#feels like i’ve been hiking for months and just spotted the mountain peak thru a break in the trees and clouds for the first time

[bright-and-burning]

i am sorry that you are bawling but i am so glad that it is out of the love that you are aware people have for you. you are a lovely person and you deserve the world and i am so happy that you are on the path to get the support that you need. i hope you have a good, long life.

me tearing up reading this like 🥺 thank u anon… i am really so beyond lucky to have my parents... the day my mother gets a direct line to this hospital system is the day america sees a CEO volunteer for nationalized healthcare. idk how to respond to this w/o using humor as a crutch but im trying 😭 idk abt the world but i do believe at my stubborn gritted teeth optimistic core that i deserve a good life. and i hope it is decently long one; i have PLANS for being an eccentric old lady. and i don’t intend to be interrupted via brain chemistry. anyways . thank u. again. sincerely. it is such a battle between my own brain and all the junky stigma shit up there that i didn’t realize i was still holding onto and then american healthcare… means a lot to hear, when im in the middle of like. oh god i’m a burden on the people around me and a blemish on my communities why can’t i just shut up and handle my shit like a real adult. etc etc. typical dramatic shit. but i’m going to call the hospital this week. hopefully tomorrow but i feel weird abt begging for an appointment in my open air cubicle. this is the closest ive gotten to materially adjusting the root of the problem, after months of making small changes and hoping things would magically get better. i have hope. and a lot of people in my corner, even when i feel hopeless and deeply alone. i know zoloft at the very least makes me not feel like death even tho it’ll almost definitely completely eliminate my creative urges. which i would take at this point :( but . i Know there r solutions. i just gotta keep chipping away until the boulder cracks in half

[pcttrailsidereader]

A True Story of Life and Death on the Trail

About 50 miles of the 165-mile long Tahoe Rim Trail utilize the PCT high above the west side of the Lake Tahoe Basin. Mountain bikes are permitted on about half of the trail (NOT the PCT portion).  The trail ranges in elevation from 6,240 feet at the outlet of Lake Tahoe to 10,338 feet at Relay Peak in Nevada. Renee’s story, now just two weeks old, took place near the southern intersection of the Tahoe Rim Trail and the PCT.

Renee is the Executive Director of the Siskiyou Land Trust in Mt. Shasta City. She comes from a Shasta Valley ranching family and is a life-long Siskiyou County resident. 

By Renee Casterline

In early September I headed out on my longest solo backpacking trip to date: the 170-mile Tahoe Rim Trail. I spent two months reading, researching, planning, packing, watching weather forecasts, reading water availability reports and being super excited. Come September 5th, I was ready.

When I set off that first day, I was filled with wonder: What would happen on this journey? What would I experience and learn? How would it change me? And, when it was over, what would I want to do next?

It took several days to get into a groove. I had to adjust to the elevation, hiking 14-20 miles a day, setting up my small camp, often in the haze of dusk. By day 5 I was starting to settle in – I’d picked up my resupply box, hiked through most of the dry sections, started to develop a rhythm in setting up and breaking down camp.

Day 6 was long and late into camp, I’d left town mid-morning and took a break on the climb out of Kingsbury to chat with a couple who had just started their thru-hike. The whole day the terrain was stunning, from the narrow granite-lined section after climbing out of Heavenly, pretty views of Nevada farm country, the cheerful sound of a stream flowing, and the enormous tree at mile 82. Monument Pass offered a view of the mountains to come to the south and west, and a gentle traverse. It was uphill into the bowl of Star Lake, its shoreline shaded in the afternoon and chilly in the breeze. The trail up to the pass was the littered with gleaming quartz – pure, white faces, warm roses and dusty orange – that slowed my hike as I scanned the ground around my feet. Coming down out of the saddle between Freel and Trimmer Peaks, I was looking forward to heading toward Desolation Wilderness the next day. Finding water and a campsite were all that was on my mind as the afternoon faded.

