Rookies in the Wild

By John Riha

Rookies in the Wild is about a father and son who head off for a backpacking trip in one of the most ruggedly remote areas of the lower forty-eight. With no hiking experience, an overload of new gear, and a rich complement of paranoia, these two first-timers must overcome challenging wilderness surroundings and their own incompetence as they set out for misadventure along the Pacific Crest Trail.

Set in the spectacular Trinity Alps Wilderness of northern California, Rookies in the Wild is a paean to the American West. The awkwardly funny father-son bonding experience is told with tender wit and wisdom, and the tale is woven with natural history anecdotes that underscore the raw beauty and mystique of our last remaining wild places.

Rookies in the Wild is about facing fears: man-eating cougars, intestinal parasites, shoddy parenting, and mortality. It's also a story of grace. How nature forgives, forgets, replenishes, and enriches the spirit. And why wild places are so essential, and how they make us better humans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Riha
• Release date: Sep 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301573837

John Riha

I was born and raised in Illinois. I migrated to the West several times and finally resolved to stay there, with the big mountains and clear rivers. I'm married to a beautiful, funny woman I don't deserve, and I'm a dad to two sons who certainly must have done something right in their previous lives to deserve such a generous, understanding, and doting father.I’ve always been into writing, nature, and some form of carpentry. I grew up with lake houses, summer places where, as a small boy, I balanced my suburban life with a magical universe full of waves and seaweed and tadpoles and rowboats, and where all things that mattered existed.Both my grandfathers were carpenters, and I inherited the gene, and have always been fascinated by wood and making things with my hands. I have built and remodeled houses but always have had a fondness for fine woodworking, for cabinet-making and furniture-building, for watching a single piece of raw wood become a thing of accomplished beauty.In this capacity, as construction aficionado, I’ve built a career, and parlayed my building experiences into journalism. I’ve been an editor on several national magazines, and I’ve authored many books and articles on home improvement and maintenance.One of the best things about the West is that it’s indescribable. Perhaps that’s what makes it so intriguing for the writer. The scale, the raw beauty, the promise.

Book preview

ROOKIES IN THE WILD

A Tale of Fear and Gloaming on the Pacific Crest Trail

By

John Riha

Copyright 2013 by John Riha

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

This book is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

Your support and respect for the property of the author is appreciated.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to thank everyone who made the book possible, including:

My patient and encouraging wife, Deb

My intrepid, willing companion, Nick

My humorist, Chris

Stellar editor, Michael Diver

Jim and Nell Hamm

Gary Browd

Greg Hummel

The Pacific Crest Trail Association

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 — Forward, Ho!

Chapter 2 — The Destination

Chapter 3 — Buying Boots

Chapter 4 — This Trail is Your Trail, This Trail is My Trail

Chapter 5 — Geez, Knees!

Chapter 6 — Phobia Foibles

Chapter 7 — Mountain Lions Gettin’ Hungry

Chapter 8 — Canned

Chapter 9 — Scheels Redux

Chapter 10 — Duffels

Chapter 11 — Selachophobics Have All the Fun

Chapter 12 — Tender Tenters in Cougar Country

Chapter 13 — The Last Day of Civilization

Chapter 14 — Things That Go Grawkk! In the Night

Chapter 15 — Our Talisman

Chapter 16 — Up

Chapter 17 — Crappy Trails to You

Chapter 18 — David Douglas in Paradise

Chapter 19 — Damn You, Mavis Lake

Chapter 20 — Good Night, Sweet Mavis

Chapter 21 — Bigfoot?

Chapter 22 — Mr. Trail Angel

Chapter 23 — Skell Kicks Butt

Chapter 24 — A Gaggle of Trail Angels

Chapter 25 — A Botany Lesson

Chapter 26 — The Way Back

Chapter 27 — Timber!

Chapter 28 — Little Suzie Sparkles and the Thru-Hikers

Chapter 29 — Got Those Iliotibial Blues

Chapter 30 — Leaving

About the Author

Chapter 1

Forward, Ho

It was during a cold and particularly uninspiring Iowa winter I decided that, come summer, I would hike a wilderness portion of the Pacific Crest Trail with my 17-year-old son, Nick.

