PCT Traditions - The Pancake Challenge
By Rees Hughes
Since we are committed to encouraging hikers to stay off the PCT (except for day hikes and section hiking without re-supply), we have not been following existing hikers. Instead we have re-focused our own attention on things like the mountains of Oregon and Washington and PCT traditions.
There are a number of PCT traditions such as detouring to climb Mt. Whitney, stopping at the McDonalds at Cajon Pass, or night hiking the LA Aqueduct. There are others that have come and gone (e.g., ADZPCTKO, Hiker Heaven or Casa de Luna). There may be others that you would add to this list. Perhaps brunch at Timberline Lodge or visiting Stehekin on the shores of Lake Chelan.
I definitely think that the Pancake Challenge belongs. It happens at the Seiad Valley Cafe and Store in Northern California. What follows is a story I wrote some years ago about the experience that is include in the California volume of the Trailside Reader.
Walking north along Grider Creek into the little community of Seiad Valley, one of those wide-spots-in-the-road, don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it towns, I was not totally surprised to see signs confirming our arrival into the rebellious “State of Jefferson”. Descending from the wild beauty of the Marble Mountains with my lifelong trail companions Rocky and Pierre, the final six miles had wound past a curious mix of “Beware of Dog” warnings and weathered homesteads, fecund gardens and satellite dishes, and the rusting detritus of what must have been a once grand civilization. I was not quite sure whether I had arrived in an idyllic trail town or been transported to the set of “Deliverance”.
William Brewer, California’s first geographer, called this area “a delightful spot – it seems an oasis in a desert” as he passed through a century and a half earlier documenting the existence of Chinese gold miners, native peoples, as well as white settlers. But despite the beautiful setting and the fertile bottom land, he reported that the Reeves family whose ranch had filled much of the valley, was eager to sell out as they felt “caged up from the world.” Certainly those hardy souls who made this valley home today must still have a genuine sense of independence and self-reliance and a passion for isolation.
Contemporary Seiad Valley isn’t much more than a collection of houses distributed above the flood plain of the Klamath River with the welcome showers and shade of the RV park and the adjacent cinderblock post office, store, and café. Just as in Brewer’s day, the deep valley with its surrounding peaks remains spectacular. The café, which I had heard about for years, seemed modest and unassuming given its legendary place among PCT walkers. The much heralded “pancake challenge” is anticipated no less than reaching Deep Creek Hot Springs, Forester Pass, Timberline Lodge, or Stehekin.
Five one-pound pancakes eaten in two hours and your breakfast is free. Five eye-popping pancakes as large as a dinner plate. It seemed so simple.
Challenge is to PCT hikers what blood is to sharks. The gauntlet of challenge is why we have PCT speed records, competition to minimize base pack weight, winter hikers in the Sierras, and side trips to ‘bag’ nearby peaks. It follows that food would also be subject to conquest. By the time many PCT hikers reach Seiad Valley, their confidence is high, very high. The body is strong, the diet insufficient, and the hunger insatiable.
I have been hungry since birth and was especially ravenous after the previous ten days on the trail. I am tall and lanky and had survived this long by willingly finishing the uneaten portions from the plates of friends and family over the years. I had always prioritized quantity over quality when it came to calories. This pancake thing seemed the perfect match for my aptitude.
As we dropped our packs and prepared to enter the Seiad Valley Café, I found it inconceivable that my appetite would be bested by anything served at such a small eatery. How could the proprietor know that I had strategically been making preparations for miles. Drinking copious amounts of water to stretch my stomach. Reminding myself to approach the task slowly. Visualizing success. Confident that I was poised to become a name whispered reverently along the length of the trail.
My golden brown pancakes were delivered with a side of syrup. Somehow they looked bigger in life than I had imagined; a little like an ocean swell viewed from the trough. And yet, I had survived lightning storms in Desolation Wilderness and a mid-summer snowstorm on the PCT east of Rainier. This was a mere nothing. I enjoyed the first bites; warm and sweet comfort food. It was a welcome alternative to granola, dried fruit, and powdered milk. I devoured the first layer in but a few minutes. It was difficult to imagine anything standing between me and an empty plate. I may have even been guilty of a boast or two, and casting an eye to the sausages on Rocky’s plate. “Bring it on.”
