Zero Days Read online

  The two women showed remarkable presence of mind on another occasion on this same PCT expedition when the Friendly Four were camping in Evolution Valley in Kings Canyon. This time, a pair of bears ran off with the packs, even though they contained no food. The two women were sleeping outside, so they didn’t even have to unzip their tent before they leaped into action. Grabbing headlamps and trekking poles, they struck out in hot pursuit, yelling and shouting as they followed a trail of spilled gear. Not only did they catch up with the bears, but by throwing poles and rocks at the beasts, they scared the animals into dropping the packs. Crow spent the rest of the night sewing up her pack to repair the bear damage.

  In late July, when camping with three other backpackers at Richardson Lake, near Lake Tahoe, we had barely settled into our tent when a bear climbed the tree where our three companions had hung their food. (Our own food and toiletries were in Ursacks tied to trees within sight of our tent; the bear ignored them.) The other backpackers were so frightened that they were ready to pack up everything and leave. Gary calmed them down and suggested they wait for the bear to come back down the tree and then throw a few rocks at it. Sure enough, the bear soon descended and disappeared into the darkness.

  Our other bear encounters were even less exciting, but still memorable. About 170 miles north of Richardson Lake, Gary glimpsed a bear running away from us on the trail north from Belden on a terribly hot day. He urged us to grab the camera and join in the chase. I expressed the opinion that it would make more sense for us to run in the opposite direction.

  Another 400 miles north, on August 20—the first day of bow-hunting season for bears in this part of California—we were walking along a dusty trail on a 25-mile trek from a point near Etna Road to Grider Creek. That morning, we had met a bow hunter from southern California who claimed to have killed a 600-pound black bear a few years earlier. (I have no interest in hunting, but it struck me that going after a black bear with a bow and arrows is a much more sporting proposition than, say, going after a mule deer with a rifle. Bow hunters have to get close to their prey to get a good shot—and bears can fight back.) That afternoon, I was trudging along in the lead, thinking to myself, “Gee, there are an awful lot of bear prints on this trail. Some are adults, and a lot are cubs … maybe I’d better start paying attention.” So instead of staring at my feet, I started looking around a bit. Just in time. About 40 feet in front of me, I saw a cloud of dust above the trail. A split second later I realized what had made it—a dark brown cub had run up the hill on my left, pivoted on a dime, and rushed down the trail away from me. I gathered my family and described what I had seen with great excitement. They were excited, too; they wanted to see the bear. What is it, I wondered, with this hikers’ death wish? Camera at the ready, we strode on. Mary spotted the sow, a big brown one, downhill from us, between the trail and the stream. The dark cub I had seen was hard to spot in the shadows of the trees. Mary then saw the second cub, the color of its mother, also well down the hill from us. We quietly took our photos and then scooted on down the trail. Mary wrote about the experience in her journal that evening:

  Day 110: Today we saw three bears! There was a sow and two cubs! (No Goldilocks.) They were eating berries, probably. The sow was a very nice, cinnamonny color. She had a little black cub and a bigger brown one. Ma saw the first one, and I saw the other two.

  The animal I saw a few days later was a dog, at first. And then it was a human. But in hindsight, I think it was a bear. Here’s what happened: Mary and I had left camp ahead of Gary and we were just walking along, fairly quietly for once. At a curve in the trail, I saw a flash of motion, which I thought at the time was a large, black, shaggy dog with a shuffling sort of gait. We were 10 or 12 miles from the nearest paved road, and I thought it likely the dog was with a human. In that case, we could expect to meet the human fairly soon. Whoever it was could have walked in from the trailhead early that morning, and by now would be looking for a break spot. We saw no humans. But a mile or two later, I found a good-quality, lightweight, black jacket draped over a bush. Where was the owner? Could it have been a human that I saw, running around on all fours, which caught my eye earlier? Somewhere deep in my subconscious arose centuries-old stories, from my ancestral home of forested Germany, stories about men who could turn into animals … or, more likely, I was remembering the Harry Potter tale in which Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, turns himself into a large, black, shaggy dog. I think now it was a bear, and the black jacket was just a coincidence.

