#cindy ross

[myhumbleadventure]

“Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.”

Cindy Ross

[dhaulagiri]

Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.

Cindy Ross

[observando]

Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.

Cindy Ross

[pcttrailsidereader]

On Our Own (from Journey on the Crest)

This excerpt from Journey on the Crest, Cindy Ross's account of her 1982 - 1984 PCT hike, recounts her near-fatal fall on the icy slopes of Sonora Pass. Any PCT hiker who has walked this stretch of trail can readily visualize the sweeping snow bowl that generally remains snowbound for most of the season. Crossing it involves a long, exposed traverse.

This story will be posted in two parts. You can read the conclusion on January 10. And, of course, you can read the entirety of Journey on the Crest which has been reprinted as is again available.

By Cindy Ross

AUGUST 6, 1982

We awake to find dripping rain.  An aura of dread hangs over us in weather like this.  We must move quickly.  The day is not relaxed.  Breaks are short and hurried.  Gloom fills our spirits, as it fills the sky.

We are eighteen miles from Sonora Pass.  We were supposed to meet our friend Brian at the pass last night.  We hope he understands and waits until tonight.  This section has been far more difficult than we anticipated.

We leave behind the glaciated canyons and begin to see some signs of volcanic activity.  The rocks are gray. Flowers grow abundantly in this soil.  It looks like someone’s cultivated garden.  Raindrops cling to the orange and red straw flowers and fuzzy, pink pussypaws. The air is misty and cool, for the first time since I left Mexico. Our food is down to the minimum again. We were figuring too closely.  We didn’t consider the arduous climbs that increased our hunger. Crackers soaked with gasoline from a leaky fuel bottle are all we have for lunch today.

The wind is blowing sleet against us as we climb. 

There aren’t enough calories in our stomachs, to produce much heat. We stand on the ridge, shaking, red skin raw from the driving sleet. Time to put on plastic.

Six miles of exposed ridge lie before us.  We attack the trail vigorously, as if to make the distance go by more quickly.  We want the day to be over, to see Brian, to be warm, to eat.  The side of the crest where we walk is gentle and sloping. I peer through a cloud break and spy Levitt Lake far below. Up here the mountain is jagged and devouring, as though the earth has cracked open and I am looking past its teeth down into its throat.

Snowfields increase at ten thousand feet (not an image from Cindy Ross' trip)

The snowfields begin to increase at ten thousand feet.  I don’t feel like leading and kicking steps, so Nancy says she’ll go first. Her willingness and lack of hesitation prove that she’s not the same fearful woman who carried two ski poles on Forrester Pass.  Our arms tire quickly, unaccustomed to using ice axes.  The muscles have gone soggy in the last snow-free weeks.  The weather is getting colder and we’re increasingly fatigued.  What little warmth was present during the day has dissipated.  By 6 p.m., we round some corners, fly down a few switchbacks, and spot the road below.  Is that Brian’s truck?  Then the trail curves around into a tremendously snowy bowl, stopping us dead in our tracks.  The PCT cutsacross the snowbound bowl, through hundreds of yards of steep snow, looking like it adds miles of unnecessary walking. A set of prints from a rock outcrop come our way.. Someone else was here.

Above us, the slope looks more gradual. We’ll start high and walk down to meet the rock outcrop and follow the prints, just as we have so many times, over so many passes. The snow has always been soft enough for us to take plunging steps down the slope. Even today, with overcast skies, we’ve been able to kick good steps. No reason why we shouldn’t now.

Nancy leads, angling us with every step. She can’t seem to go down! Ascending slightly seems much easier. I follow right behind, placing the sides of my boots in her footholds.  About twenty feet out, she starts losing control. Her whole body starts to shake.

“You’re dong fine,” I assure her. “We’re getting there. Just take your time and stay calm.”

I really feel quite confident. The end is in sight.  I can see Brian’s truck down below on the road. It’s so close. Besides, I’m in the rear, the easy part.  Once again, I think she’s overreacting.

“I don’t think I can go anymore,” she concludes.

“Okay. Try to move us and I’ll go by and lead.”

“I’m really scared,“ she whispers, as I pass. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

I hurry a little, but not enough to be careless. I slam the side of my foot two or three times into the slope before taking a step. I can’t seem to get a good foothold. There’s only about a half inch to stand on. Suddenly, my foot slips!  My heart sinks and I catch myself.

“Be careful!” Nancy screams from behind.

Steep snow common in the Sonora Pass area

Boy, I didn’t like that one bit! It shocks me into realizing the seriousness of this traverse.  We’re moving closer to the center of the bowl – the steepest, iciest section. There are chutes of ice that are too slick to stand on, so we must step over them, forcing our feet too far apart for good stability.

Across one of these chutes, my rear foot goes out from under me again!  But this time it pulls the other one along! In a fraction of a second, my feet are racing down the slope, with the rest of my body trying to catch up. I look up at the hand that holds my ice ax, watch it pull loose from the slope. My mouth opens in a scream and I go down.

