I had longed to return to the trail since my abrupt departure last year, a strong feeling of unfinished business echoed through my being all winter, a nagging discontent. Winter days would find me imagining the John Muir Trail asleep under a blanket of snow, trying to picture familiar places in quiet hibernation devoid of footsteps. At night I would listen to the fan in my bedroom and imagine it to be a rushing Sierra stream, soothing, calming, calling. The white noise of imaginary mountain waters lulled me to sleep, but it was only a temporary illusion. I awoke knowing I had to return, the conversations, the lessons, were not complete.
Muir had Louisa, his wife, as his support. He had toiled for years to make the family ranch in Martinez successful and prosperous, but his heart was elsewhere. In a letter he received from his wife while he was in Seattle dated August 9, 1888 she wrote, “Dear John, a ranch that needs and takes the sacrifice of a noble life, or work, ought to be flung away beyond all reach…, the Alaska book and Yosemite book, Dear John, must be written, and you need to be your own self, well and strong to make them worthy of you. There is nothing that has a right to be considered besides this except the welfare of our children.”
My Louisa Muir is my rescuer of the previous August, Deborah. By the new year I knew I had met my soulmate, for she not only understood my need to go back to the JMT, but demanded that I return. Deborah is an active and athletic woman, but she had never backpacked, so in June I took her on a five day journey on the John Muir Trail from Toulemene Meadows to Yosemite Valley. It was early in the season so the snow was deep, we spent three days trail finding, climbing, postholing up to our knees in snow with a full pack, working our way through the trackless white before emerging on solid ground to camp in the shadow of Clouds Rest. We saw few people, the conditions were difficult, but she never complained, the beauty and the solitude of the snow covered backcountry surrounded us. Deborah now understood my passion, and for a few short days, shared that special feeling.
It was a trip most would not attempt under those conditions and at that time of the year, and when we took a day trip from our campsite to climb Clouds Rest, the highest point overlooking Yosemite Valley, I knew my decision, long in the making, was solid, for I was not going to finish my life without this woman. On the summit of Clouds Rest I asked her to be my companion for whatever time is left, she accepted and I gave her a ring made for the occasion, crushed pearls for the clouds with a blue diamond representing the summit. The unknown couple of my first day on the trail the previous year had inspired me to discover the magic of Clouds Rest, and in so doing made it forever special to Deborah and me. Once again the JMT, and the people encountered on the trail, had impacted my life.
Now it is August, two months hence, and Deborah has accompanied me to my jumping off point, Vermillion Valley Resort, or VVR as it is called, where I will rejoin the JMT and continue my journey to Mt. Whitney, the end of the John Muir Trail. We have spent a couple of nights at the “resort” at the end of Edison Lake, a collection of cabins, some bare ground for the tents of PCT and JMT travelers, plus a small store and diner at the end of a rough single lane dirt road deep in the Sierra. If you have been on the trail for days or weeks this remote mountain outpost offers a cold beer, real food and a hot shower, plus one of the last opportunities to resupply before the last one hundred miles plus to Mt. Whitney. These are the criteria for a five star resort for a JMT/PCT traveler, which is why so many take the boat across the lake or endure the six or seven mile hike to get to VVR. A detour long anticipated and savored, plus it is a well known tradition that the first beer is on the house if you are a tired, dirty, thirsty thru hiker. An oasis indeed.
The effects of the long California drought are everywhere, but are especially evident in the shockingly low level of Thomas A. Edison Lake. Normally there are docks at VVR at the edge of the lake, but now a long winding trail over the former lake bottom leads to the distant waters edge. There are ad hoc walking trails over the dry lake bed, up and down through the ravines of a landscape last seen over sixty years ago before the completion of the dam in 1954, which is owned by Southern California Edison.
Deborah and I hiked over and through this surreal drought scarred landscape yesterday, a prelude to my continuing down the JMT. But I had more on my mind than the drought, something much more personal. I had foolishly overtrained in the past few months and now found myself quietly nursing the pain in my feet, old injuries were lurking and haunting me. In my early twenties I had been a runner, an overly exuberant one, and I had severely damaged my feet, tearing both planar facia tendons off my heel bones. Two years of painful recovery followed, a wheelchair, then crutches and custom inserts in my shoes, but in truth mine is a lifetime affliction, I have not been whole since I was in my early twenties. Do not ask me to stand in one place, or in a line, for an extended period of time. I simply cannot do it, the pain becomes intense, I sit on the ground or take a knee to find some relief. And while I cannot run at all, or walk barefoot more than a few feet, I have found that I can walk, hike and even backpack long distances for hours at a time as long as I am conscious of my pace and steps. That, plus a steady diet of Aleve capsules, what we used to call ‘scout leader vitamins’ back in the day, help me along.
