf all weighing only 6 ounces total. I carried three shirts, a 100% silk long sleeve shirt for 3 ounces, another 100% polyester sports-shirt that also weighed 3 ounces, and a pullover sweater (30% wool, 70% acrylic) that weighed 8 ounces. I felt well prepared.

  Some kid size, knit, stretch gloves; a pair of waterproof gloves used for kitchen work, a balaclava, and small fleece mittens weighed about 5 ounces. My sandals were a whopping 7 ounces. I made some silnylon gaiters that registered 1 ounce on the scale. I had a blue rain jacket, black rain pants, and a mosquito head net. Combined weight was 11 ounces.

  I started the hike wearing
tights, 100% nylon shorts, nylon socks, and Jordache long sleeve shirt totaling 14 ounces. My broad brimmed cap weighed 2 ounces. I left Sonora Pass carrying a fanny pack, with a compass, mosquito repellent, and a disposable camera. That weighed 8 ounces. Some anti-bacterial towelettes and a bandana were 8 more ounces. Then, my hiking poles were 18 ounces, and my ice ax, a gift from Rainmaker, another 18 ounces. The Photon light, a spring-loaded utility knife and cord were the last ounce. Total weight for all of this was 17 pounds, 10 ounces.

   I was very proud of this pack weight at the time. Everything listed seemed essential. I give Rainmaker much credit for allowing me to learn gently, without forcing any of his ways on me. He taught by example and never by sermons.

   On July 6, 2000 Rainmaker and I began our drive to Sonora Pass, California. We drove 27 hours straight, taking turns at the wheel. Finally leaving Kansas, we stopped the following morning in Limon, Colorado. We looked forward to twenty-three hours of rest in a motel. There was no use wearing ourselves out on the road driving, when we had an 800-mile hike ahead of us.

   The beautiful panorama of Colorado was breathtaking. All across the western horizon, distant snowcapped mountains loomed. That fantastic scenery along the highway would soon be our daily bread. We spent Saturday night at a motel in Salina, Utah, and arrived at my sister’s house around 8 p.m. Sunday. We visited a couple days there, then along with her family, drove to Sonora Pass and camped Thursday night. After an extremely windy night, Rainmaker and I packed up, kissed my sister and nieces goodbye, shook hands with my dear brother-in-law and headed out at 7:00 a.m. It was scary. Did I have everything I would need for the next week? There were no towns to use as bail out points before we reached Echo Lake, seventy-six trail miles away. Did I know Rainmaker well enough to hike with him, alone, into the wilderness? This first morning he looked quite fearsome, with a quiet, determined demeanor. He reminded me of that man I saw hike down alone from the mountains in Idaho, so strong, so self-sufficient. He didn’t need me to survive, but I sure needed him.

   Sonora Pass northward in July is the most beautiful flower garden, with every color, size, and shape clustered in artistic arrangements. With a backdrop of 10,000 ft. mountains we crossed two snowy sections of trail. If necessary, we would use our ice axes. I had so much to look at, and think about, it was totally incredible. I felt like a country girl visiting New York City for the first time.
   There was abundant water, many runoffs from snowmelt, a couple rivers and a lake. In some places, the trail went straight up a snowfield or crossed a river. I finally concluded that it was not necessary to carry 2-3 quarts of water at all times. The scenery exceeded my greatest expectations. I was hooked. Words couldn’t describe the splendor, photography can’t capture it, and a video camera would fail miserably. I marveled at the extremes, a huge mountain, and yet a skinny narrow treadway winding up and over it. The incongruity of massive snowfields and acres of delicate flowers thriving nearby. The incredibly wild and unpredictable environment, yet the wonderful ambience of being home.

   Just before stopping one day, we worked our way down some treacherous trail. The PCT is nothing to play around with. A misstep could be fatal. I saw Rainmaker ahead of me, and thought, what a paradox. Here we were in a wild, unforgiving place, with wind, heat, snow, narrow loose trail, and enormous blowdowns. Then, here was a man, prepared to meet it all with just what’s on his back, and he’s comfortable with this. Astounding. That evening, David found a campsite nestled just above a wide stream, swollen with snowmelt. He taught me that in the evenings, when you cross water, you will generally find a camp site that has been used previously, if you look hard enough. Someone before us had this same need, and if we looked diligently, we might avail ourselves of their labor.

  We generally slept with our food in our tent, prepared to defend it, reasoning that the bears here were wild and unaccustomed to people. Hunting in season was permitted, keeping the wildlife skittish. We averaged 14 miles a day. Later that first week, though, a sudden thunderstorm kept us pinned down under the shelter of a stand of tall pines for a couple hours. We hiked a modest 13 miles, but were satisfied just to be alive.

