[pct-l] Rain and Love in California

[Jeffrey Olson]

On June 7, 1991, my girlfriend and I headed south from just north of Mt. 
Lassen intending to hike 750 miles in 75 days to Mt. Whitney Portal.  On 
Day 17 we left Sierra City after a wonderful night and long morning in 
the motel downtown over the bar.  We camped where the PCT crosses Milton 
Creek and made camp with a bit of nervousness as the sky had filled with 
clouds, big, black-bottomed clouds that scudded powerfully.  We paid 
particular attention to pitching the SD Clip Flashlight on a place that 
seemed water would drain away from the tent. 


We'd been dealing with heat and large snow patches mostly, carrying 
obscenely heavy packs (hers was 54 pounds at the start, and mine 72 
pounds).  Ray Jardine's book didn't come out til after our hike - 
sometime in 1992.  It was kind of exciting to feel nervous about the 
weather. 


It started to rain during the night, and it rained hard.  We'd been on 
the trail nearly three weeks in ideal weather conditions.  The Sierra is 
renown for good weather.  However, it's not 100% dry and warm during the 
summer.  Thunderstorms can happen at any time, building up and 
threatening to let loose over a couple days, and then, for a day or two, 
letting loose, and then retreating into a threat and afternoon clouds 
flowing by.  It's a lovely pattern to be part of. 


 This was to be our first "weather test."  We'd had lots of other tests 
and had worked our way through them - lots of little "couples crises" 
that strengthened our relationship and our trail routine.  Jane had 
never backpacked before in her life - had never set foot on a trail 
before.  What she learned about backpacking she learned from how I did 
things.  Our routine was so smooth, so near perfect.  We'd get into 
camp, and I'd set up the camp - we seldom used the tent - only when 
mosquitoes were prevalent.  That involved laying out the groundcloth, 
sleeping pads, sleeping bags, her ditty bag, etc. 


She'd filter water, which was a task I loathed for some reason - I can't 
remember why.  She'd cook (heat water) and I'd wash dishes.  I'd bag the 
food and throw the rock (providing nightly entertainment) over the tree 
branch.  It'd be getting dark by that time and we'd lie there staring up 
at the day turn to night and stars blinking into existence, talking and 
watching the sky, slowly falling asleep. 


We got up the next morning around 10AM, reluctant to leave the dry 
warmth of the tent to hike in the deluge outside.  We ate granola for 
breakfast, eschewing coffee and oatmeal, got everything packed and ready 
to move from the tent to our Jansport D-2 and D-3 packs under their 
garbage bag raincovers and leaning against a big tree.  Luckily the tree 
was fairly thick and tall and the packs had lots of needles and water on 
them, but were not compromised in the least.  We agreed that we would 
pack the packs and then take down the tent.  WE choreographed our 
departure and from the time we got out of the tent, put on our ponchos, 
packed up and left was less than 15 minutes. 


The trail followed Milton Creek a bit before heading up the side of the 
canyon to traverse on the west side of the ridge towards Jackson Meadow 
Reservoir.  The rain was coming down with well-settled constant 
ferocity.  I'd never thought of rain as ferocious, but because this was 
obviously a storm, and not a thunderstorm, it felt oppressive and 
ferocious.  A lot of water was coming from the leaden sky. 


We hiked in abject misery.  I like ponchos because I sweat a lot.  They 
allow for far more ventilation than a jacket.  But even so, hiking up 
the three or four hundred feet to the top of the ridge and over had me 
soaked by the time we got to the top.  I was wearing tee shirt and 
shorts and boots and poncho, and sweating profusely.  What fun. 


Janey of course took it all in stride, more chilly than I, wearing her 
fleece pullover.  When she'd look at me (she always walked ahead of me - 
always) turning back towards me, she had a look on her face that was 
part commiseration, part self-satisfaction that she was more comfortable 
than I.  I'd quit my two-pack-a-day for 20 years smoking habit the 
morning we headed out from the Twin Bridges Campground on Hat Creek a 
mile off Hwy 89 and a half mile from the PCT.  The first ten days of the 
hike I was a little "off" due to the withdrawl, but it was pretty much 
buried in coping with carrying a 70 pound pack.  As a consequence I 
revealed some emotional edges she'd not seen before over those first 
days, and there was as much a sense of "helping me through the tough 
times" on her part as there was on mine for her.  That was a different 
feeling - having a woman be concerned for me in that way, see me as 
vulnerable and emotional, and having to admit I was!  And not just once, 
slipping back into my guyness, but pretty much constantly as the 70 
pounds wore me down.