My motives were simple: A hint of outdoor adventure and a desire to be out and about for a few days, away from the predictable suburban routine. Deskbound and restless at work, I wanted to get away, hear my own bells ring, and put life in perspective. A trek in the mountains sounded like the ideal tonic.

It also would be an opportunity to spend some time with my teenage son, a high school senior who all too soon would be leaving the nest for college. Backpacking would be good for him, too, get him outside his highly digitized universe. Fresh air, raw nature, a vivid life experience. Ah! That would be grand!

Of course I was full of it. After all, in our family I had a reputation for conjuring up interesting ventures that rarely materialized. Hot-air ballooning over the Grand Canyon; Christmas at Disneyland—didn’t that sound like fun? Never happened. Something always got in the way and inevitably we’d end up driving two hours to Omaha to visit the Henry Doorly Zoo as a make-good. The only family camping experience I’d mustered was infamous for its lack of preparation and the searing, 113-degree weather we’d suffered.

So I was pleasantly surprised when my suggestion was given a tentative thumbs-up.

Nick, I began, moving into his direct line of sight and making that little tugging gesture that indicated he was to remove an earbud. Would you want to go on a hike with me this summer? Just you and me, hiking and camping for five or six days?

He gave me a long stare and, after a long moment of deliberation, surprised me by saying, All right.

This, I assure you, was an overwhelmingly positive response. No iPods or cell phones or anything. I wanted to make sure he understood the full implications of the commitment. Just, um, nature.

He scratched his nose, nodded, replaced his earbud and said, Sounds good.

Sounds good! I silently exulted.

The fly in this ointment of goodness was the fact that we had no experience in hiking any distance, hauling backpacks, cooking camp grub, or surviving outdoors beyond the aforementioned camping disaster and making plaster casts of squirrel tracks on a Cub Scout sleepover when Nick was eight. We were raw, untrained, untested. To think that we would stride off into the unknown with nothing between us and splendid adventure but 24 SPF sunscreen was at once improbable and glorious.

But as the idea began to take shape in my mind it also grew heavy, thick with unintended psychological baggage.

I began to think of the hike not as recreation but as some sort of middle-age vision quest, replete with dangers and spiritual cleansing and last-chance opportunities at parental redemption. It wasn’t long before I managed to turn our simple venture into a personal grail of epic proportions. As a result, it would be a long time before I could actually make myself do it.

It wasn’t Nick who needed convincing; it was me.

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Chapter 2

The Destination

If we were going hike, it would have to be someplace special. Perhaps out West, out to the big mountains and wild rivers, where the land is suitably rugged and romanticized. After all, I was rather rugged and romantic myself, in a sit-behind-a-desk-all-day-in-an-Iowa-corporate-job-eating-Reese’s-Pieces-from-the-second-floor-vending-machine sort of way.

As I looked at maps, I became intrigued with areas identified as wilderness. On state maps, wilderness areas usually show up as olive green patches surrounded by the lighter greens of the national forests. Most of them have romantic-sounding names, but that’s probably because just about anything sounds amazing when you apply the word wilderness to it. For example, the Dead Mountains Wilderness, Dinkey Lakes Wilderness, and Sheephole Valley Wilderness all benefit considerably from having wilderness attached.

In the western states, wilderness areas are fairly common. California has 149 designated wilderness areas covering some 21 million square miles. Neighbor Oregon has 47 areas, or about 6.6 million square miles.

What’s cool about wilderness areas is that they’re extremely primitive. Motorized vehicles are prohibited or very restricted in wilderness areas; there are no picnic benches and official campgrounds; trails are rudimentary. In short, there’s nothing there except raw, open nature.

Spending a few days in a wilderness area sounded idyllic. I imagined Nick and myself hiking along without the noise of everyday life, completely isolated, surviving only with what we might carry in our backpacks. It would be a fantastic experience.

But where to go? The West is a big place, and there are thousands of hiking trails. The lunar landscapes of Utah; the Hemingway stomping grounds of Idaho; the big tree country of the Pacific Northwest.

