Days 66-74, Miles 903-1,017: Grind and Grandeur

On the first day of July, we started our morning by hiking across a frozen lake. Narnia's White Witch would love it out here. The Sierras are relentless this year, but we're inching north, knocking out snowy passes and swollen river crossings—even though most of this year's hikers have opted to skip north or quit. We've been told the Sierras are impassable until the snow recedes, off-limits to all but the most experienced mountaineers. Most of our friends have decided to flip ahead to drier sections. We rarely see other hikers on the trail anymore, walking for days by ourselves, sighting deer prints in the snow more often than footprints. So why are we still out here? It's not because we're reckless or dismissive of the danger. But we set out to do a continuous hike from Mexico to California. This is the one chance we'll ever get to do it. And hiking through the Sierras in 2017 will rank among the most epic, trying, rewarding feats we've ever done. We have nothing but respect for those who've opted to wait out the Sierra section of the trail. There was no "right" decision to be made, and we all had very little information to go on. It was a tough call, and the snow confronted everyone with myriad unknowns. But we feel we've been able to tackle it safely. We carry extra days of food in case an unforeseen challenge forces us to backtrack and bail out. We map out backup routes and escape plans. We hike long distances off the trail until we find a safe place to cross each swollen current. We take slow, considered paths down the steepest slopes, taking the time to kick in footholds when necessary. We fall down a lot, we get soaked in raging streams every day—but we've yet to thrust ourselves into a life-or-death situation. And we don't plan to. On Day 66, Matt, Gravy and I headed back to the trail, refreshed from a zero day in Mammoth Lakes. We'd gone mini golfing, hit a brewery with Stef—a friend from earlier in the trail—and enjoyed a delicious dinner with our trail angels. We barely reached the trailhead when dark clouds appeared overhead and thunder began to echo through the mountains. Less than half a mile into our hike, we set up camp to wait out the storm. Though the clouds only brought light showers throughout the afternoon, we were content to cozy up in our tents. I napped for a couple hours and read a book and a half on my Kindle. It was our first time taking a zero day on the actual trail, and the unscheduled relaxation was welcomed. We got back to hiking the following day, enjoying some miles at lower elevation where the snow is less omnipresent. A side trail to Devil's Postpile beckoned, and we enjoyed a view of the formation before rejoining the PCT. 

At lunch, I discovered that the flavored Mio electrolyte beverages we add to our water make perfect snow cones when squirted into ice carved from the snowpack. We knocked out 20 miles before we made camp, our longest day in weeks.

We didn't hike long on Day 68 before we saw bear tracks in the mud. We've barely seen any other hikers since we left Mammoth Lakes, but we're definitely not alone out here. Soon after, we saw two big bucks in a herd of deer, an animal we spot on a daily basis. 

We made our way past a frozen lake to a pass. I always eat a Snickers to celebrate climbing over each mountain pass, but when we actually descended to get to Island Pass, I decided it hadn't earned the Snickers distinction. Try harder, Island Pass. 

That afternoon, I got my Snickers fix at a real pass. We had to do miles of climbing through slushy, open snowfields to get to Donohue Pass. The final two miles, I took off, churning uphill as fast as I could slog through the snow. Halfway up, I was panting hard, but kept up the tempo. Near the top, we had to climb over some boulders, and my wobbly legs almost failed me. At the summit, we flopped down with goofy grins, drawing the biggest lungfuls of air we could muster. We'd just knocked out a big pass in a single charge, and we settled into a satisfied exhaustion, that last-sprint-at-basketball-practice feeling. 

We hiked a steep descent on the far side of the pass and found a dry spot to camp in the valley below. At Donohue Pass, we'd entered Yosemite National Park, and the following day marked a special return for me and Matt. Yosemite was where we fell in love with the Sierras and got the first inkling of doing a thru-hike. It's the park that sparked our PCT adventure. We hiked through a long, flat valley, through trail swamped with water. Soon, we reached Tuolumne Meadows, finding the spot where we waited two years ago to get our wilderness permits. This time, Tuolumne was a ghost town, as the mountain road leading up to it had still not yet opened to the public after months of plowing. We did find one ranger who told us that some hikers were turning back after hearing about dangerous stream crossings ahead. This was not new information, and we were prepared to turn around if we came across anything too dangerous. We just had to see for ourselves. We thanked her and continued on. 

As we hiked deeper in Yosemite, we basked in gorgeous green meadows and reveled in the thunder of Tuolumne Falls. We gazed in awe at Yosemite's famous granite domes and peaks.

For Matt and I, it was a reminder of why we're out here, seeing familiar sights that awed us two years ago and new ones around seemingly every corner. Day 70 started with another leisurely meadow hike, but the placid beginning wouldn't last. We had the first of many tough crossings at Return Creek. Walking downstream, we eventually found a spot that looked possible to ford. We decided to try the "I" method, walking single file, facing the current and holding onto each other's packs. As the heaviest, I got the honor of going in front. This meant I would face the current and lean into it, hopefully giving Matt and Gravy enough wake to draft behind me in less turgid water. With their increased stability, they could support me as I faced the brunt of the current. This method proved effective, even if it left me particularly soaked, and we slowly worked our way across. Another creek waited a few miles ahead—Spiller, supposedly the most dangerous of all. We lucked out and found a fallen log that got us within easy jumping distance of a boulder on the other side. 