We hiked with head down through puddles and trail streams, through thick 
forest, our heavy leather boots soaked, our feet rubbing more intensely 
in their warm, wet, constantly moving boot environments.  All in all, 
the four or five hours we spent on the trail was not much fun. 


During one break we decided that we would hike as far as the campground 
on Jackson Meadow Reservoir and call it a day, hoping the storm would 
blow over and away.  Great - we had a goal.  I know it added some speed 
to my stepping through mud and water. 


We arrived at the spur trail to the campground and headed down it.  It 
was really raining hard at this point, not a Washington mist or light 
rain, but a serious deluge usually found only in the middle of a 20 
minute, southern sierra or CDT thunderstorm.  When we got to the 
campground proper I headed over to the first campsite and called to Jane 
as she was 20' or so ahead of me.  "Jane, here we are," I yelled out 
over the sound of the pounding rain.  She stopped and turned and looked 
at the campsite, and then at me, and said, "Let's find a nicer one." 


I couldn't believe what I had heard.  She wanted to go find a campsite 
with a lake view, one that was a little further from the campgrounds 
paved road.  "Let's just set up camp and get out of the rain" I shouted 
back.  She had one of those looks on her face that any man that spends 
time with a woman comes to know well.  (It's probably reversible as 
well, but I wouldn't know about that.).  She wasn't miserable like I 
was.  Her world was bigger, and she was going to find us a nice 
campspot, the "perfect" campspot. 


I couldn't believe what I'd heard.  I threw some questions at her and it 
became obvious she was going to be stubborn and insist on her way this 
time.  She usually didn't insist like this - her perspective was that we 
were wet, and another couple minutes search for a nicer camp wouldn't 
make us any wetter or miserable.  I literally threw my arms up into the 
air and frustratingly ejaculated, "All right - God - Let's just do it."  
I started walking and she looked at me with that "knowing look" and I 
said, "Go, go, go...!"


She turned and headed off further down into the campground.  I followed 
at a distance, wet, getting chilled, fuming at the idiocy of women in 
general.  WE came upon a bathroom with an overhang and I stopped and 
told her to find her campsite and come back for me.  She put her pack 
down and took off.  God...


She came back, offering me the bone of a sheepish look, and said she'd 
found a nice campsite.  I muttered something, she picked up her pack, 
and we headed back out into the now felt like a deluge of biblical 
proportions - more a comment on my mood than any change in the intensity 
of rain.  I fumed and marveled at the quirkiness of women as she led me 
to a spot that was perched up a driveway above the road, that probably 
would have a view when it stopped raining.  One of the nice things about 
her getting her way is that she took responsibility for the set-up-camp 
routine.  I followed her lead and we put up the already damp tent and 
put our sleeping gear into it.  She told me just to get in the tent and 
she'd tidy up outside.  I did, getting out of my wet hiking clothes into 
warming long underwear under the down mummy bag.  I could hear her 
walking about, buttoning up the packs and making sure we had food and 
water. 


By the time she corkscrewed her way into the tent (clip flashlights 
require some serious exercising to get in and out of when someone else 
is in it) I was feeling somewhat less resentful, but still was irritated 
enough to be silent and passive-aggressive, offering short responses to 
her effusiveness.  Of course she wore that down quickly as she changed 
into her dry clothes, playing with my always present sexual attraction 
to her, playing with me, cajoling me out of my moodiness. 


We spent the rest of the day in the tent, eating finger food, napping, 
talking, getting up only to pee.  It was an entirely pleasant day, 
marred only by the condensation on the tents surfaces that had to be 
dealt with every ten minutes or so.  But that created the opportunity 
for play and we did.  The rain didn't let up til near dark, and then 
shifted into lighter, intermittent showers with only the dripping from 
the tall pines continuing to wet us - of course because we'd not run 
into rain before, our tent was right at the drip line of a grandfather 
of a tree. 


We finally drifted off into sleep well after dark to awaken the next 
morning to a clear sky and the ebullient joy that comes from having 
"weathered" a 30 hour California summer storm. 


So, yes, summer storms do happen in California, and my lesson learned is 
to walk through it, women are different, and don't set up your tent 
under a tree...


Jeffrey Olson
Martin, SD (deep in "The Flyover Zone")