Footloose Scot Read online

  It was on this part of the trail, just past the last of the Three Sisters Mountains, that I stopped by a stream for my lunch break. I was drinking tea, and had almost dozed off when a voice said "How're you doin', man? Everything okay?" I looked up and saw the smiling black face of a young man in the uniform of the National Forest Service. He wore a backpack and carried a shovel. I told him I was fine, and asked him to sit down. He said he had been transferred from Atlanta, GA, his home, to the Willamette National Forest division. "They sent me here because I'm black," he said. His easygoing attitude and smiling face showed he was happy with the posting, whatever the reasons. He said he had enforcement duties but few hikers gave him any problems. I asked him what he would do if I broke a leg. He said he would radio for help, probably a helicopter, and added, "You're not fixin' to do that are you?" and he laughed.

  I was well-equipped with maps which were vital for locating water sources. I aimed to cover fifteen to eighteen miles a day, with Sunday being a rest day. Each day I would aim to get twelve miles done by early afternoon, since the last few miles were sometimes a challenge. Carrying 40 pounds over eight hours at 6,000 feet is wearing. The Pacific Crest Trail was designed for pack animals, so the gradients are not as steep as the Appalachian Trail. Still, to reach a water source, I would sometimes need to cover twenty miles, and the last four miles were punishing. Whatever the distance I would gratefully collapse on the ground at my night's stopping place.

  It might be an already cleared campsite, with rocks delineating a fire circle, or there might be no evidence of previous use. Camping was permitted anywhere except in meadows or close to water sources. I would put up my tent, a two-person Sierra Design Clip Flashlight, in about four minutes, and then start a fire. Although I had a stove, I preferred in dry conditions to light a wood fire which provided color and movement. I would find two small rocks and place a couple of metal rods one foot in length across them to support the pan. I always started with a cup of hot tea, a habit from Boy Scout days in the U.K., which I am still practicing 30 years later on hikes in northern Mexico.

  I was usually alone, but never lonely. Absorbing the glorious scenery, keeping up a good pace and doing the chores connected with camping took up most of my time. I quickly learned a few trail lessons. I found that, when jumping across a creek wearing an external frame pack, a split second after I landed the pack's impetus followed and I would have to brace myself to avoid losing my balance. Wading across a mountain stream in late afternoon when the snow melt has tripled its size, I made sure to find a stick or tree branch to act as a third leg while crossing. I would take off my socks, but wear my boots. Bare feet in glacier-cold water on smooth round stones do not make for a firm foot hold. Better to wear boots and allow a little time after crossing the stream for them to dry out.

  Day followed sunny day with not a cloud in the sky. Patches of wildflowers, paintbrush, lupines, yellow monkeyflower and shrubby cinquefoils, still bloomed in late August while snow-covered glaciers were visible on the higher peaks. Bird song was a constant accompaniment, and one day I had a bear sighting at 50 yards. Each morning I would cook my oatmeal and drink some tea, sweetened and with a squirt of lemon juice concentrate. I would look at the map and guidebook to determine where the next water source was; then I would strike my tent, roll up the sleeping bag, pack the backpack and hit the trail.

  Usually I would meet a few people each day on the trail. Sometimes the trail would cross a highway and I would see passing cars. Otherwise I had the world to myself. I carried no music player, but I sometimes read a newspaper which arrived in my food package. Most hikers on the trail were travelling north like me, but I also met a few through-hikers heading south. I also encountered family groups out for the day or Sierra Club groups picking up litter and cleaning campsites. The trail was in good condition, with little sign of abuse. I often found campsites swept clean with a tree branch with a spotless fire pit, and I made sure I left no trace when I left.

  On the fourth or fifth day out I heard footsteps behind me. It surprised me to be overtaken because, having just started, I was moving along in top gear. I paused to let a young couple pass. They stopped and we chatted. I was plainly a novice with my still shiny equipment. They had clearly been on the trail for a long time. The young man had a wispy beard hanging way down his chest; the bronzed young woman in shorts glowed with energy. Their worn backpacks loaded high above their heads told of many months hiking. They explained that they had done the Appalachian Trail the previous winter and were now doing the Pacific Crest Trail also in one season. I was mightily impressed. The total mileage of the two trails was 4,844, and they were already two thirds of the way to completing the PCT with only 700 miles or so left.