Eventually, I came to the idea of hiking in a wilderness area somewhere along the Pacific Crest Trail. As one of the most-famous hiking venues in the world, the Pacific Crest Trail offered storied history, challenging terrain, and that Western joie de vivre. It all made for a very compelling call of the wild.

If you’re not familiar, the Pacific Crest Trail winds 2,650 miles from the border of Mexico all the way to Canada, following the intercontinental spine of the far western United States. It journeys through epic ranges: the Laguna Mountains in southern California, the legendary Sierra Nevada, and the spectacular Klamath Mountains in the northernmost part of the state. It follows the Oregon border across the Siskiyou Range before swinging north into the heart of the Pacific Northwest and up the mighty Cascades. It’s the longest continuous trail in the United States, exceeding its celebrated sibling to the east, the Appalachian Tail, by a good 450 miles.

The exact mileage of the Pacific Crest National Scenic Trail, known simply as the PCT, is a matter of minor dispute. The guidebooks I consulted seemed to be all in a flutter about whether the trail is actually 2,648 miles or 2,585, or something else altogether. Although the debate is impassioned, the point is moot. Due to changes in land use laws, minor shifts in the boundaries of private lands, and various physical changes to the trail itself, such as landslides and fires, the true length is always in flux. Suffice to say that the as-the-crow-flies distance from Mexico to Canada is a little over 1,000 miles. Yet the PCT’s many twists, turns, and changes in elevation create a walking distance more than two and a half times that. It’s a hell of a stroll.

My wife, Debra, who has the uncanny ability to spot my follies before they hatch into full-blown stupidities, gave the idea basic approval. She liked the father-son bonding angle, but she wondered if I really knew what I was getting into. Are you sure you’re ready for a hike like that? she asked, one eyebrow slightly raised, hand on hip.

I scoffed. Me? Not ready? Don’t worry, I assured her. It’s not like we’re hiking to the South Pole or something.

Truth was, I hadn’t completely convinced myself that a hike was a great idea. I researched the PCT, read backpackers’ accounts, looked at guidebooks, and came away with mixed feelings. It sounded exciting and incredibly beautiful, but sort of dangerous as well.

I floated the idea with friends and co-workers to gauge reaction. In the midst of casual conversation I’d break in with, I’m thinking of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail next summer with my son.

Gee, they’d invariably say, with a look I mistook for awe and envy, I’d never do that.

Regardless, I began to convince myself we could pull off the epic hike. I could easily imagine the adulation we’d get when we returned—bearded, sinewy, hardened as ax blades—with our tales to tell. What adventurers we would be! What a great dad! What a sexy husband!

I changed the tentative, I’m thinking of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail to the more confident, We’re going to be hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.

Gee, folks replied, I’d never do that.

I still had to decide on a wilderness area of the PCT to hike. Our goal was five or six days, covering 20 to 30 miles, a distance I figured we could manage without resupply.

Eventually I settled on a portion of the PCT in southern Oregon, just south of Crater Lake. Here the trail entered an area on the map called the Sky Lakes Wilderness. The region was dotted with small lakes, and the route promised scenic wonders topped by a crowning jewel—a final ascent to the rim of majestic Crater Lake. How cool would that be?

Nevertheless, my proposed trek was brushed aside by my friend Dale, a southern Oregon resident of many decades and an experienced hiker.

You don’t want to go there, Dale told me during a phone conversation.

Why not?

Mosquitoes.

Really?

That place is full of them. They’ll drive you crazy. It’s too low, and too wet. You’ll be miserable.

This was a hazard I hadn’t thought of. Come to think about it, Nick detested mosquitoes almost as much as a holiday with the relatives. I could picture, in my nattering mind’s eye, coronas of mosquitoes enveloping our heads and swarming the backs of our sweaty hands as we slogged along the hot, simmering trail. I could hear the insects droning and feel the madness close in. It seemed like a very bad way to try and enjoy outdoor activity.

