COMICAL, TRANSPARENT EXCERPTS OF MY TRAVELS, FROM MY JOURNAL TO RIGHT HERE

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Journal excerpt date: 7/07/2015

It was my third day at Mellow Mountain Hostel in South Lake Tahoe, a PCT hostel (aka a popular stop for those hiking the Pacific Crest Trail). 

I was anticipating a relatively mild hiking day given my hangover. The day before had involved skinny dipping in Lake Tahoe on some private property with a couple fellas I had just met; one a little younger than me and the other in his sixties. Before I knew it we were doing cannonballs off an empty boat we spotted just off-shore. We then trekked to a casino on the state line where we could place cheap bets on horses in exchange for all-we-could-gulp booze. This also involved me devouring a Cinnabon (yes, a Cinnabon, at a casino) and frozen taquitos. The evening wrapped up by me chatting with a guy I met that night from Chicago. He had gone to college in Madison, WI. Having lived in Chicago several years myself and having grown up in Wisco, I approached him as soon as I heard “Madison” leave his lips from across the room.

As I was heading out for a hike in the morning, I ran into the Chicago character. Let’s call him Pistol Pat. He had planned on a hike as well so we decided to team up. 

After some uphill trekking, we were met by a beautiful lake with a little island of rocks in the middle. With a desire to swim, but no desire to spend the rest of the hike wearing drenched spandex shorts suctioned to my crotch and chafing my ass, I decided to lose the shorts and jump in wearing nothing but a sports bra. Pat was prepared, already sporting swim trunks (though unprepared for his new companion to be strippin’ down unannounced). 

There we were.  Two strangers lying on a rock island on a gorgeous lake, me bare-assed, attempting not to expose my vagina directly to the boulder. Pat was a gentleman when I declined his attempt to kiss me. He vocalized that he couldn’t help himself as he’d regret not at least giving it a shot. I could see his angle on this.

After swimming back to shore, we couldn’t help but notice what looked like a brutal storm brewing in the distance. We took a gander at the map and decided that if we hiked along the river, we’d be going “as the crow flies.” This would significantly shorten the hike in an effort to beat the storm. This is where shit got dicey, as one can imagine it would when a couple of novice hikers from a pretty fucking flat part of the country decide they can outsmart a mountain trail by abandoning it….

My journal from this day, 7/07/2015, reads: 

“Now, I know it’s sort of a universal trail rule to never veer from the trail, but this was only six miles…it’s not like we were hiking the fucking PCT several miles from civilization!!! So, off trail we went. The first 20-25 minutes were fun.  Then shit hit the fan….. and hard.

Before we knew it, the river was surrounded by thick, tall brush. These fucking plants would be the end of us! Each side of the river was surrounded by them and on each side of the brush there were boulders. HUGE FUCKING ROCKS. For a while we scaled them, most of the time getting to the top only to take one brief glance, and then glance at each other. 

‘Not an option,’ we’d say, pointing one direction and then ‘not an option’ again after abruptly pointing another. We wouldn’t share another glance-we didn’t have to.  We’d just each turn around and head back the way we came.”

It wasn’t a time for pleasantries.  It was a time to be on the move and internally contemplating how the hell we were going to get ourselves out of this. Pleasantries came later when delirium hit. You know those frustrating, maniacal laughing fits one can experience? Well, we were about three boulders away from feeling like we were losing it. For now, though:

“We’d let out an occasional, snappish ‘FUCK!!!’ into the seemingly deserted wilderness as we carried on. Basically, we were zigzagging across the river, through the brush, over the rocks and then back again, though in a slightly forward direction. Slightly.”

This is about when that maniacal laughter hit, along with what started as rain, then escalated to pelting hail, thunder, and lightning. Fortunately, Pat is a comical chap that kept me laughing with his antics (and not just in an insane, losing my mind manner, given our predicament). 