  I spent the night with these super-fit through-hikers. They seemed intrigued by me as a trail novice older than many hikers, and we had a long conversation. In the morning they were ready to leave before I was. I told them to go ahead and that I'd see them later along the trail. They moved off. I was taking my time pulling on my boots, when I felt I was being observed. Squinting sideways I saw an eye observing me from behind some bushes. It was one of the couple. They were checking that I really was ok. I didn't let them know I had spotted them checking up on me or say anything when I met up with them later. In the demanding and competitive world of long distance trail hiking I felt this was a nice example of thoughtful caring for a new comer.

  A few solo hikers stick in my mind. There was the young man heading south carrying a folding garden chair. He told me he had caught some critical comments from others on the trail for carrying such a modern intrusive device. To him it was important to sit in a real chair at night, and I agreed with him. There were also elite hikers on the trail who would usually greet you with the question: "Coming far?" Your answer would qualify you as a serious hiker or not. Here was American competition in play as usual.

  Further north, I met a young man who was leading a white horse and was accompanied by a black dog. He was standing barefoot outside a disused cabin where he planned to spend the night. He said he was heading all the way to Mexico, and after that he just didn't know. He suggested I stay the night and we could talk a bit, cook some food and share experiences. I had only done fourteen miles and was preoccupied with achieving my daily mileage. So I said no, saying I had to move on, and thus passed up the chance of hearing an interesting story. This stupidity gnawed at me for the next two days - what's the point of simply doing mileage when opportunities to share and learn are passed by?

  HIGH ALTITUDE TRAIL

  THROUGH-HIKERS

  THE MAN WITH THE WHITE HORSE

  TRAIL, TREE, MOUNTAIN

  Later I met a young Californian. Tall and apparently fit, he was picking up a package at a post office near the trail where I had also gone. He opened his parcel, and pulled out some medicine. He explained that he was aiming to do the whole hike in one season. He was one of the approximately 300 tthrough-hikers annually attempting the whole route.

  The challenge for through-hikers is that they cannot leave the Mexican border too early, or the snow in the Sierra Nevada will not have melted. Equally, if they are too slow, the fall snow will have started in Washington State, blocking the last few miles to the Canadian border. He was determined to complete the trail but had caught giardia in the early stages of his hike. This water-borne disease comes from drinking water contaminated by animal urine, such as beavers. He told me he felt drained of energy, and relied on the medication being sent him to keep going. Much of the enjoyment had gone out of the trip, but he was determined to reach the Canadian border, and reckoned he would be finished in four weeks. I later caught the disease as a Peace Corps volunteer in Kazakhstan and can attest to its debilitating effects.

  At Santiam Pass where the PCT crosses US 20 I decided to leave the trail and head for the towns of Sisters or Bend, to have a meal and buy some fresh produce. A bike race was in progress and there were a lot of support vehicles. I stuck out my thumb and not long after
a car stopped. The driver was an older man and he explained that he was connected with the cycle race, a fund raising effort by his church in California. He was going ahead to ensure that their accommodation, which they had booked in Bend, would be ready for the 30 participants.

  Somehow this man got to explaining to me in some detail what a difficult time he had had recently with his father, an elderly man close to the end of his life. His wife, the driver's mother, had passed away two years earlier. Since then his father had been sunk in deep gloom, would not eat, would hardly talk - certainly not about his feelings. So the son felt a deep need to persuade his father to give up his hold on life, to let go and to will himself to die. This was an unusual conversation to be having between two strangers, in the Oregon wilderness. But it somehow felt natural, and I felt glad that the car driver wished to confide in me. His message to his father had worked, and the old man had died the previous week. I guess I was the first person he had told. The outdoor location and cycling event perhaps made this an easier time to tell the story and also to tell it to me, an unknown stranger.