On my back I race downward at blinding speed, desperately trying to shove my ice ax and heels in the slope. It’s no good! The ice is thick and offers no grip. I skid down the slope like a hockey puck, hurtling toward a rock outcrop. I make one more mad attempt to stop myself, but my feet succeed only in spraying snow on my glasses. Suddenly, time stops, and I remember nothing else.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Journey on the Crest

Originally published in 1987, Journey on the Crest is Cindy Ross's story of her PCT hike, begun in 1982 and completed in 1984.  Her hike nearly ended with a near-fatal fall on the icy slopes of Sonora Pass (a story that will be posted in several weeks). Her initial intent had been to finish the trail in 1983 but, unlike our current string of drought years, it was an even worse snow year. She told me that she elected "to wait another year and compete the second half in 1984."  Hers is a powerful PCT story.  The account of her final four days on the trail as she and her husband, Todd Gladfelter, push through early snows to reach Manning Park is included in the Oregon/Washington volume of The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader.

With the resurgence of interest in the PCT fueled by Wild, this wonderful book, Journey on the Crest, has been reprinted and is, once again, available. 

By Cindy Ross

To a young woman in her early twenties, a long walk on the pacific Crest Trail seemed like a luxury. But today, we live indoors, have become addicted to screens and technology, and use our thumbs more than our legs. Depression and discontent have become commonplace; hiking a long trail has become a necessity.

The PCT gave me a blueprint for my life. It gave me a life mate, Todd Gladfelter, a man who shares my same loves and obsessions. Together we designed a simple life living as close to that trail as we could. We built a log home from scratch, grow much of our own food, raise animals, and live in synch with nature’s rhythms. Having two children did not hold us back from the adventuring life but instead enhanced it, including leading them along the Continental Divide Trail on llamas. The PCT also gave me a fantastic occupation as a travel writer and photographer, one that has taken me to dozens of countries in far-flung corners of the world on all sorts of exciting outdoor adventures.

The PCT teaches how to live authentically and responsibly. It Is not the weather nor the trail conditions nor the blisters that determine whether we are happy or not. Our attitude is a choice we make. No school, no curriculum, or wise sage can deliver lessons the way a long hike can, for the long trails teach through experience. The PCT also taught me that if I want something badly enough, possess the passion, and am willing to work hard, there is no need to see limits. This is timeless trail wisdom.        

All people who hike the trail will uncover their own personal story of self-discovery. The trail will shift their thinking, broaden their mind, smooth out their stress, and illuminate their path. They will be positively affected by the experience for their next thirty years and beyond. Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail will never be dated. Long distance hiking will only grow more critical as the decades pass.  

I admit, I am not the normal mother, but a Triple Crowner who took my children across the 3,100-mile Continental Divide Trail when they were youngsters (the subject of my book, Scraping Heaven- A Family's Journey Along the Continental Divide). They grew up with a hunger and a need for wilderness adventure. Our destination last March was camping and hiking in Anza- Borrego Desert State Park and Joshua Tree National Park. As we drove, we kept a constant lookout for where the PCT crossed the roads and for days I had memories flood back to me of my first weeks on the PCT as a thru-hiker. I told Bryce story after story as he learned about his Mom before she was a mother. When we spotted the trail crossing a road, I jerked the rental car immediately off the road and had to hike down it with my son. 

 "There's the trail up there, see it snaking around that mountain on a contour!" I told Bryce. "It was so crazy to be out here in 6-7-8,000-foot mountains and have nothing growing higher than your knee. Back home in Pennsylvania, our Appalachian Mountains peak out at 1600 feet with towering trees."

Bryce gazed up to that trail and thought about his mom 30 years ago, hiking her first weeks as a thru-hiker. Thirty years passing is a big deal to a 21-year old. It is to a 57 year old too. At times like that, I marveled at the speed of time, how much has occurred since then and how eternally grateful I am for having the Pacific Crest Trail impact and change my life.

 I also marveled over the fact that I have a son who chooses to go on outdoor adventures with his mother. His fellow students talk about going on a trip, but never do. Bryce was raised in a family that believes in "epic" when it comes to adventures. For example, when their father, Todd Gladfelter, and I suggested going to the Everglades last winter, Bryce' s sister Sierra said, "Ok, but let's do something epic. Let's paddle the entire length of the Everglades from top to bottom on the 100-mile Wilderness Trail." 

"OK," we said. We've never been one to choose creature comfort over real-life adventure. And so our children have come to expect and need that deep relationship with the wilderness too. It reminds me of a Walt Whitman quote,

"Now I know the secret of making the best person: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth."    

Being back on the PCT with my son, 30 years later, reminded me that as a mother, I must have done something right.

Cindy Ross returns to the PCT after nearly 30 years

[netbros]

Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.

Cindy Ross

[inspiringoneatatime-blog]

“Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.”

Cindy Ross