  The only other animal mystery occurred the morning after our hundredth day on the PCT. Mary and I had hiked up a half-mile side trail from our campsite between a logging road and Tate Creek. Gary was behind us, struggling with an aching knee on a day that promised to be a scorcher. As we reached a trail intersection, Mary and I caught a split-second glimpse of a small, furry creature bounding across a clear patch between shrubs. I remember it as catlike in shape and running style, and very dark. Mary remembers it as more silvery-gray, and resembling a giant squirrel. We agreed it had a roundish head, a long back, and short legs, and that it was too big for a weasel but too small for a bobcat. It was probably a fisher or a marten, large, seldom-seen relatives of the otter and the mink.

  Our favorite animal story is about Henry the mule. Mary loves telling this story. She starts out:

  Day 16: Today, we walked 2 or 3 miles through ice and snow.

  The ice and snow were on Fuller Ridge in southern California, where we had camped the night before on the only remotely adequate tent site for some distance. It was bitterly cold. While looking for a place to set up camp after dark, we reached a spot where we could see the lights of a city way down on the valley floor. Mary remembers thinking, “Here we are, freezing our tails off, and down there people are sitting around and cranking up the air-conditioning!” Backpackers often swap stories of that moment in their outdoor experiences when they realize they could be dying of cold, thirst, or heatstroke, while only a few miles away, unsuspecting couch potatoes are complaining that they’ve run out of ice for their soft drinks.

  Then we walked 16 miles down a hill. It was 16 miles because we’d go WAAAAYYY this way and BAAAACCKK that way and so on.

  Imagine a huge slope of sandstone and dirt, carpeted with prickly desert plants, with a drop in altitude of well over 6,000 feet. It’s exposed to the broiling hot sun for the entire day, and there’s no shade. It’s also liberally supplied with rattlesnakes. At the bottom, at the mouth of Snow Canyon, is a water fountain. Now imagine some sadist has decided to draw out, for as long as possible, the trail that winds down this hellish landscape to that longed-for fountain. The path zigs one way for about a mile, then zags back the other, losing hardly any altitude in the process. Short-cutting is out of the question—if the yucca, cacti, and other vicious vegetation weren’t enough to discourage it, the rattlers curled up in the dry grass would do the job. We concluded the trail could have been made about half as long if the designer hadn’t wanted to re-create the inner ring of the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno—the one with the burning sands.

  The only thing that broke the extreme monotony was Henry the mule. He was a large, chestnut mule, and we were taking a break. We had got far off the trail, but the mule wouldn’t pass.

  Horses are notoriously afraid of backpackers, but I had expected more common sense from a mule. We couldn’t get off the trail on the downhill side—the ground dropped precipitously, and the trail was edged with small but nasty yucca—so I directed Gary and Mary to climb above the trail and perch on some boulders. The mule stopped, and his rider introduced his steed as “Henry, a genuine Missouri mule.” We never did learn the rider’s name. We chatted for a few minutes and learned that Henry was even more afraid of rattlesnakes than of backpackers. Henry refused to pass a rattlesnake, even at a safe distance. His rider was in the habit of dismounting whenever he spotted a rattler. He would throw rocks at the offending serpent until it slithered away. Finally, the venerable rider tri
ed to get his mount to head on up the trail. No luck. We squatted on the boulders, trying to look as small as possible. Still, no forward movement on Henry’s part. The situation was rapidly deteriorating into a frustrating impasse. We couldn’t move down toward the water fountain with the mule in the way. And I wasn’t sure the beast could even turn around on the narrow trail.

  Finally, his rider dismounted—right into a yucca bush.

  Ouch!

  He cajoled this big, strong mule to walk with phrases like, ‘You can do it, sweet wittle mule!’ Finally the mule walked RIGHT TO THE EDGE! The rider backed him up. Then they went the right direction, but Henry just casually shoved him off the side with his nose.

  Ouch again!

  When they finally left, we all burst out laughing.

  Thanks to Henry, I stopped envying equestrians. It’s hard enough to get myself moving down the trail. Having to persuade a 1,200-pound animal to “git along” would be too much.

  The mule encounter had its humorous aspects, but the scene we saw another day involving horses and mules very nearly became a tragedy. We had camped at Woods Creek, a popular site in Kings Canyon with bear boxes and the scariest suspension bridge I’ve ever seen. High above the deep, rushing stream, it was made of skinny cables holding together skinny slats. It looked like it could fall apart at any moment. The signs admonishing hikers to cross one at a time didn’t do much to inspire confidence. Each slat was an inch or so apart from the next, providing an excellent view of the water far, far below. The bridge scared even Gary, who (unlike me) has little fear of heights.