Dale suggested the mountains of northern California—the Klamath range. Specifically, the Trinity Alps, where the trails are situated at 5,000 to 7,000 feet in elevation, an altitude that mosquitoes apparently find objectionable.

I began to investigate maps and hiking guidebooks covering the upper reaches of the Golden State. The opportunities there were boundless, for sure, with hike after glorious hike described in mesmerizing detail. I was overwhelmed. Which to choose? What had the best prospects for scenic wonder, achievable distance, and relative solitude?

At last I ran across this passage from the book Hiking California's Trinity Alps Wilderness, by Dennis Lewon:

The Pacific Crest Trail runs for more than 2,500 miles from Mexico to the Canadian border. Only 18.9 of those miles cross the Trinity Alps Wilderness, but what a stretch it is! The PCT slices across the wilderness along the spine of the Scott Mountains, passing within a stone’s throw of more than a dozen lakes, serving up one stunning view after another, and traversing through some of the least-crowded areas of the Alps.

Well, if that didn’t seal the deal! A splendid venue. Stunning views, achievable distance, and plenty of water—we wouldn’t die thirsty, and if a forest fire occurred we could float in one of the many lakes until the danger passed. And we would be at too high an elevation for mosquitoes.

And that name—the Trinity Alps Wilderness—was about as romantic and soul-satisfying as the backwoods destination could get. Out of the thousands of trails we might have selected, this one sounded ideal.

So now our destination had a name—the Pacific Crest Trail through the Trinity Alps Wilderness. All that remained was the hike itself. And a few details.

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Chapter 3

Buying Boots

I began to do a little reading on the subject of backpacking, and if I learned anything it was that the most essential piece of equipment is a proper pair of hiking boots. A good six months in advance of our adventure was not too soon to purchase boots—we’d need ample time to break them in to avoid blisters and other foot problems.

This was especially true of Nick, who from an early age was a notorious tenderfoot, prone to aches and spontaneous foot sores that derailed even simple walks around the block, and I wanted to give us every advantage when it came to serious hiking. Plus, fitting him was going to be challenging, as his feet had grown to the size of pizza oven paddles.

So I spent hours online, researching boot manufacturers and reading reviews. There were almost too many to choose from. Contoured plastic shanks, compression-molded midsoles, lateral stability—visions of boots paraded across my mind and invaded my sleep. With their dashes of color and crisscross stitching and control-lug soles (control of what?), they were all completely seductive.

I kept hiking gear magazines at my bedside, on the coffee table, on top of the toilet tank, and pored over various features and prices and styles. I lusted after every waterproof pair.

Finally, what put me over the top was a review at HikingTrekkingWalking.com:

"Vasque Breeze GTX XCR Boot: From Trail to Stream

It was 102 degrees when the UPS man arrived with my new Vasque Breeze GTX boots. I was on my way out the door for a Search and Rescue Team training, so I slipped into these medium hikers, knowing that what was ahead that day would be a great performance test. The large teardrop-shaped eyelets made lacing quick and easy, and the laces did not slip loose all day.

By the time I arrived at the training site I felt like I had worn these boots for years and they had molded to every contour of my feet. At the end of the training, my feet were free from blisters and from the usual day-end fatigue.

Bottom Line: The Vasque Breeze GTX XCR is a rugged, beautifully designed, and well-built boot that offers a great combination of light weight, waterproof protection, breatheability in warm environments, and long distance comfort. They come in both men’s and women’s sizes. For the High Sierra trail hiker with light pack and lots of varied ground to cover, this would be an ideal boot."

Clearly, any hiker would be well-served by the hard-working Vasque Breeze GTX XCR. These were shoes that would perform over any terrain, from vertical granite cliffs to fields of oiled ball bearings, and at the end of a long day one’s feet would be as fresh and sweet as rose petals. These were definitely the boots. All I had to do was locate a store in the Des Moines area that sold Vasque, and we would shortly be skipping down the trail like frisky white-tailed deer. It was so simple.

The following Saturday morning I decided to take Nick to Scheels, a big-box sporting goods store in our local mall. I figured poking around the backpacking equipment would be a good way to immerse ourselves in the