Trail Vocabulary Part 1

Here are some trail terms for folks who haven't been exposed to this particular jargon: 

Zero Day: (realized that I didn't explain this in the last post)  day with no miles, a rest day.  Adding "zero" helps you feel like a damned loser for needing a break 

Yogi: to beg for items (usually food) by appearing pitiful and/or dropping unsubtle hints about the difficulties of trail life.  Importantly, yogi-ing does not include actually asking for anything.  Example: Chuck and Dave, passing the bbq, converse loudly about how great the burgers smell after 7 days of ramen on the trail. 

Hiker box: location for dumping or acquiring backpack items.  If you overpack, you dump excess here.  If you need something, you might magically find it here.   

Cache: I'm sure the definition is known-a store or stockpile of items, such as water and beer.  Not well known, however, is the pronunciation.  It does not rhyme with sashay, but is instead pronounced like "cash." 

Ultralight or super ultralight: nutty enough to cut sleeping pads to pieces, tags off of clothing, go months without hot food, and not carry any emergency supplies just to make a pack lighter 

Base weight: weight of all pack items except for food and water; "loaded weight" includes the perishables 

Camping dry: setting up camp between water sources, rather than camping at one 

Trail angel: magnanimous soul who provides rides, food, massages, showers, space, and/or encouragement to hikers, generally for donations (though some refuse any compensation) 

Trail magic: much like a "miracle" in the Grateful Dead sense, "trail magic" often describes small contributions of goods and services provided to hikers simply as confidence builders, motivators or as congratulatory gifts.  A case of beer which appears at the bottom of a difficult mountain descent would be an example of this.

4/18-19 Zero in Warner Springs

This is my first zero day.  I reached the Warner Springs community center around 10am yesterday, barely able to sustain a manageable gait.  Peroneal tendonitis.  Swelling between my achilles tendon and outside ankle bone.  Intense pain under my heel and on the outside of my foot.  So, I ate a huge breakfast and lunch, elevated my foot, and got to know First Class, Coach, Backup,  Horizon, Far Out and Elijah better.  The former pair are retired teachers, current adventurers, and kindly inquisitive companions on a day of slacking off.  Backup and Horizon are engaged, young, gentle and amusing; they tell stories with the back-and-forth of patience and shared experience.  Far Out is a young man in a homemade kilt with a sly wit and a ready laugh.  And Elijah is a former rattlesnake wrangler from Montana.  This group was a fine set of friends for a day and a half of healing.  Yesterday, a thunderstorm forced us indoors.  We moved our gear inside the community center and watched the clouds gather.  Not much came of the storm.  Nobody wanted to move all their crap back outside, though, so we had a sleepover on the tile floor.  A bottle of wine and packets of string cheese appeared.  Very classy and good fun.  First Class mentioned that my trail name had made her want to avoid me, so great was her fear of snakes.  I vowed to help her overcome her phobia.  Today, several folks worked together to get me an ankle brace from Temecula, 30 miles away.  After rounds of ice and being gently prodded to elevate my foot by First Class, Coach and Far Out, I believe that I am ready to try hiking out tomorrow.     I didn't expect to find so many great people so quickly here.  As much as I dislike groups, I'm grateful for this one.   

4/17-18 Night Hikes to Mile 103

Kidney infection averted with an entire bag of dried cranberries.   Yes, it does work.  Yesterday was spent in blister hell, which was promptly replaced by some new ankle swelling...outside of foot, I'm thinking peroneal tendon.  Aside from these annoyances, it was a lovely day and lovelier night.  I decided to night hike until I couldn't stand any longer.  Around 10pm, another hiker passed me, and maybe 100 feet later I caught a rosy boa that was lucky not to have been smashed by that speed demon.  About an hour later, I dove to catch a speedy worm snake and spent about 20 minutes trying to get a decent photo of it.  Covered in musk, I settled for blurry.   I quit around midnight at mile 90.

Worm snake.  I swear.

This morning, I slow-stumbled to mile 101 for water, then night hiked for a couple miles with Al, an inquisitive and blissfully non-speedy girl from Berlekey.  We are camped in a big open field and hoping not to awaken covered in ticks.  

Says it all.

4/16 Pollen in the Horse Trough

I'm sure every normal hiker who treated the horse trough water was fine.  It did not occur to me that an open water trough is just a collection area for all the local pollen, though, until I woke up this morning squinting through eyes nearly swollen shut.   Only after a couple hours was I able to head down the trail, puffy-faced and slightly wheezing.  

Hills.