  Soon after we got across, we saw a Park Service wrangler riding toward the stock crossing at the head of a long line of pack animals. We figured the supplies were intended for the backcountry ranger’s tent cabin we’d seen the day before. Gary asked him if we could watch the crossing. The wrangler, a lean young man in blue jeans, a cowboy hat, and cowboy boots, directed us to a spot about 50 yards upstream. We scrambled through brambles to get there, and then quietly settled down to watch. The Park Service worker looked over at us a few minutes later from water’s edge and asked, “Could somebody help me, here?” Gary volunteered. The wrangler handed Gary the reins of the lead horse. Behind that horse was another, standing in the water. Behind the second horse, half a dozen or so mules stood along the trail. Gary obligingly held the reins while the wrangler went back along the line, tightening packs and shoving mules into position.

  After several minutes, the second horse started pawing with a front hoof at the rocks in the stream. I’ve had just enough experience with horses to know that means trouble. The restless animal graduated from pawing to plunging to panicking. Gary hung on to the lead horse, but soon all the rest of the animals were in the stream, with its rocky, slippery bottom and cold water above their knees. Within moments, two mules fell over. One got stuck against the rocks, unable to gain its feet. The second ended up in an even worse position, almost on its back, barely able to keep its head above water. Shouting and swearing, the young man waded in. His hat was the first casualty. It floated downstream at a rate that revealed the current’s strength. Pulling out a knife, he began sawing through harnesses, trying to cut the animals apart from each other. Then he started cutting the trapped animals’ loads from their backs. In a few minutes, the first mule got to its feet and ran onto the opposite bank, where the troublemaking horse and the loose mules had already fled. The man turned his attention to the second mule, which was in danger of drowning. He alternated between holding up the animal’s head so it could get a moment’s respite to breathe, and shoving at the poor thing’s body to get it unstuck. Mary was in dread of the beast’s imminent demise. But finally, the wrangler got the mule free. It staggered to its feet and splashed onto the bank. Coming back to our side to fetch his lead horse, drenched from head to boot, he made just one remark to us: “That’s not the way you cross a river.” Assuring us with a nod that he now had the situation under control, he mounted his horse, and rode across to capture the rest of the stock, which we could hear squealing at each other in a nearby grove.

  I finally discarded my previous idealized impression of trail mounts a couple months after our PCT adventure, when I read Joseph LeConte’s A Journal of Ramblings Through the High Sierras of California, in which the University of California professor describes a monthlong adventure in Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, and points in between. I had assumed that back in 1870, at a time when personal transportation was mostly four-footed, men tackling the mountains would have steeds worthy of the challenge. But LeConte described his companions’ mounts as far less than ideal. One large, mud-colored monster had what LeConte called “vicious” eyes and a sprung knee. “He stumbles fearfully, and bucks whenever he can,” LeConte reported. Another, a dark gray pinto with “imbecile-looking eyes,” was “serviceable,” except for the fact that he had a distinct cow shape, so every time he went downhill, his ill-fitting saddle would slip down around his neck. Of a companion who traded his horse for a mule, he wrote: “He no sooner mounted than the mule started off in the contrary direction, kicking and plunging, and jumping stiff-legged, until he threw off—not the Captain, indeed, but the pack behind the saddle.” And finally, he offered this description of a typical trail diversion: “Phelps and his mare entertained us while getting off this morning with an amusing bucking scene. The interesting performance ended with the grand climacteric feat of flying head foremost over the head of the horse, turning a somersault in the air, and alighting safely on the back.”

  Sounds like LeConte’s party would have been better off trying to hitch rides on wild mustangs. Speaking of which, thanks to a note about them in the guidebook, I was on the alert for the wild horses of Oak Creek Canyon near the town of Mojave. These dark brown descendants of animals lost by Spanish explorers in the Antelope Valley area left Mary in awe:

  Day 40: Today we got out of the canyon. We windily hiked out of the wilderness to a very windy windmill farm. The windmills were huge. I was afraid a blade would fall off on me! When we came out, I saw two wonderfully beautifully gracefully running horses. They curiously looked at me and Ma and Dad, then galloped off. Instead of galloping, they flowed, because they were so fast and graceful! They could be wild! Then we had a fairly normal but windy walk to where we were picked up and taken to White’s Motel.