When day 7 started, I had decided to slow down for my final five days and make them more relaxed, less driven by miles and hours. I’d look around more, take more breaks, get into camp earlier. I’d be patient and present. At this point in the trip, the challenges were more mental than physical. I wanted a hike I could be proud of, not just for the thru-hiking achievement, but also for my state of mind.

During my lunch break, while drying my socks in the sun and enjoying the ketchup from my resupply that fancied up my tortilla, cheese and salami, I chatted with a friend. It was downhill the rest of the way to the crossing at Luther Pass, then a bit of a climb to Round Lake for the night. Yes, I still had a bunch of miles to go, but I was going to take it easy, let the hiking go by smooth and pleasurable.

Coming downhill off a small knob after Freel Meadows, I saw something strange in the trail. My eyes and brain sought to make meaning of it. What was that? As I got closer, I realized it was legs and my first thought was that a hiker was napping in the trail (I’ve seen it before). Not wanting to startle the man, I clicked my hiking poles together to warn him of my approach. When he didn’t respond I started talking – “hiker coming up behind you.” Still no movement. A small black dog appeared at my knee from along side the trail, then ran to the man.

I slowed my approach, my gut starting to roil. He was laying on his side in a pool of sunlight, his back to me. When I shook his shoulder his skin was warm, but he didn’t respond. He was arched back a bit, the curve of his neck exposed. I lay my fingers there, but there was nothing to feel. When I walked around to see his face everything broke down: This man was clearly dead.

It hit me like physical blow and I staggered back up the trail, bent over and struggling to breath. I dropped my pack and called my husband.

“There’s a dead man in the trail. There’s a dead man in the trail. There’s a dead man in the trail.”

Coming to grips with what I was saying, Vinnie tried to calm me. But my rational mind was gone and some reptilian part was in charge. There’s a dead man in the trail! For one minute on the phone with my husband, I fell apart. Then I hung up and dialed 911. After a few questions and pulling my location from my cell phone signal, the 911 operator transferred me over an El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department deputy.

“Renee, tell me where you are.”

The deputy’s voice was steady, no spike of adrenaline to my ears, even though I was freaking out. I gave him my location and the details of where I’d started my hike that day, how far I’d come, which trail crossings I’d passed. My Guthook app had failed me, showing my location in South Lake, so I couldn’t give him an exact trail mileage. Satisfied with that, he moved on.

“How do you know he’s dead?”

How? Because he’s not breathing or moving. Because he won’t respond to me. Because there is no movement in his abdomen. Because his face is splotchy blue and white with flecks of spittle dried on his lips. Because ants are crawling over him. This man is dead. The words raced through my mind, but I tried for a composed response. I don’t remember what I actually said to him.

“Have you tried for a pulse?”

I laid my fingers on his exposed neck again. I told the deputy that my heart was pounding so hard and loud I wouldn’t have felt a pulse if he’d had one.

He kept on in his calm manner, telling me they’d be coming in a helicopter, that it would be 45 minutes before they arrived. He asked me to look for an open place where they might land, even though the wind was picking up.

“I want you to stay put and wait for me.”

For at least a half hour I was alone with the dead man and his dog. I didn’t know how long they’d been there, so I gave the dog water and some of my lunch. My heart was racing and my breathing was shallow, but cell service was good. I called my husband again to give him an update. He’d been in touch with a friend of ours who is a retired police officer, the same friend I’d talked to during my lunch break, so I called her back. She delivered the first piece of advice that helped get me though: walk away from the body. Stop looking at him.

It was surprisingly hard to do: I had to repack a few things and it seemed an overly large task. Finally I loaded up and moved away.

“Good. And you’re not looking at him?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Look away.”

I had to walk a bit farther up the trail so that I didn’t have a line of sight. Somehow, I had become tied to this man that I had never seen before. At some point while I waited, a passing hiker told me that I didn’t have to stay, that I had done enough by calling 911, that I could keep hiking. Leaving wasn’t an option I could contemplate. My mind was still spiraling between panic and numbness. I told the deputy I would wait. He’d asked me to take part in getting the helicopter close for the recovery. I couldn’t leave this man, with his tanned legs spanning the trail, dirt pushed up by his boots when he fell. I certainly couldn’t leave his dog.