Our feet have fifty-six bones, fully one quarter of the total in the human body, plus sixty-six joints and two hundred muscles, ligaments and tendons. It is a wonder of evolution that we can walk at all, but adding the lingering effect of a decades old injury, plus my torn Achilles’ tendon of three years ago makes my situation more concerning. I did not speak of it, but Deborah knew I was concerned, I simply did not know how my feet would act once on the trail, but I was determined to try. I had sacrificed, planned, trained and anticipated too long, plus those Sierra waters had called to me all winter. A voice was calling me, I did not totally understand what it was saying, but the imperative tugged at me, and the voice had no patience for a bit of pain. Practicality and pain faded into the background as I swallowed more pain pills.
We stayed in the yurt cabin, breathed in the mountain air, and enjoyed the camaraderie of the many PCT and JMT hikers that stop here. VVR is one of the few places on the JMT where thru hikers congregate in a large group, relax and share their stories. Unusual and fascinating people are the norm on a long trail, plus the dividing lines of age, race, economics and gender, the norm in the “outside world,” disappear in the shared community of the trail. But usually you are quickly passing by each other, having a brief conversation and then moving on. But at VVR you can sit, enjoy a beer, relish a hearty meal, sit under a tree, relax and dig deeper. So we did.
A tradition among thru hikers is to adopt a “trail name,” a moniker unique to a particular individual which almost always reflects something of their personality, behavior, a funny incident, clothing or style. The history of the trail name supposedly began decades ago on the Appalachian Trail, or “AT,” which goes from Georgia to Maine. There were simply too many people with the same name to keep people straight, so nicknames, or “trail names” became the norm. Plus the idea of taking on a different persona in this rough environment has obvious appeal, one can truly escape and become a different person, it is part of the culture. And so it continues to this day and has spread to the other famous long trails in the country.
There are some unwritten rules about trail names. Usually it is not acceptable to give yourself a trail name, it must be given by another, although people have been known to give themselves a name, but it should not reflect their real world persona. If someone attaches a monicker to you and you respond to it once or twice, it will probably stick, so be careful. I met a young gal on the trail named Hairy Buffalo - do not ask me the origin of the name, she bore no resemblance to a bison, nor did she strike me as abnormally hairy. I am sure there is a story, but I never learned what it was, but she smiled, introduced herself as Hairy Buffalo, then moved on. Such is the world of the trail.
At VVR I met two thru hikers, solo travelers, one headed north, the other southbound, both had detoured to partake of the simple pleasures to be found at VVR. Pinhead and Toucan were their trail names, I only learned their real names later, when we were all safely off the trail. About the only thing they had in common was walking on the same trail, but I have learned that is enough to form a bond. We talked, shared our stories at the VVR diner, and then found ourselves in the first small boat to the trail across the drought starved lake in the bright light of early morning.
Pinhead was a seventy year old wonder from San Diego, for he certainly did not act or look his age. Not a big man, nor particularly athletic in appearance, grey mustache and a slight bit of white trail growth on his chin, he looked comfortable in his garish shoes - red tipped gaiters, blue up to the ankles covered with white stars. It seemed a patriotic statement, perhaps he is a veteran, I never found out. He was going southbound towards Mt. Whitney, and it was not his first time doing the length of the JMT. I found that he hiked fast, certainly faster than I, but also faster than most. But his name was awarded to him because of the pin collection adorning his western style hat, thus “pinhead.”
Toucan was different, a truly amazing and inspiring individual. Forty-seven years old, tall and solidly built, with a distinct British accent, dark hair and matching beard, he had spent two decades as a trader on Wall Street, then abruptly quit it all, walked away. He set out to rediscover the person he had been in his teen years exploring China on foot with a backpack, the spirit that had been hidden and forgotten, “covered with the paint of Wall Street,” as he put it. The mountains, Nature’s medicine, in the form of The John Muir Trail, had called. He heard the voice, and responded. That much we had in common, but there was more. He also had physical limitations, specifically gout. He was northbound, and he acknowledged his route to Yosemite Valley, many days and difficult miles away, would be especially challenging given his condition. But he was going.
I smiled slightly and nodded, for I understood. The calling, the limitations, but the unexplainable urge, probably a compulsion, even an obsession, to go to the mountains to find something barely understood, something difficult to describe to most. Yes, he was going, just like me. I felt an unspoken kinship with this stranger, although I did not express it to him.