At mile 67, I gave my horse water to the biologist's friend and filled up from the fire cistern tap.  Like the others, including Bird Man and Alcatraz, Chad, Bio and her friend, Sunbeam and some grumpy old bastard, I waited for the sun to chill out a bit before returning to the trail.  Alcatraz had taken photos of plants and reptiles for me to identify. Bio and I told field stories.  At 3, most of them took off.  I waited until 3:30, since I was feeling like shit and didn't want to deal with all those guys passing me on the narrow mountain path.

Mile 75 is where I gave up.  My blisters are phenomenal,  my face is receding back to its normal size, and I'm trying to convince my body not to go ahead with the kidney infection that I feel coming on.  I think 1800mg of ibuprofen a day combined with inadequate hydration might not be a great mix for my kidneys.

On the plus side, we are now in the desert and I am greeting acamptopapus, echinocerus, cylindropuntia and lyceum like old friends.  I even exclaimed, "plantago!"  Happily, nobody was around to hear me.  

Scarce water tomorrow and long walks.

4/14 A Frog in Skivies and Laguna

Pyrenees,  the French guy whom I trail named, decided to camp right next to the picnic table.  And he sleeps in his underwear.  And he doesn't bother to put on clothes inside his tent.  As I'm boiling water,  out pops a pasty, white bearded and white pelted frog.  I will use that derogatory term any chance I get when referring to him.  He fulfills every negative french stereotype. 

Tennessee and I started up the road behind her impatient son, and it took me a couple miles to catch him.  I continued, catching up to Bird Man soon after, and had a great conversation with him about biology, society and Pyrenees,  whom Bird Man also did not like.  I identified some plants for him (he was unfamiliar with the local flora, also being from Tennessee).  Later I met his patiently waiting trail buddy, whom I secretly call Alcatraz.  It just fits.

Everyone was planning on stopping in Laguna, splitting rent on a couple of rooms at the lodge.  I went in to the oufitter shop, bought batteries and blister bandages, and was not impressed with the little tourist trap; plus,  I really wanted more than 10 miles, so I said my goodbyes and walked 5 more miles to Big Laguna campground, which had pay showers.  By the time I got here, it was nearly dark.  I ate what the package blithely calls 8 servings of rehydrated soup, showered, and am about to pass out.  

From the manzanita scrub and occasional ponderosa tipped hilltop just before Big Laguna, there was a stunning view of Anza Borrego.  Desert for me, tomorrow.   There is an upcoming stretch of possibly 34 miles with no water.  Guess I'm loading up.

4/15 Mile 61 and Blisters *plus my view on super ultralight hikers

I began the day by packing up before the camp host noticed that I'd come and gone.  The big dead log next to my little camp had served as an excellent laundry rack for the clothes I'd washed in the shower,  though the wind had kept me up readjusting them for much of the night.   Most of the morning was spent dealing with my blisters,  which had oozed disgusting liquid all over the lining of my sleeping bag.  My left heel and both pinky toes looked like tenderized meat.  I'll be surprised if I keep the toenails.  I had bought blister bandages at the Laguna store, and tried them out with a hearty helping of athletic tape over the tops.

I hobbled out of the campground, down the highway,  and disappeared back into mile 47.  Before I could even get my straps adjusted I was overtaken by a gruff Pyrenees.   He muttered hello, and I paced him at a quarter mile or so for 5 miles.  When I stopped to remove my jacket and rest my toes, he got far enough ahead that I didn't have to watch him look back every mile or so to see if I was still there.  Of course, he'd stopped at the next picnic area, mile 53, so I had to deal with him again.  Try asking an asshole Frenchman if he saw that huge alligator lizard on the way in sometime.   "What, there are no alligators here!"  

He tried to tell me that I was crazy to carry so much water and that I should rely on caches.  I tried to tell him that, as an American,  I rely on nobody but myself.  I didn't even bother eating my snack.  Leaving was the best alternative to hitting him.

Almost to mile 59, there was an unnecessarily steep hill, and I saw two hikers approaching at a good clip while I panted halfway up.  I pretended to be taking in the view so they could pass, but one started a conversation.  "How are you?"  "Surprised I can see the Salton Sea from here."  "Yay, someone who knows the area!"  It went from me describing working in that desert to plant identification and horned lizard catching with a fellow biologist in just a few minutes.  So happy to have a compadre who shares something more than an interesting hobby with me.

Toad!

We walked on to a camp in a meadow with a water trough for horses as the hoped-for water source by the light packers.  I smiled and took only a couple liters of the swill, ultravilot treating it immediately.   When I passed Pyrenees, I grinned, holding only 2 emergency liters of that  nasty shit.  Shoes off, I napped in the field of crested wheatgrass, erodium and brassica, enjoying a comfortable bed of alien species.  The other biologist chatted with me for a bit, then her friend abruptly started cramping.  His feet wouldn't move.  I tossed them some electrolyte packets, took his fever and pulse to be sure it wasn't heat related, and then decided to take off and make a couple more miles.  I ended up blissfully alone at mile 61, treating my blisters again.