I called another friend, this one part of our local Search and Rescue team.

“What are you doing calling me? Aren’t you on the trail?”

I gave her the quick run down of what happened. “I need you to answer two questions and I need you to do it quick, I don’t have much time before the helicopter arrives. I need to know how to get my breathing under control and how to get them to put me on that helicopter.”

“Ok, this is like yoga,” she said. “You want your out breath to be longer than your in breath.”

“Thanks, I can work with that,” I told, my breathing still sharp and shallow.

It was nearly two hours between the time I called 911 to the time that the deputy and Search and Rescue team members arrived. During that time, 8 people came by on the trail. The first few times the exchange was the same:

“This man’s dead!”

“Yes, he is. I’ve called 911, a recovery team is on the way.”

Then word passed up and down the trail, so that the next group of folks who came through had already heard. Some were helpful, others passed through quickly, unwilling to make this part of their day. I was focusing on my breathing, I told a couple of mountain bikers. They assured me that I was doing a good thing, then gave me their gatorade and shot blocks. Their brief presence was amazingly soothing.

I was up on the knob when two Search and Rescue members arrived from a fast hike in. One of them stayed with me while the other went out beyond the body in the other direction to reroute anyone coming up the trail. Not long after, the deputy and another SAR member, who had been dropped off by the helicopter somewhere nearby, arrived on the scene. The first thing he did was give me a hug, then he told me I’d done a good thing.

He went to work at the scene, while I stayed well away, willing myself not to look, not to ask what he was doing. A short time later, they loaded the man into a thick, blue vinyl bag with wide handles down its length and began the task of carrying him out. As we started down the trail, his dog ran back to the spot he had fallen. After that, we put her on a leash and I hiked with her. After only a 100 yards on the trail, the team of 4 decided that the best route to the waiting helicopter was off-trail and they headed overland.

I’m not sure how long I followed them over rocks and logs, through tangles of limbs. Their team work and grit were admirable. Here were four people doing the hard work it took to bring this man home to his family. At one point, when they had sat the bag down for a break, a phone rang.

“That’s you.”

“No, it’s you.”

“No,” we all looked down, “it’s him.” Someone was calling this man.

They carried him for a bit less than a mile to an open hillside where a CHP helicopter waited. The man was loaded into the helicopter, along with the pilots and deputy. The Search and Rescue team, me and the dog, headed downhill over ground that crumbled underfoot for all the mole holes. After 15 minutes or so, we wove through a stand of trees and emerged on the trail. Another mile and a half and we were out at the Highway 89 trailhead, cars whipping by in the evening gloom with a speed and noise I hadn’t heard for days.

It’s been over a week now since I left the Tahoe Rim Trail after finding that man. I’ve heard from the deputy that he was 65 years old, but nothing about the cause of death. To my eyes, it looked like he died mid-stride, out on a beautiful sunny day with his dog. I prefer to think of it that way. He’s been returned to his wife and family, and his sweet dog was reunited with them, too. Early on during that event, a friend told me that I didn’t have to stay out on the trail if I didn’t want to, that I should think about it. Not staying on the trail was an easy decision: my mind was numb, minimally functioning, and there are simply too many decisions to make on a solo hike to go out in that condition.

Initially, it was difficult for me to describe this event: it wasn’t negative, even though it was traumatic. Neither would I call it positive, even though a friend said that was I did was an act of service to the man’s family. It is something so outside of ordinary life that only one person has said to me, yes, that happened to me, too. In the days that have followed, I’ve had really helpful, caring conversations, naps and acupuncture. I followed up with each one of the four ladies I called on while I was standing beside that trail. My husband and I have found our way through those fragile days with love and tears and some laughter. I’ve reached out and found that I have a large, remarkable, diverse group of folks who support me. The biggest turning point in my recovery came on the day, exactly one week later, when I told my Rotary club about the event. The hugs and conversations that followed have helped soften the sharp edges of this tale.

