From campsite at PCT mile 2055.56, elev. 5065, walked 18.69 miles to Timothy Lake shore, about 140 ft from PCT mile 2074.26, elev. 3227.
Dear Trail Friends,
The hiking day started well -- I "slept in" until after 5am and didn't start hiking until 6am. I was very relieved that the rain storm seemed over. I had no choice but to pack up wet gear: my tent, poncho, rain skirt, rain jacket, rain gloves were all still wet. Also no choice about wet socks and very wet shoes (though I had done my best to dry them with my ultralight towels, and took out the insoles and dried them, and all of that definitely helped.)
The day stayed overcast all morning and my mood was pretty overcast as well. That's an understatement: I felt as if I had slipped into a deep depression. So how do I treat depression on the PCT? Keep hiking. I remembered a term someone once used to describe their physical state -- I think it was a diagnosis by an alternative practitioner of some kind--"adrenal exhaustion." I wondered if having major adrenaline surges two days in a row left a kind of hangover. First it was crossing wild Russell Creek and feeling I was risking my life. Then it was my gentle, soft Oregon sky god hurling lightning and pummeling me with hail and sending rivers of rain surging down the trail and filling the sky and woods with the fierce roar of thunder. So maybe I just needed a little rest?
It helped when the sun came out, but there was no meadow or open area where I could dry out my gear until I finally came to some power lines. Trees had been cut down on either side of the power lines and at the very edge where I re-entered the woods there were trees and places to hang out my gear. That helped a little with my mood.
Then I decided to listen to music. Not trying to use rhythm to speed up my walk. Not trying to use slow music to slow down my adrenaline-accelerated heartbeat. Just choosing music that might help me to be present in this place in this moment.
My mood began to lift quickly. I was a little bored with my music (unfortunately I had to delete a lot because of storage space problems due to the mail program bug eating up gigabytes and gigabytes I could not spare -- I only have a 12 gb iPhone, a big mistake) so after starting with Windham Hill Touch (a meditative guitar album) which worked well, I started playing some of the singles I hadn't listened to on the trail yet. When I got to Pete Seeger conducting a sing along for This Lonesome Valley, I started singing aloud. My mind went back to 1968 and what for me was the life-changing event of our nude protest against Playboy magazine when I was at Grinnell. The demonstration was silent -- but we did pass out flyers that said "playboy is money-changer in the temple of the body (and went on from there, written of course by yours truly) and we did song a song: You've got to walk that lonesome valley. . .
So the song became about nakedness and vulnerability, about looking one's own true being in the eyes and not turning away from the gaze, about walking through depression, and Russell Creek, and hail and lightning, and the beautiful woods surrounding me at that moment. And as I sang along with all the others singing along in the recording, I was also sensing the connection with you who travel with me, especially my sister Bonnie. The song somehow ties walking the lonesome valley by oneself to building a union. That's a trade union of course, it's Pete Seeger singing and it's a long time ago. But it occurred to me that it's anything that connects and unites us into something greater than ourselves: trade union, trail magic, even this blog.
I also listened to Singing in the Rain and sang that aloud as I walked and remembered listening to it as I was hiking into Yosemite, praying for sister Bonnie to dance again. And as the band intensified the music and Gene Kelly sang about singing and dancing in the rain, I imagined I was Gene Kelly, Tao dancing all over the trails and then tap dancing up and down the purely vertical trees (he could do it, he could dance anywhere).
So a little later I came to a clearing and "saw" the branches on a fallen tree as a whole gang of surfer/tap dancers riding the wave of that tree. And it was Bonnie riding her wave, and you and me dancing and riding with her even though we don't have a life-threatening diagnosis (other than being alive and being mortal), living in the pure moment of being, riding the wave of transience, dancing to the music of life's changes.
Moods sure do change on the trail. I enjoyed the rest of my hike and ended up camped (illegally I fear and if so let's please hope hope hope someone doesn't come along in the middle of the night and order me to move) on the shore of a big lake. (By the time I began to suspect I shouldn't be camping here I felt too tired to pack up and go on. )
On the pilgrimage theme, I had the thought that dealing with hail and rain and wet gear (the latter two probably something I will be dealing with a lot in Washington) is part of the pilgrimage and preparation for walking the trail of aging. Something happens, something hard and uncomfortable, and I just (as my mother-in-law was do fond of saying) "do what needs doing." I don't have to do it quickly, or perfectly. But I don't get to go belly-up and say "I can't. " I just keep hiking.
On that note, a new friend has showed up on the trail. My hyper-critical voice that has pretty much stayed away for my shorter hikes has been very much present lately, complaining about how slowly and inefficiently I do things, mostly. We had a heart to heart, that mean nasty voice and I. Seems it thinks harsh criticism is the way to make me strong and successful (I was impressed by how strong and capable my Flanagan step siblings were -especially the oldest daughter Jean - and I think I invented a theory that my stepfather Jacks abusiveness had somehow made her so. It was one of the reasons I chose to live in Oklahoma with my mother and stepfather in high school. Maybe if I subjected myself to the harsh forces that had shaped someone I deeply admired, I would become like her). Anyway, I told the harsh voice I wasn't interested in that kind of success anymore and though I still admired jean and her life, I wouldn't for a moment trade selves or lives with her. What I wanted now was to learn how to love -- especially myself--as I face the challenge of aging. I told her Harshness that I could use a little tough love when I get daunted by how hard life is: she can tell me that it needs to be done, that I can do it, that she will help me. Then don't you know SHE was the one pleading incapability, too old to change, etc. so we skipped down the trail holding hands and I told her it needs to be done, she can do it, I will help her and we started to sing "I think you can, I think we can" and variations on that theme as we danced down the trail (and occasionally tap dances ala Gene Kelly up the sides of some beautiful trees) together.
Northern Oregon is starting to feel a lot like Washington, especially all the wild -- oh darn, I've lost the name of that plant -- there it is, rhododendrons --it must be amazing to hike hear in spring. I only got to know rhodies since moving to Orcas so for me they feel like "home."
Enough. Thanks for walking with me. Here are the photos.
Photo 1. The view from my morning inverted position. I forgot to rest my that way all day yesterday so I was under some pressure to do so today.
Photo 2. All my gear (and socks, to the left) hanging out to dry in the sun.
Photo 3. My mood transformed by music, I fall back in love with the woods I am walking through.
Photo 4. The log with branches that looked to me like surfer/tap dancers. All of his dancing and riding Bonnie's wave: the wonder and fragility of being alive in this moment.
Photos 5 and 6. Sunset reflected on Timothy Lake. View from my tent (possibly illegal but I don't think you can be arrested for looking at the photograph.) though maybe your reading this makes you an accessory to the crime. This was the view while I was writing.
Happy Trails!
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