*super ultralight hikers. 

I have handed out bandaids, lighters, pain meds, electrolyte packets, and various other kind of important things to people who can't be bothered to carry a few extra pounds of emergency supplies.  My secondary trailname, after Crotalus, has become trail mom.  Seriously, folks, if your pack is 35lb, you're probably missing something important.   Consider it, instead of bumming off the "overloaded" and prepared. 

Chaparral and distant desert.

4/13 Cibbet's Flat

I woke up early, listening to anticipatory rustling all around me.  Everyone excited to get moving.  Took my time putting my things together, giving the fast hikers a chance to get out ahead.  Caught up with a few at Boulder Oaks, our next water stop, 6 miles up.  There were trepidatious murmerings about continuing due to mid day heat.  Greenhorn, the German, and I decided to  go for it.  I lost sight of him almost immediately,  and slowly continued to Cibbet's Flat, 14 miles from Lake Morena.

4/12 Lake Morena

Recovering from yesterday's insane nausea was thrilling.  I did nearly 6 miles in the first 2 hours, rationing the hell out of my water, scared that Hauser Creek would be completely dry.  When I saw the water cache at the bottom of the hill where the creek should've been, I actually shed a few tears.  It saved me.  Ahead was a 1000' ascent in long switchbacks, and my remaining 1.3 liters wouldn't have cut it.  

Starting up the hill, a familiar face from the starting monument passed me coming downhill.  I was sure that this wasn't a good sign.  His companion was a half mile up the switchbacks, exhibiting symptoms of heat exhaustion.  I immediately planned to get up to him and offer him one of my chemical ice packs and an electrolyte packet.  By the time I reached him, though, he was feeling better, so I rested there until his buddy joined him.  Much later that day, they made it in to Lake Morena.   

I was so happy to see them come into camp, and so happy to have made it myself, that I walked down to the small store a half mile up the road and returned with pizza and beer for us.  Then Mover, a dreadlocked trail veteran, took up a collection for firewood and I sat talking to Tennessee, Dave and Mover by the campfire for a few hours.

So many characters here.   Dave had had a back spasm and had to pay a trail runner to bring his pack a couple miles for him.  Tennessee's son Joel had been airlifted from the trail the day before due to heat exhaustion.  Mover had lost his wallet in Olympia and was stuck here until a new credit card could be mailed.  I found my kind of folks.  

So much trail.

4/10-11 Long Ride Ahead

I couldn't justify the expense of flying or renting a car.  For only $30, Greyhound will take a patient passenger from Las Vegas to el Cajon in 14 hours, counting a truly sketchy 4 hour layover in Los Angeles in the middle of the night.  I cannot think of a better motivation for backpacking than this urban nightmare. 

Luckily, the overnight monotony was dispersed by a visit from a friend and former coworker who happened to be free for a three hour rap session at the terminal.  I was tired, barely coherent, but Ron kept the conversation slowly rolling.  When I left for the bus, I felt refreshed from friendly company.   Then I pushed through a small crowd of gawkers interested in an overdosing indigent man, and shrugged right back into my blanket of warm misanthropy.

Bus drivers, passengers, gate folks, they all have done this a million times.  Instead of being helpful, they have cultivated an intimidating level of visible exasperation.  It became clear that I had made some mistake by not predicting what to do and where to do it at each transfer point.  Man, it made me want to get walking all the more.

From El Cajon to Campo, I talked with a guy frim Germany,  who came to the states just to walk this trail.  He had questions about poison oak and bears and snakes, and I struggled to use my fading German vocabulary on him.  Then, an hour into the bus ride, my inner ear noticed how curvy the road was and that I was facing a side window.  I nearly puked on Greenhorn.

All day hiking in the humidity, that motion sickness stuck with me.   I vomited walking to the monument, at the monument, then walking from it.  Nausea slammed into me at unpredictable moments all day.  Moved a lovely C. ruber ruber off of the trail, then nearly hurled on her.  Spoke to some hiker named Chad, and nearly had to end the conversation for the same reason.  

Pacific Red Diamond.  Got to move a snake on day one.

In 11 or so miles (counting the walk to the start monument), I went through 3 liters of precious water, then had to mix some with gatorade powder to replace all that crap.  Tonight, I'm stuck at mile 9 with 2.4 liters left for breakfast and the 6.5 mile hike to the next source.  Hope I'm not dehydrating myself by puking tomorrow!