The Best of the PCT Continues
The countdown continues with Rees’ Numbers 8 and 7. See Howard’s in yesterday’s post.
NUMBER 8. THE MAGICAL EVENING AT DRAKESBAD, July 9, 2010
There are certain magical days on the Pacific Crest Trail that stand tall; days that rise above that broad forest of glorious days. These are the days that your memory immediately races to when you reflect on your life on the trail. There was the day we guessed our way around snow-covered Mt. Adams ending on a ridge with a commanding view of Mt. Rainier and a solstice sunset; the day we swam our way down Falls Creek marveling at the granite walls above Grace Meadows only to while away an afternoon in the soft, lush grass basking in the warm sun near Wilmer Lake; or the day we walked south from Cook and Green Pass past Kangaroo Springs to Lower Devils Peak with its ringside seat to the conflagration raging across the Klamath River Valley. Every hiker has their transcendent days.
Such days do not always represent a confluence of everything wonderful. It is their enchanted quality, what English writer Nan Fairbrother calls “exquisite moments,” that sets them apart. Besides, time seems to blur the difficult and brighten the best experiences of these stellar days. Such was the case this particular day.
The day dawned with vestiges of the tumultuous evening resting on the peaks above Lower Twin Lake in Lassen Volcanic National Park. We tried to shake off as much moisture as possible but there was no alternative but to pack the tents wet again. Dr. Howard tended to Don and Eli’s ailing feet. Wet boots and long days had chaffed their feet raw with blisters compounding their discomfort. There were unspoken thoughts of an early exit from the trail as it is no fun when each step hurts. Perhaps a short day will improve spirits.
Speed bumps of late season snow gave way to long stretches of snow sheltered by the dense tree canopy. I always find these situations wearing if not exhausting. Climbing up and down the steep edges of the snow banks; picking your path around downed trees; add in a couple of postholes. We carefully crossed several creeks swollen by the melt water and preceding night’s rainfall. About midday we reached the crest of a line of basalt cliffs that comprise Flatiron Ridge high above the Warner Valley and, more importantly, Drakesbad.
Drakesbad, initially established clear back in 1900 as a guest ranch, remains a rustic refuge accessible via a corrugated unpaved road seventeen miles in from Chester (which is pretty remote itself) or on foot. There are only nineteen units at Drakesbad some of which still rely on kerosene lamps. However, the price for a night rivals the cost of a month on the PCT. Yet, during much of the summer, accommodations have been reserved for years. It really is a Northern California Shangri-la.
As we made the long traverse down, we could see the steam rising from the hot spring pool set out in a broad meadow. The siren song of happy voices pulled us forward. Our own chatter focused on the possibility of reserving a space for dinner.
We set up our tents in the Park Service’s Warner Valley Campground, hung a line and did our best to give the high mountain sun a chance to dry out our saturated gear. Howard and I were nominated to walk the half mile to Drakesbad to ask about a table for four in the well ventilated section. We donned clean tee-shirts and tried to sponge away the most offensive trail musk.
As we stepped into the closed space of the dining room, even our deadened noses became aware of the aroma that accompanied us. The colorful tablecloths festooned the light wood of the dining room. The room was set for dinner. Salad forks. Second spoons. Wine glasses. The ambiance was simple but elegant. The realization that we didn’t fit here made us yearn for the opportunity that much more.
A tall woman brusquely emerged from what appeared to be the kitchen. She had the air of a person with a long list of urgent tasks and little time for hiker trash. Our first efforts to turn on the charm bounced off her and fell impotently to the floor.
We continued, “Any chance, any chance at all, that there might be a way to handle four more this evening?” We weren’t above inserting a hint of desperation in our request.
“The Ranch is full and we usually only have enough food for our paying guests,” she replied without a hint of sympathy. There was a pause as she saw our crestfallen faces. “I will check with the chef and see if there is likely to be extra food.” Perhaps it was her Germanic accent that underscored the futility of our quest. Perhaps it was that she didn’t seem to be heading off to ask anyone anything.
We turned to go, tails between our legs. Don and Eli will be so disappointed. We had hoped this would be an antidote for their blistered feet and bruised morale.
With one foot out the door, Howard asked if it might be possible to use the phone for a quick call home as our cell phones had not been working along this stretch of the PCT.
It was if Howard had uttered a magic incantation that had propelled us into a parallel universe. We were Dorothy trying to get into Oz. “Why didn’t you say you were on the Crest Trail,” Billie Fiebiger exclaimed. “We always have enough food for PCT hikers.” In fact, Billie gave us the key to the city. “Use the showers (please) and the pool. Make yourselves at home. Come back at 7 p.m. although you may not be seated until later.” Still shaking our heads at our good fortune and this rather mysterious turn of events, we hurried back to tell Don and Eli the news before the spell was broken.