  I skirted the lodge at Mt. Hood with its parking lots and pressed on for a quiet camp site. Noise and intrusions were now becoming alien to me. I was looking forward to a good meal at the Columbia Gorge, even drooling about what I would choose. Liver and onions sounded good, so did a steak. But would the restaurant have those items on the menu? And would my shrunken stomach be able to cope with a sudden volume of rich meat?

  As it happens, I chose a hamburger plate with fries and extra salad, promising myself a slice of apple pie to follow. But in my haste, and maybe also to impress the pretty waitress, I ate too quickly and got an immediate reaction of nausea. I struggled to finish the plate but had no appetite for dessert.

  From the Benson Plateau at 4,000 feet to the Columbia River almost at sea level the trail, much of it dynamited out of rock, drops steeply alongside tumbling waterfalls. This is a popular area for hikers, being only one hour's drive from Portland. Fortunately, summer was ending and I passed very few hikers as I descended. I cleaned myself up, ready for a restaurant visit and for crossing the Columbia River on the Bridge of the Gods, a cantilever bridge built in 1926 and named after a Native American legend.

  I was now in the State of Washington and at the lowest point on the Pacific Crest Trail. I needed to get my boots stitched before going further. These were canvas, lightweight boots made by Hi Tech. I was lucky to find an old-fashioned cobbler still in business in the first town on the other side of the river. This quiet, white-haired man stitched up my boots in a few minutes and charged me very little. "Here you are," he said, handing the boots back, "These should last just fine." He went on to explain that he got quite a bit of business from through-hikers. Mainly they complained that their leather boots were too heavy, and asked if he sold lighter boots. Most people tended to over-equip themselves, he said, which was expensive and not necessary. He approved of my boots (Hi Tech, with fabric uppers and rubber soles), which lasted me well on the trail and for nine months after.

  I now had a steep uphill climb, struggling to regain elevation. The temperature had dropped and low clouds filled the sky. I started to meet hunters on the trail, dressed in camouflage clothing and moving silently. They were bow-hunters who get their opportunity ahead of the gun hunters. None of them were happy to see me; I could only be a liability in their search for prey. We nodded to each other, and passed by silently. It started to rain.

  A little further, the weather brightened and I dried out my clothes on some rocks. A pack train approached from the opposite direction, four horses each pulling a loaded mule. All the equipment looked top quality, and all the riders were dressed in check shirts, windbreakers, cowboy hats and chaps. The lead man stopped and affably asked where I was going. He then said his group planned to stop and fish for trout in a lake I had just passed. "The first is for you," he offered, if I cared to wait. I turned back, and hung around for an hour, but alas no fish were rising that day. Still, I appreciated the offer.

  The rain started again, more persistently. Next it turned to sleet. I plodded on for a few days and, beyond Snoqualmie Pass, I met up with some other trail users who had come out for the weekend. It was raining hard, my tent was wet, my sleeping bag was also wet, and my morale was low. I had lost weight and energy. Two days earlier, I had tripped over a tree root and fallen on my back. I was temporarily stuck, like a bug with its legs in the air until I was able to roll over and get onto my knees. When the weekend guys, who had to get back to work, offered me a ride in their car to the nearest town, I took it.

  I cleaned up in a room I rented above a restaurant in Skykomish where the weekend guys had dropped me, and started to enjoy having someone else cook my meals, and not having a daily mileage quota to fill. But first I wanted to get to Lake Chelan, a noted beauty spot. So I hitched east on US 2 towards Wenatchee. To my surprise, I saw the same couple of long distance hikers I had met on my third day also hitching a ride. I met up with them later on the boat ride on Lake Chelan and asked them why they had quit. They said they simply had had enough. They didn't feel that reaching Canada, three weeks' hiking away, was vital to their satisfaction. The cold weather was due to start, and they had had enough cold weather in New England the previous winter. Certainly they didn't look like people defeated by the elements. Nor was I; I had had more than a hike, covering 600 miles in six weeks. I had had a learning experience and a small adventure.