After a few more fords, we continued down the PCT, which was, as usual, totally flooded. So much snowmelt is coming down that the slight trough of the trail has become a conduit for streams from above. 

Sloshing through, Gravy and I noticed small fish swimming ahead of us. He ran up the trail and chased one back toward me. I blocked its escape route with my feet and he scooped it out of the water with his hands. So, when I tell you that Gravy caught a trout on the PCT, I mean he caught it WITH HIS BARE HANDS ON THE ACTUAL TRAIL. As fish stories go, I think that one is hard to top. (We released the trout and it thanked us for the valuable lesson about swimming in a walking path)

We knocked out another pass early the next day, ascending while the snow was still hard. Later, we forded a slow but deep creek on a partially submerged log. Gravy slipped and fell in, but scrambled back up before his gear got too soaked. After another pass, we made a steep decline to Kerrick Creek. We'd heard other hikers had crossed on snow bridges, but we found only one and decided it was too tenuous to attempt to cross. We hiked the steep snowbank above the raging current, looking in vain for a place to cross. As it got later, we realized we'd have to make camp and keep looking downstream in the morning. Looking at the map, we realized the creek funneled through a canyon, slimming our odds of finding a gentle crossing. 

Hiking the final stretch, I walked down over a few boulders, a pretty ordinary couple of steps. Nearing the bottom, my foot slipped—my legs went one way and my torso went the other. I fell off the boulder and onto a rock several feet below, all of my weight landing on my left arm. Based on the force of the impact, Gravy and I assumed it was broken. Further examination revealed that I'd gotten lucky—deep gashes on my left elbow, several cuts on my left knee and right arm and a deep bruise on my left thigh. Nothing broken, nothing I can't hike on. I made camp that night in a lot of pain, and all of us were weighed down by the uncertainty of Kerrick. If we couldn't find a crossing in a couple miles, we'd have little option but to turn back and admit defeat. It wasn't something we wanted to consider. We decided to sleep in (this means waking up at 6 a.m. in hiker-speak), knowing I would be sore and moving slowly in the morning. Plus, if we did find a crossing, we wanted to have sunlight to warm us up after getting soaked in frigid water. This proved to be a fortuitous decision. As we broke camp late on Day 72, another hiker emerged from the woods. We were surprised, as we hadn't seen anyone in days. We were utterly stunned when it proved to be El Tigre. After 454 miles of hiking together, we'd parted ways at Hiker Heaven, and we hadn't seen him in the 500+ miles since. We were equally shocked to see each other and quickly followed our greetings with massive hugs. Tigre's arrival was a huge shot of morale, and after days of hiking by himself, he was happy to see us too. We worked our way down Kerrick Creek, and soon Gravy spotted a possible ford. Tigre, not wasting time, found a solid route and fought his way across, and the rest of us followed suit. Once on the far side, we felt deep relief, knowing we wouldn't have to backtrack and bail out of this section. 

Later in the day, we came to another ford, deeper but less swift. On the far shore were some other friends of ours, a French couple we hadn't seen since Mammoth Lakes. They stationed themselves on the far side, throwing us a rope before we hit the stronger current near the bank. This saved us from getting pulled into deeper water, which would have left us soaked. 

Ever the innovator, Gravy strapped two bear canisters together and used them as floaties to take a leisurely swim after the crossing. We logged miles late into the afternoon, hiking an endless forest of snow until we finally found a small dry spot to make camp.

We started July on snow, hiking ice-hard snowpack in the morning with our crampons on. After some climbing, the trail swung around a lake. It was so solidly frozen, we felt comfortable taking a shortcut and walking straight across. We knocked out another pass and continued on. 

Before lunch, we hit Mile 1,000. With so much focus on the challenges of the Sierra, I hadn't looked forward to this milestone as much, even though it's by far our biggest yet. Still, when we arrived, it hit home just how much we've really done. I've hiked 1,000 miles, and no one can ever take that away from me. 

This was also our last day in Yosemite, and we bid farewell as we watched the mountain features change from imposing granite to dirt and scree slopes. We finished the day with one of the most grueling stretches yet, traversing a miles-long slope. With no footprints in sight, we slogged our way through the late afternoon slush, sinking down as we walked sideways along the steep-angled ridge. After an interminable climb, we mercifully hit exposed trail and knocked out the last stretch to a campsite. 

We knocked out a short but strenuous hike on Day 74, working our way to the highway at Sonora Pass. We hitched our way to a nearby resort for lunch, then caught a ride to Bridgeport to get some leisure time in town. After some hefty portions of ice cream, we set up camp at the edge of a dirt parking lot like the vagrants we are.