  Of course, some horses we met on our journey were so docile, Mary treated them as household pets. Here’s what Mary had to say about Rick and Emmy, a pair of horses trail angel Donna Saufley calls her “gentle giants:”

  Day 33: Today we were up at 5 (me at 6), very early. We walked through very impressive Vasquez Rocks and then, perhaps equally impressive, we saw crows soaring. Then I found a snake skin, and we had a break where we were short of food. By 3 p.m. we were in no way short of food. We gorged ourselves on exceptional egg rolls, awesome apricots, and succulent sandwiches. For dessert we had nice ice cream! Then we went to the Saufleys where we took SHOWERS and I met two horses, Rick and Emmy.

  Rick: Rick is a gelding. He’s very handsome—almost black, with very shiny fur. He’s a bit face shy, but quite nice.

  Emmy: She’s a mare, so she’s registered. Her registered name is Shalynka Emerald Moon. She’s very nice, too. She’s a dapple gray. I met [dogs] Buddy, Lucky, Bitsy, Nally, Fozzie, Sammy, and Shady. I helped Donna feed the horses, and we had a painfully filling meal at Maria Bonita’s.

  P.S. They are both purebred Percherons, so they are huge. Emmy weighs 2,100 pounds. Rick weighs 2,300 pounds.

  Day 34: This morning we had breakfast at the Saufleys. Then we got first-aid stuff and two books for me: Anne of Avonlea and Racso and the Rats of NIMH. Then we had pizza at Vincenzo’s with Leprechaun. When we drove “home,” Donna was riding Rick. And she ASKED ME to RIDE WITH HER! I did, of course. It was one of the best things ever! (No saddle or pad, so riding this Giant was my introduction to riding bareback.) I’m glad I rode bareback. He was warm and velvety. We rode around the yard three times and then I got off. Instea
d of just watching, this time I actually helped feed them. I love horses! (And Donna.)

  Of the seven dogs, only one was simply acquired as a pet. The rest had histories of one sort or another, with the happy ending of being rescued by Jeff and Donna. My favorite story is about Nally, whom Donna describes as a “tall, slender, short-haired, jet black dog.” She told me Nally’s story in an email after we got off the trail: “Nally is the one rescued by the hikers after she followed different groups of them across the Mojave Desert, reportedly from just north of here. Where the trail crosses Highway 58, Stretch, Yucca, Kimber, and a few other hikers, managed to catch her and bring her to the White’s Motel with them. She was too emaciated and exhausted to continue on with them, so they called us. One of the hikers that was here recharging his physical batteries drove to Mojave to get her and bring her home. They called me about her the same day we learned of the death of another hiker at the White’s. His name was Neil Ball, and ‘Nally’ is based on his name.’’ The Saufleys’ nickname among animal lovers should be the “Soft-hearted-leys.” They nursed the creature back to health, and when we met her, she was the sweetest and happiest of a crowd of seven sweet, happy dogs.

  Animals continued to entertain and amaze us as we headed north. Coveys of quail, trotting across the trail with their little plumes wagging, always made me smile, as did the bleating goats some hikers used for pack animals. Non-poisonous king snakes and rubber boas stopped us in our tracks while we admired their slithery beauty. The deer inside national parks were comfortable enough around humans that we could watch them from fairly close up, unlike their much-hunted relatives under Forest Service jurisdiction. In the desert, legions of lizards startled us with their instantaneous transition from immobility to streaks of lightning. We were especially fond of the glossy black ones doing push-ups on boulders. Captain Critter, a small dog, steered the ferry at Vermilion Valley Resort, or appeared to. As a child, I loved to catch horny toads (the common name for horned toads, which are actually lizards) in the dry mountains of east-central Nevada. They don’t live near our house in Sunol, although we’ve seen plenty in the dusty hills of nearby Henry Coe State Park, our favorite training ground. We delighted in noting their varied colors and sizes along the PCT. But none of us had ever seen horny toads mating, as we did in the southern desert. Naturally, we made a point after that of telling everyone we met about the very “horny” toads we had seen.