The Pacific Crest Trail: Northern California
Desolation. Massholes. Tweakers & Wildfires
“Wilderness. The word itself is music.
Wilderness, wilderness ... We scarcely know what we mean by the term, though the sound of it draws all whose nerves and emotions have not yet been irreparably stunned, deadened, numbed by the caterwauling of commerce, the sweating scramble for profit and domination.” - Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
As I put down the book I realised Edward Abbey had summed up my university dissertation better than I could in ten thousand words. I’ve been drawn to wild places for a long time, possibly for longer than I’ve cared to realise. I’m not sure exactly when or why this obsession with wilderness began, but I knew I could find more of it in the American West.
Desolation Wilderness
Again I found myself back in the wilds of California, seven years after my first visit. When I graduated university I worked at a photobook publishers in Atlanta. Afterwards with little money I flew west and travelled around the Mojave and parts of the Sierras by working on ranches and even a Date Fruit plantation near Death Valley. I knew I would be back in the desert one day, though I never imagined I would experience it through this trail.
After almost two weeks off trail, I was back at Echo Lake, South Lake Tahoe. Having missed the bus from Sacramento, the owner of the hostel drove me over two hours to the trailhead, mainly out of fascination that I would take on such a walk willingly. The rest had been great for my body but less so for my mind, getting back into the idea of walking big miles everyday was intimidating.
My first day was spent traversing Desolation Wilderness, a poorly named national forest from the viewpoint of any sane hiker. All the anxieties and worries I had shed in those first two months on trail had started to find their way back — just a few days amongst the rat race saw to that. Questions that society asks of you subconsciously crawl back into your head, and I found myself asking why I was back out there. Though the views of ‘Desolation’ were a balm for these thoughts, walking amongst the pines and alpine lakes.
It wasn’t long before I made new acquaintances on the trail, two Austrian girls Salty Bear, Two Miles and a guy named Masshole — the colloquial term for someone from Massachusetts. We met near Sierra City, an old gold rush settlement. Temperatures were rising with each day and walking through old burn zones became commonplace, Masshole was back for his ten year anniversary of the trail and struggled to recognise parts that had burned in that time.
One of the strangest experiences was walking into Belden as they were setting up for a music festival, we found ourselves swimming by the river, blending in surprisingly well with the crowds. The local bar was run by tweakers and it was an adventure in itself ordering a meal. That night we slept up in the Old Mill overlooking the river, enjoying a jar of homegrown that a Californian local had insisted on gifting us, simply for walking the trail.
Wildfires
Northern California is a hotbed for wildfires and for almost three days I walked through the aftermath of the Dixie fire, Californias largest to date. The burn lasted over a hundred days and was just shy of a million acres (an area larger than Sussex or Cornwall). Trees creaked in the wind and branches cracked and fell in the night. Walking alone through remnants of this old forest, the trees were black and burnt from the inside out.
Seeing the extent of the damage first hand was an eye opener though it was still possible to find moments of reflection amongst the destruction, with new growth and life returning to some areas of the forest. This area coincided with the half way marker, an underwhelming concrete shrine (presumably so it couldn’t burn) that had ‘PCT Midpoint’ etched into it, in a font that I associate with the early days of Microsoft Word Art.
Something had come over me and I decided to pick up my miles in an attempt to get ahead of wildfires that were springing up all over the state. Fast miles came at the cost of hiking solo, and coincided with a summer heatwave reaching 40 degrees on one day near Old Station — I distinctly recall walking straight into the river submerging myself, fully clothed.
This section will be remembered for the kindness of strangers, people left water caches when there was no water to be found. This carried me all the way through to Burney Mountain Resort, a place that had gained mythical status amongst hikers that year for it’s salt water pool. After a gruelling 34 mile day, standing on her porch the owner Kristine handed me an ice cold coke, a moment impossible to replicate ever again.
In parts my memory of Northern California is a dreary haze of heat and exhaustion, though the feeling of breaking my footpath always stands out. Approaching Mount Shasta I received a text from River “they’ve closed off the trail beyond Dunsmuir due to the Etna Fire, we’re skipping ahead to Seiad Valley”. My heart sank, it took time to process but deep down I knew this had been coming, it was part of the journey in this era.
Seiad Valley, State of Jefferson
Locals rallied to help hikers and before I knew it I was being driven around the fires to Seiad Valley. It was once the epicentre of the ‘State of Jefferson’ a movement that gained momentum in the 1940’s that pushed for a 51st state that would be formed of counties from south Oregon and northern California. The general store still clings on to those days gone by, selling merch to promote the movement.
Climbing out of Seiad Valley I looked down on the only road leading through town, further in the distance the magnitude of the fire was plain to see. Huge plumes of smoke rose above the hills to the south guided by a north easterly wind. It was a relief to get ahead of the fire, even though it left a bad taste breaking my footpath. After the steep climb out Seiad Valley, I took an old logging road running alongside trail (I did this from time to time). Walking in the golden light at dusk a great plume of smoke was visible until it was dark. Two deer watched as I set up my tent by the roadside, curious of the two legged creature making its bed.
Waking by the logging track the next day, there was a thick mist sitting in the valley below. As I walked my first few steps of the day taking in the morning air, within minutes I was almost sick. It was not mist but smoke from the Shelley fire and even though appeared thin, it made me nauseous from miles away.
The winds changed direction by midday, meaning the headache was short-lived. I was approaching the Oregon border, a surreal feeling knowing that California makes up over 60% of the trail. Just twenty miles until I was in a new state, known for its flat terrain, shaded forest, iconic volcanoes and lava fields.
Less than a mile from the border is Donahue Cabin and my luck came in with trail magic that day. I found a familiar face in Pita (a husky) who I had met on my first week on trail. Her owner carried her into the cabin on his back, she was refusing to walk that day. After a solid feed of watermelon, hot dogs and beers, I crossed over the border into Oregon on the evening of 13th of July, the landscape was painted an apocalyptic orange in the haze of wildfire smoke.
Thanks for reading Beyond the Mountain Path, there will be just two more instalments for the Pacific Crest Trail series. Sending love to everyone who is back out there on the trail! I’m really enjoying getting stuck into this new platform, thanks for following along on Substack.
Been enjoying the hell out of your PCT writings. This section of the trail is where I grew up and spent countless days camping and hiking. It’s been devastating seeing so much beautiful land get ‘moonscaped’ by these fires, and I can only imagine the drag it would be to have to hike through it all.
Every once in a while my dad and I like to post up at a water spring between Belden and Chester to hand out beers and sandos.