  I learned so much. Rainmaker would give lessons periodically on maps and navigation: how to decipher topography maps, coordinate them with the guide book, and then take readings with the compass set with the proper declination. The ability to match the blue contour lines in the book with the mountains surrounding us on the trail seemed to be a magical gift. One day, I hoped to possess it.

  Another day we hiked for over an hour on a narrow, loose, rocky ledge along a mountain ridge 1000 feet above Blue Lake. The gale force winds made it very difficult to breath, much less make progress. We both managed to keep our hats, which were tightly cinched with chin cords sewn on before leaving home.

  Let nobody tell you it’s summer there. I wore all the clothes I brought just about every night. I slept in a 20-degree synthetic bag. Rainmaker wore thermal underwear, a balaclava, fleece hat, and rain parka. We sat in our sleeping bags while cooking outside.

  Each morning we woke about 6 a.m. and cooked our breakfasts, each on our own stove. By 7:30 we were packed and on the trail. After a couple hours hiking we took a snack break. Then, around noon we would stop for an hour lunch break. Three hours after resuming, we would take an afternoon snack break. By 5 pm we were looking for a campsite large enough for our tent, preferably with water close by. The Lakota was light, but it required a lengthy tent site. It measured, with its vestibules on either end, 12 feet long and 5 feet wide. We could sit up in it, and enter and exit without climbing over each other. Rainmaker had a tent zipper fail in the High Sierra the previous year, so he requested that for this new tent we use Velcro closures. The amount of Velcro on that first tent I made was incredible. There was over 30 feet of both hook and loop strips. It was my first experience sewing with silnylon, and a bigger project than I anticipated. Both front and back screen doors, and front and back silnylon storm doors had Velcro on the vertical sides. If the hook strips would contact the screen, it was very difficult to remove without ripping the screen. If a portion of the front Velcro became attached to some portion of the back door Velcro, once stuffed into its storage sack, it became a bundle of confusion. The entire tent was gray, which made it was very hard to tell the floor from the canopy when the Velcro was all tangled. To rectify this technical problem I learned that when taking it down in the mornings, all of the Velcro had to be completely matched in its proper position in order to identify its parts when pulling it from its stuff sack in the evenings.

   The first week nearly over, our food bags almost empty, we happily hiked into Echo Lake Resort. From there we hitched into South Lake Tahoe. This would be my first resupply ever. I had no idea then how unusual it was to have such a large town for our convenience.     Resupplying for 106 miles is quite an endeavor. We estimated it would take 8 days on the trail. Cooking separately was much easier for us than trying to negotiate what to have for meals and snacks. This section I opted for SUGAR! Last section I had mixed nuts, granola, and beef jerky, all high fat, but low sugar. All the things the books say you need. This time I gave into complex and simple carbohydrates. It seemed that’s what my body craved.

The following directions I wrote in my journal on how to resupply food:
1. Find a decent grocery store and/or a Big K.
2. Buy everything you’re craving, think you might crave, looks good and is cheap.
3. Carry it “home”.
4. Dump onto your bed all food leftover from last week’s section.
5. Dump all the food you just bought onto the bed.
6. Groan, grimace and swear!
7. Remove all excess packing, piling into, covering and burying what is commonly referred to as a “waste basket”.
8. Condense various foodstuffs into plastic zip lock bags, placing them into stuff sacks. Nibbles are allowed.
9. Shuffle backpack contents over and over till this mass fits and is reasonably stable for carrying through the Wilderness.

  We mailed home our ice axes, my gaiters, a pair of socks, journal pages and a few other non-essential things. I was anxious to get back to the peace and solitude of the mountains. Rainmaker, pleased that I chose to resupply and get back on the trail, admitted he’d had some doubt about whether I would commit to another section. It seemed I was starting to get the hang of this.  We were really weighed down with food for the 106 miles to Sierra City, making the inevitable climb out of town into the mountains laborious. Not knowing what new adventures lay ahead was incredible. Thankfully, I no longer felt so bewildered by the data book.

  This section offered opportunities to cool off in ice-cold lakes during lunch breaks. We met a lot of weekenders, Forest Service workers and thru-hikers. My opinion of long distance hikers had grown. All those I met (up to that point) were intelligent, articulate, and very kind. I suppose I officially joined their ranks, having resupplied and recommitted myself to this wonderful wilderness experience.
  We each had our aches and pains, but that is the nature of a long hike. It became normal to wake up stiff, hobble around for a while, and then pack up. Once hiking, the stiffness dissipated, but injuries would flare up. Rainmaker and I have concurred that on the trail; “What don’t kill you, hurts like hell!”