It’s natural to want to assign some meaning to this, to draw out a lesson. In this past week, I’ve tried so many ways to try to give this some context. All of that is slow in coming, but that’s alright – I’d been practicing patience on the trail that day, and it seems to have stuck with me. I’ve been hiking, writing, thinking back. Next week I’ll head out on a five day backpacking trip for a work hitch on the Oregon Desert Trail at Steens Mountain. I’m not worried about whether or not I’ll be back out on a solo trip: I know that I will – soon. And I’ll be back on the Tahoe Rim Trail, too. It’s at the top of my list for next summer. I’m certain that as I retrace my steps, memories and lessons will come to me, and I’m equally certain that I’ll know that exact spot on the trail when I reach it.

[headingnobowhiteblazes]

Guest Post by Laura

Melville Nauheim to Story Spring - 17.4 miles Total 1629.6 miles

My wife, Laura joined me for a weekend of backpacking over Memorial Day. We agreed that it would be fun if she wrote a guest blog post about her trip. (It also gives me a break from blogging for a day!) Laura writes:

I’ve been fortunate enough to have visited Gus several times during his thru-hike, but I was especially excited for this weekend because I would get to backpack for three days and truly experience his day to day on the trail. When I visited in Damascus and Duncannon, we day-hiked and retreated to a homemade dinner in a cozy cabin. You may be thinking I’m crazy that sleeping in a tent and eating a freeze-dried dinner is the preferred option here, but keep in mind that Gus and me have a mutual love of the outdoors. (I also openly welcome any situation where it’s socially acceptable to each eat a Snickers for breakfast). In fact, this weekend was the three-year anniversary of the very first backpacking trip we took together. I introduced Gus to backpacking on Memorial Day Weekend in 2013 when we took our first trip from Harpers Ferry.

Gus had set an ambitious itinerary for us this weekend: 20 miles on Saturday, 17.4 miles on Sunday, and a short 4 miles on Monday to meet Jonathan and Grace at my pickup spot. We began our hike on Saturday morning in Williamstown, MA and quickly reached the MA-VT border. This junction also marks the beginning of Vermont’s Long Trail. Older than the AT, the Long Trail is the oldest long-distance trail in the US, spanning from the southern border of Vermont to the US/Canadian border. It was great to be part of this milestone with Gus because he was able to knock another state off of the list - only VT, NH, and ME left to go!

I didn’t know what to expect in terms of terrain for Vermont. The state is known for its beautiful Green Mountains, but little did I know that it also known for its mud season. In fact, it’s often referred to as Ver-mud and it most certainly lived up to the name. Mud season is accompanied by black fly season and though the two dozen bug bites on my legs would suggest otherwise, Gus and me came prepared to fight these guys.

Lords of the Black Flies

Despite the mud and bugs, Vermont’s rolling mountains were a true beauty. We were able to get a great view from one of the Green Mountain National Forest’s fire towers. These fire towers we once used by park rangers to spot forest fires but are now open to the public who want to catch a bird’s eye view of the landscape.

View of the Green Mountain National Forest from Glastenbury fire tower

Equally as enjoyable as Vermont’s beauty was experiencing a day in Gus’ trail life. I have long-term backpacking experience, so I’ve got the whole no showering for 12 days straight thing covered. But it was refreshing to remember how simple and beautiful the trail life is. It’s a simultaneous blend of good conversation and solitude, of pleasure and pain, of living in the moment and being inspired for the future.

It’s about eating lunch at a spot like this rather than in your cubicle.

Or seeing awesome critters that you would never see on your morning commute.

And for Gus and I, it’s about spending time together doing something we mutually love.

Some people think we are absolutely crazy. Two newlyweds in full support of four months of willing separation and putting a pause of career and earnings. To them I say SCREW YOU! (Just kidding but not really). Though we are physically apart, I feel like I am part of this journey whether I am climbing a peak with Gus by my side, or calling him during my lunch break to provide motivation and discuss logistics for his next mail drop.

After putting in a respectable 42 miles this weekend, it was time to head back to DC. Parting ways is always hard for us, but I know that the next time we see each other will be at home.