[pct-l] Moving this herd discussion to the kickoff

[Jeffrey Olson]

One of my memories of my abbreviated thru-hike in 05 (which I guess 
means section hike) is arriving at a springs in Northern Oregon, Soldier 
Springs, or something like that.  It was down off the trail.  You had to 
cross a decent sized log to get to it.  There was a meadowy bog  with 
good, cool spring water flowing out of the ground.  This was one of 
those days I was just beat.  Almost a month on the trail, maybe longer, 
and my body was in its final shift from 15 to 18 miles a day to 20+.  
This in itself is worthy of discussion, but off the point here. 

I was lying in the sun on my full length blue foam pad, drying my gear 
from a damp/wet night before.  I was sore and stoked up on Vitamin I.  
Basically I was waiting for the sun to go down so I could crawl into my 
tent and go to sleep. 

I'm lying there, dozing, book on chest, cheap reading glasses digging 
into my nose as my head is turned to the side, and I hear voices.  The 
trail is 30 vertical feet and 50 horizontal feet up the hill.  The 
voices keep coming and coming.  I keep thinking that they're going to 
pass, but they don't. 

There's an indescribable tension I feel when camped along the trail and 
people pass by.  Part of me welcomes the social hour and chance to talk, 
share stories, etc.  Another part just wants them to pass and go away, 
and let me drift into the end of my day in inert peace. 

Needless to say the tension is fairly intense because the voices just 
don't seem to want to arrive.  By now I'm awake, curious, and rolled 
over to monitor the bend in the trail the voices will come around.  My 
aching body complains and I ignore it. 

Suddenly, as if I dozed off for a moment, there is Warner Springs Monty 
and One Gallon in full stride.  And what are they talking about?  
They're talking about the KO and how crowded the trail is and how much 
strain all those  hikers put on the infrastructure supporting the hiking 
masses.  That's all I heard. 

They were locked into their three mile an hour pace and didn't even 
glance down to me, or the spring.  Monty was worked up, gesturing and 
talking loudly enough for One Gallon who was behind him to hear him.  
One Gallon's voice is the human version of an air raid siren - just 
plain loud.  I understood why I could hear them from so far away. 

I watched them pick their way over a couple small deadfalls and around a 
bend and away.  Their voices were gone in a couple seconds too. 

Jeff, just Jeff...
Martin, SD, where there ain't no mountains...