“It’s noteworthy that the storm had more than hit us at this point; rain, hail, thunder and lightning. We couldn’t have been more drenched if we were back in the lake completely submerged. We didn’t want to be in the brush and tree coverage because of the lightning; all of the formerly struck trees that lay split in half were constant reminders of this. To make matters worse, the brush was itchy, full of mosquitos and forced us to crawl under and leap over fallen trees, tree roots and thick brush that we just couldn’t fight our way through. The boulders on the other hand were granite and wet. I don’t think I need to say more there but I will-slippery as fuck. Tragic. Goddamn tragic. This charade went on for about two hours. Finally, we decided we just had to hike the fucking river. Yes, in the river.”

I don’t know much about rivers (even at this moment in 2021, as I recount this journal entry six years later…after now having rafted and forged a handful of rivers). In 2015, however, the only rivers I recall confronting were…..well, lazy. The kind of rivers that invite you to tie an innertube to your cooler before you nonchalantly float, guzzle booze and repeatedly piss your innertube. This was not one of those rivers.

“So, we trekked on. Sometimes in just one foot of water on all fours because the rocks were too damn slippery to walk upright on. Sometimes we trekked  in four feet of water with our packs over our heads, trying not to get completely immersed by slipping on a rock or running into an elusive fucking log at shin height and fumbling over it. This was my hell.” 

Those goddamn logs. I still remember them. And tree roots protruding out of nowhere, not to mention, the rocks. Ever see a photo of an iceberg? You know how much of those big fuckers are under the water? Yeah, rocks in a river are the same way. We would see the top of a rock exposed and would have to slowly and carefully, feel with our hands until we reached it in order to mosey around it. Well, we didn’t have to tread this lightly, but after floundering about, trying not to submerge our packs (where our phones and Pat’s very, very nice camera were housed) and bashing our shins and knees…tread lightly we did.

“The entire time we were both thinking, as we later discussed, that we would be stranded and have to camp in wet clothes without shelter or a sleeping bag. Probably die of hyperthermia to boot. 

The river hike lasted about two hours. We finally hiked the river right into the lake. The trail ran along the lake so this was our destination. This was good.”

The lack of enthusiasm in my words “This was good,” is amusing. Until I was back to the fucking trail (or better yet, the car) I wasn’t celebrating shit. Also, in case it was missed the first time around, THE RIVER HIKE LASTED TWO HOURS! 

I digress.

“The next issue arose;  where is the fucking trail?! We yelled out for someone to respond.  Nothing. It wasn’t too long before Pat let out an “oh my god” without elaborating—just what I didn’t need–another surprise. When I inquired, he said he’d let me see for myself, then stopped for me to catch up. IT WAS THE TRAIL! I could almost kiss him! Not just because he made me laugh throughout nearly our entire awful experience with his banter but also because I was on cloud fucking nine! We were practically screaming hallelujah. 

We passed several hikers going the other way, all completely dry, jolly and approaching in dismay of our very apparent fucked up condition. If it wasn’t bad enough we were soaking wet,  we also looked as though we had just wrestled a wild boar; cut, bruised and practically limping from our worn knees that felt to be caving in by this point. WE HAD BEEN TRYING TO GET BACK FOR FOUR HOURS.”

The reactions from the oncomers were priceless and we were obnoxiously gloating about our survival and overwhelming anticipation of a safe haven around the corner. 

“We had talked the whole time about all the food we’d eat and booze we’d drink when we reached civilization. Once we got to the parking lot, it was game time. We each changed…Pat into his own clothes and me, well, into his clothes also. Even shoes. I looked ridiculous-more than ridiculous-and I could give two shits. We were alive and dry-and with transportation! Life at that moment was pretty damn good.”

Pistol Pat and I got to know each other pretty well that evening and many evenings after that…from Tahoe to Napa Valley to Crater Lake to Olympic to Yellowstone to Glacier. 

But those are chronicles for another time.

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