By the time I began to attack the second layer, my senses had dulled. Instead of savoring bites, appreciating the taste and aroma of breakfast, I became more mechanical in my approach. But my speed was steady. Yet, as I neared the end of ‘El Segundo’ (I thought it might help if I named each pancake) I had become aware of a long forgotten feeling in my stomach – the creeping fog of ‘fullness’.
I decided that this was nothing a short walk around the premises wouldn’t remedy.
I returned to the task at hand, pulling my chair back to the table. However, no longer was I thinking of the remaining stack of three as comfort food. The professionals of food excess at Nathan’s hot dog eating contest use water to soak the buns; I tried water too. It did make the bites go down easier. Conventional wisdom suggests that the moisture compresses the dough so that it requires less space in your stomach. As I finished my third pancake it was unmistakable. I was full.
The only thing on my side was the clock. Seventy-five minutes more, one way or the other, and I would be through. A visit to the toilet helped.
I became aware of a new pressure. In addition to my fellow hikers several patrons lent their support and encouragement. An ancient woodsman, perhaps a prophetic apparition with his suspenders stretched to the breaking point, and his toothless companion nursed along a third round of coffee just to enjoy the spectacle. Rocky cautioned, “Just take your time.”
I flashbacked to Paul Newman’s downing of 50 eggs in an hour as Cool Hand Luke. “Get mad at them damn eggs,” exhorted George Kennedy. The increasingly public nature of my quest propelled me well into the next pancake. I imagined discrete wagering among the assembled although even the most loyal would recognize that the pancakes were a heavy favorite. As I neared the end of the fourth slab of the damn dough, the exhortations of the café patrons had become insufficient incentive.
I started to become aware that my mind was working against me. “Why didn’t I just get the omelet?” “Why did I have to make such a big deal about this.” “I’ve heard about people’s stomach’s exploding from eating too much.” I scanned the walls imagining the prospects of flapjack debris adhering everywhere as I become the first culinary suicide bomber.
My plate had been room temperature for some time and the once supple pancakes seemed to have assumed the consistency of soft pine. I tried eating smaller bites but after ten minutes had trouble detecting any difference in the size of the fifth pancake. Time was proceeding agonizingly slowly.
I felt hands on my shoulders massaging them vigorously. It was my cornerman with his smelling salts, cotton swabs, and an icepack. I was the heavyweight with head down, towel covered, filled with self doubt being prepared for the twelfth round. There is no hope of victory. I knew it and those cheering me on knew it. But the bell rang and I answered the call. I took a few frantic bites stabbing wildly at the plate hoping desperately for a knockout.
“Rees,” Pierre’s voice revived me. I wondered how long I had been staring at the remaining pancake hoping that it would magically vaporize. Or, that I would. I slowly sighed. My valiant effort was over. I paid the bill but declined to take the remnants of “The Terminator” with me in a ‘doggy bag’ and staggered out.
It could have been worse. Someone reminded me of the thru hiker, perhaps apocryphal, who had arranged a joyous rendezvous with his family at the Seiad Valley Store and Café. Part way through the ‘challenge’ this cursed fellow violently regurgitated several pounds of pancake ignominiously across the table before him.
Although the number of individuals reputed to have successfully conquered the pancake challenge varies; there is no disagreement that the number is small.
Unfortunately, the clean tee-shirt I had purchased with the “XX” on the front, the double-cross icon of the State of Jefferson, no longer fit. I hoped that it wouldn’t take more than a day or so for my body to return to its earlier condition. The ache that permeated my belly reminded me of my quixotic journey of the morning. The thought of carrying the extra weight up the daunting climb out of Seiad Valley to Lower Devil’s Peak made a ‘zero’ day very attractive.
But, it was time to get on. I knew my discomfort and my embarrassment were only temporary.
I shouldered my pack. The trail, appropriately, slinks out of town alongside Highway 96 before abruptly turning north and up. I thought about Brewer’s climb up this same ridge long ago. He had been accompanied by two men from Reeves’ ranch one of whom brought a bugle. Brewer commented that “every little while [he] awakened the echoes of the silent mountains with its notes.” As the day waned and I looked down from the abandoned Lower Devil’s Peak lookout on the diminutive settlement, my failure receded into insignificance. I imagined myself sitting like Brewer, with this magical view of the distant ribbon of the Klamath River and the layered ridges of the Klamath Knot before me. I could even imagine the soulful notes of a cornet reverberating off the shoulder of the ridgeline to the north.