As the four of us returned the dark clouds that had dogged us the past several days were building quickly. But, the warm showers and the hydrothermal pool kept us occupied until the rumble of thunder became more aggressive. Within minutes the remaining blue patches of sky vanished. Lightning forced us reluctantly to vacate the pool. The hail drove us for cover under the eaves of the bathhouse. The gusting winds pushed tentacles of rain toward even the most protected corners.
Valiant employees raced down the trail to the pool in an electric cart to rescue the castaways three per trip. The meadow had been transformed into a Sargasso Sea and the pyrotechnics kept us all jumpy. Eventually we were deposited in the Lodge where we were to wait until dinner.
The photo albums and memorabilia in the Lodge deepened our appreciation for just what a special place Drakesbad is. For two generations the Sifford family had built and tended this Guest Ranch. For over 60 years they reclaimed the facility after each harsh winter for its four months of annual operation. It had to be a labor of love. The facility was incorporated into the National Park in 1958. For the past 19 years, Ed and Billie Fiebiger have served as the hosts, caretakers, and stewards of Drakesbad.
Ed, in his chef’s apron, called us for dinner. We crossed to the dining hall and were promptly seated. There were several choices of entrees. Or, Ed suggested, “Try them all!” Heaping plates were brought to each of us. The folks at the adjacent table took a special interest in our story. One of their group had come annually for nearly fifty years. Another from their table was sent back to their cabin and instructed to return with some of their wine stash to be shared with us. “White or red?” “No”, she instructed her husband, “bring one of each.” We were peppered with questions and asked quite a few of our own. We soaked up the attention that comes with being minor celebrities.
Ed pulled up a chair. He had a bigger than life quality and exuded a warmth that permeated the hospitality of this magical place.
My cynical side wanted to peer around to make sure that we were not being fattened up by some wicked witch. But, Drakesbad is a place that replenishes your faith in the generosity of the human spirit. Distrust, doubt, and skepticism have no place here.
And, there was desert too. In fact, there were three kinds. “Try them all!”
It was tempting to linger much longer than we did. I confess that it was all I could to restrain myself from asking if they served breakfast too.
Eventually we said reluctant goodbyes and enthusiastic thank yous. The rain had stopped by the time we walked back toward our campsite. If we weren’t walking down the road with our arms around each other, singing and talking loudly, then it felt like there was that sense of conviviality.
The storm had spread our clothes across our campsite and sent cascades of water around our tents. But there was nothing capable of dampening our spirits on this magical day.
NUMBER 7. Harvesting pine nuts south of Walker Pass, May 10, 2011
I wanted to include a representative small moment that happens along the trail. These are times when you slow down, stop, and absorb the nature that surrounds you. These are the countless quiet, gentle experiences that occur, if you let them. I like to consider these my Mary Oliver moments.
When I section-hiked the PCT from Tehachapi to Walker Pass several Mays ago, as we neared the northern end of that trip we took a lunch break one day under a grove of piñon pines. As we reached into our pack for our usual lunch of cheese, rye crackers, and salami, we began to notice that the forest floor was littered with pine nuts. While some had become food for rodents, squirrels, and other foraging animals since dropping to the ground the prior autumn, most were so very edible. Soon we were each on our hands and knees collecting cones and harvesting their delectable contents. I ate my fill and packed an empty bag with more nuts that I brought home with me when I left the trail. It helped me understand the important role that pine nuts could play in the diet of Native Peoples. One pound of these nuts can contain up to 3,000 calories.
Another one of these small moments took place on the sandy bank of the McCloud River in Northern California on a section of the trail that most thru-hikers treat as an unfortunate 83 miles necessary to get from spectacular Burney Falls to Castle Crags and the beginning of the more dramatic Trinity Alps. I was hiking with my friend, Bruce Johnston. We had made excellent time from Deer Creek and decided to stop in the early afternoon and enjoy easy access to the McCloud River from the Ah-Di-Na Campground, located on the site of a former Wintu village and eventually a lavish resort owned by newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst (the family still owns an estate, Wyntoon, ten miles upstream). By the late 1950s the Hearst family had razed the resort buildings and in 1965 the Forest Service had acquired the property. The one constant throughout was the beautiful McCloud River. Bruce and I set up camp and retreated to the edge of the river where we could lie flat on a sandy bar. There was just enough wind to avoid the mosquitoes that had been feasting on us in camp. For the next two hours we watched the evolution of the evening sky, the dance of the bugs, birds, and trout, the breeze in the trees. All of this accompanied by the soundtrack of the McCloud River. In a trail culture where it is all about perpetually moving forward, there is much to be said for slowing down. “We are Nature,” Walt Whitman says, “long have we been absent, but now we return.” Being more mindful has been an important life lesson for me.