And his trail name? Everyone on the JMT must carry a “bear can” which contains anything edible or with an odor that might attract a bear. Well, being a big guy with a hearty appetite, he found that he simply could not get enough supplies into one bear can between resupply points, so he carried two. Someone on the trail he encountered thought this hysterical and unique, which it is, and dubbed him “two can,” which he modified to “Toucan.” A name may be given, but one can modify it, change the spelling, part of the trail culture. If you did not know the story you would wonder how this person resembled a tropical bird. That is how a unique and obscure trail name is born.
I do not have a trail name, perhaps someone will dub me with that knighthood of the trail some day, I do not feel it proper to award one to myself. But on this day I got off the boat with Pinhead and Toucan, one headed south, the other north, and I felt connected, I have thought of them often, even though to this day I have never seen either one of them again.
However, I did have the presence of mind to get their email addresses so I could follow their stories.
In the two years since we parted company Pinhead has had a hip replaced and is still on the trail at seventy-two. I pray I can say the same at his age, though it is only six short years away. Somehow I think the mountains will be higher and a mile a bit longer then, but I look forward to the challenge.
Toucan finished the JMT, met his wife and children in Yosemite Valley, it was an emotional meeting. I suspect he also has a Louisa Muir in his life, may he appreciate her presence and support. With Pinhead’s advice and guidance he went on a trek in Nepal, but found it too crowded after the solitude of the Sierra. He wanted another solitary western adventure, so last year he set out on a 2,000 mile solo bicycle adventure, Montana to New Mexico over the high, difficult and remote Great Divide Trail. He encountered bears, suffered broken bicycle parts, but enjoyed the experience and encountered many wonderful people before he quit the trail forty-five days later in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He has never returned to work on Wall Street, or any “real” job, and has no plans to do so. Clearly he views living life to the fullest as his new career. In an amazing, almost poetic, email, he told me he is looking forward to introducing his son to the Sierra next summer. He longs to share the mountains and pass the spirit he found there on to his son, a father’s gift, much like the one my father gave me.
These are the ordinary looking, but extraordinary people I am sharing a boat with on a drought parched lake in the Sierra, early this August morning before I start down the trail. The small boat reaches the rocks far below the pre-drought lake’s edge and we grab our packs and clamber up to a flat spot. After we get organized and pull on our packs we begin the mile or so hike through the trees to the JMT.
Pinhead, speeding ahead, waves and promises to see me at Muir Trail Ranch, my next planned destination, in two days, and then he quickly disappears into the trees. Toucan\\ and I stay roughly together, although we do not work at it, until we get to the junction with the north-south JMT. He takes a picture of me standing in front of a sign proclaiming this to be “The John Muir Wilderness.” I may have done the same for him, I do not remember. Then we bid each other well and he disappears to the north on his journey to Yosemite Valley.
After being surrounded by people for days, months actually, I am suddenly alone in the mountains. Again.
It feels great. I stand and savor the sensation, I am in no hurry.
Looking south on the narrow yet well worn trail, early morning sunlight streaming down through the trees, I see the narrow footbridge across Mono Creek gleaming in the light, welcoming me, inviting me to begin, a gateway to this year’s experience.
I take my first steps of the year on the JMT, slow, almost tentative at first, as I approach the bridge, unconsciously dialing down as I begin to adjust to wilderness time, which is to say no formal time at all. The only clock is the presence or lack of light, the watch on my wrist begins to fade in importance. I pause on the bridge, enjoy the bubbling, dancing sound of the creek, the sunlight twinkling on the surface as I lean over the edge.
Crossing the bridge I begin to hike, deliberately, trying to find my pace, my timing, that all important rhythm when beginning what I know will be a difficult climb. At that moment I could not have imagined how difficult the next two days would be, the day was simply too beautiful.
The trail begins to climb gently through a landscape that is quiet, almost restful, and yet still spectacular, but in a way not common in the Sierra. The trail is squeezed and narrowed by lush ferns and shaded by an enormous forest of aspens, an occasional dwarf evergreen fighting for space among these aliens. It is calming, absolutely soothing, as I slowly, almost reverently, put one foot in front of the other as the trail continues to climb, more insistently with every step.
And then one of those signs, like the deer of the previous year who had welcomed me, presents itself. I turn a corner on the trail and there next to me perched in a rock crevice is nestled another rock of a different type and color. But it is the shape, not the color, that stops me in my tracks. I stare in disbelief and amazement at a distinctly heart shaped rock, the symbol and spirit of love in granitic form. Who, or what, has placed it in that exact spot I will never know, but it does not matter. It is my perfect beginning. I am home, I have nothing to fear, for while I am physically alone, I feel surrounded by an unseen presence. This is why I have come, all is right. Now I just need to listen. So I begin.