  What I got out of the six weeks was a good fitness workout. Although I had lost an unnecessary amount of weight thanks to an inadequate diet, I felt strong and fit. More important, I got my head cleared of negative feelings concerning my failed business, realizing there were more important things such as good health and environment. The huge expanse of forest and wilderness areas in Oregon reminded me that the USA is a continental country in size, and the relatively few people I met along the way were testimony to the hardiness and variety of Americans. The thing I regret is not slowing down, doing some fishing and spending more time with some of the people I met, particularly the fellow with the white horse. But, refreshed in one sense and exhausted in another, I was now ready for a different sort of solo travel - around the world.

  PART I, CHAPTER 3

  SOLO TRAVELER

  _______

  1987

  ROUND THE WORLD - ASIA

  HONG KONG

  Thirteen hours after leaving Vancouver, the Air Canada Boeing 747 eased down onto the runway at Hong Kong's Kai Tak Airport in Kowloon. As we slowly lost height I could see a family of four sitting round a table eating supper in one of the tenement buildings near the runway. It was 1987, and I was on the first stop of a round-the-world trip, starting in Houston and heading for Asia and Africa, expected duration: eight months.

  From the airport I took a bus to Nathan Road, Kowloon to find a room. I had read about Chunking Mansions, a legendary haunt for backpackers. The name Mansions is misleading. Comprising five blocks and rising seventeen floors this is a city in miniature, consisting of snack bars and curry restaurants, tailors and sweatshops, money exchange offices, travel agencies, retail shops of all sorts on the ground floor and on the upper floors cheap accommodation.

  I already knew where I wanted to go, so I edged past the crowd of touts of many nationalities hanging around the main entrance to the Mansions. This motley crew of entrepreneurs hoped to steer a new tourist to a specific hotel or camera shop and earn a commission, or sell drugs or women or anything else. I took the lift to the fifth floor and rang a bell outside the Heavenly Gate Hotel. My room, more like a cubicle, had a shower and toilet and a single bed above which a TV was bolted to the wall. A window looked out onto a ventilation shaft. But it was clean and secure, the price was right and I was centrally located in Kowloon within walking distance of the Star Ferry to Hong Kong Island.

  Hong Kong is a place which cannot be spoiled whatever else is added. The location is outstanding. It comprises an island, a piece of the mainland f
ronting onto the South China Sea and some smaller islands. It is a westernized commercial and banking center on the flank of China. Its many tall buildings are evidence of the colonizers' entrepreneurial success and the tenements of Kowloon speak of a Chinese city. The city sucks you in and you might as well submit to noise, odors and crowds.

  I took the Star Ferry from Kowloon across the harbor to Central, the downtown area, and headed for the Peak Tram. This funicular railway, built in 1888 and pulled by a steel cable, smoothly transported me almost vertically 1.4 kilometers to the summit, Victoria Peak, in eight minutes. From the top the whole wondrous spread was visible. I could see the Star Ferry now in miniature and other small boats crossing Victoria Harbor. In the foreground a dense cluster of skyscrapers soared upwards. In the distance Kowloon and the New Territories stretched towards the China border. I was lucky to see so far since on many days mist or low cloud can obscure the view from the Peak, which is Hong Kong's most popular attraction.

  Shopping, the number one concern for most tourists, interested me not at all except to buy a camera. But I enjoyed prowling the streets, exercising all my senses, particularly smell. Every street was busy with bustle and noise, especially car horns. Many business transactions took place on the sidewalks, including eating. People moved purposefully since there was work to be done and money to be made. To sit in the quiet, dark interior of the St. John's Anglican cathedral, scanning the plaques on the wall commemorating the lives of former governors and military men, then to exit into the clamor of Hong Kong's streets, is about as great a contrast as you can find. Long a British colony, its days were now numbered. The takeover by China would not take place until 1997. For now, the imperial presence was still visible here and there (a Union Jack flag on a pole, a British uniform on the police, a cricket game). A sign on the red brick Clock Tower near the Star Ferry, which was built in 1916 as part of the railroad station, tells the reader that he could board a train there for London.