  It was great how quickly we lost track of the days and numbers on a calendar. Concerning dates, the only difference it made to us was the possibility of seeing a lot of weekenders or if we would get to the post office in time to pick up our much needed drop/bounce boxes. Besides our hexamine (fuel) tablets, they held various medicines, vitamins, laundry powder, guide pages, writing paper, aluminum foil for new windscreens, zip lock bags, sun block, spare gloves, tent stakes, postal tape, bandanas and most importantly, instant coffee.

  Standards changed. It used to bother me if anything was in my drinking or cooking water. Now I just thought in terms of parts per million. However, I refused to drink anything looking at me from inside my water bottle. Hiking clothes were washed in streams whenever possible. In the extreme heat of the day, I would strip my shirt off, rinse it in the cold stream, and redress, right on trail. Obviously, the wildness of a long distance hiker was seeping into me, and the contrivances of civilization were falling away.

  My first live wild bear encounter happened during our lunch break at a wooden bridge spanning a creek. We had left our packs leaning against a nearby tree, washed in the water without soap and ate while sitting on the bridge. I heard a loud crash in the woods but said nothing, thinking, like a city girl would, that kids were tearing around out there. After lunch we went to get our packs and heard more crashing. Rainmaker looked at me and said, “I think it’s a bear.” Craning my head around the trail to see, not 50 ft. from us, a bear was doing the same. It was startling to see this cinnamon colored creature; he appeared comical with his curiosity and reminded me of a Disney character. Rainmaker had put his pack on already and commanded, “Carol, get your pack on.” Then we stood watching the bear. Suddenly, he started walking down the trail towards us. Rainmaker calmly moved off to the left and I followed close behind him, frightened at the bear’s direct approach. He picked up some rocks, so I grabbed a big one, too. The bear swerved to the left, then Rainmaker moved back on the trail. We watched as the bear ambled off into the woods, then Rainmaker told me, “I think he’s been cut loose from his mother recently and he’s not doing well.  He is looking for something to eat.” I remembered the trout we saw swimming in our lunchtime creek and hoped he would catch some.

  We hiked into the little town of Sierra City, population 228. There we ate supper at a nice restaurant and reserved 2 nights in Sierra Buttes Hotel, reputedly a brothel in the old days. This town’s only store proved a more challenging resupply, with its tiny deli and shelf selection. I bought candy, pop tarts, bagels, and ramen. A hiker box sat on a bench outside the store; Rainmaker told me I could take anything out of it I wanted. It had stuff other hikers left for that purpose, either not wanting to carry it, or being superfluous drop box items. Rather than throwing supplies away, a small cardboard box was found and labeled for the benefit of other hikers. This was right up my alley. I rummaged through the contents and from the box selected a jar of peanut butter for my bagels, and some powdered drink mix.

  Rainmaker used a long plastic toolbox for his “bounce box”.  It started out weighing about 19 pounds. He shipped it parcel post, insured. I used a “drop box”, a small cardboard box, shipped only once and containing supplies I anticipated needing at that point. There were 2 more bounce boxes sent to me by my sister farther up the trail. My first box weighed around 3 ½ pounds, and was uninsured. Rainmaker was able to shift through his entire inventory, choosing what he needed and bounce the rest ahead.  I had to buy stuff here, like a spray can of insect repellent, 20% Deet, that I wouldn’t normally choose. Not thinking I would need another bottle of 100% Deet until farther up the trail, I put one in my next drop box! Rainmaker paid $1 more in postage than I did and saved money in these small towns.  Next year I will definitely opt for a bounce box.

  We found interesting things on the trail. The list included: several apples in various places (which we split and ate), a valid credit card (Keith, where are you??), $.49 (in various locations), Aloe lip sun block, rated SPF 30 and perfectly good, a wrapped piece of root beer barrel candy, and a large man’s left tennis shoe next to the trail, with this note firmly attached: “For sale or rent. For more information, see One-Shoe-Pete at Switchback 95.” Then later on, a nearly new, rolled up tent laying on top a rock next to the trail. We lifted the package, evaluated the situation, and decided that no way would we haul it the remaining 35 miles to Old Station to mail it home.

  Crossing a stream in Lassen Park I found my magic trail spoon. It’s best not to turn down gifts from the trail gods, or they will quit giving stuff to you. That same metal spoon has been with me on all my hikes. It is my only eating utensil.