South Downs Way sign

An Annual Ritual

It’s a strange attitude but events that happen on a set date every year make me feel that I’m getting older quicker. I resent them, traditions of friends meeting at a certain pub the day before Easter, the habit of a couple of days in Wales come the last weekend of May, even birthdays make me cringe as I count off another year and watch the grey hair level creep higher like a snow line flanking a mountain.

There is an exception, however, that fosters a feeling of age nonchalance and a blasé attitude towards gaining years, hair colour, any other concerns at the time and I look forward to it immensely every Decemberr. Come the last Saturday before Christmas, a group of friends and acquaintances meet at a quiet, unassuming railway station just outside Brighton in southeast England. No one speaks of it beforehand, no emails, texts or phone calls with ‘Are you going’ are despatched or received, we all know where and when and save a few casualties to illness or whatnot, this is where we head.

Stormy Skies

This tradition goes way back to the first year the idea, and indeed the actual walk was undertaken – 1977. The inaugural characters present on that day; Ian, Michael, Ted and Smoth still grace us with their presence now with Ted still wearing the original jacket he donned that first year, albeit now barely holding itself together.

The point? Nothing more than a 15 mile ramble over the glorious South Downs, a range of chalk hills 270 metres at their highest point in the county which I call home; West Sussex. We put the world to rights in a few hours, solve the economy, find the cure to most diseases, save a few marriages and indeed perhaps ruin a few in the process. We are shrinks, life experts, super athletes and master politicians for a day. We also have as much fun and cocking about than most of us manage in a month.

The view from the Downs

A first break is taken after a measly 30 minutes in the shade of a little copse, a weak shelter from whatever elements have come out to play that particular year. To be fair on Mother Nature, most Decembers are cold but bathed in glorious sunshine, some sprinkle our shoulders with snow, others offer gale force winds driving rain at us from a suitably inconvenient direction. We take a few minutes in that copse and break out the seasonal homemade mince pies, usually courtesy of Ted, Ian cracks open a whisky filled hip flask and someone will offer a sausage roll or two.

Suitably snacked and whiskied, we venture onward. The South Downs is a 260 sq. mile area recently designated a National Park and therefore now protected. Undulating gently in all directions, 1000 year old footpaths carve through the surface to streak our surroundings with white tracks on sage coloured grasses. The Downs gently shelve away either side of us from our meagre elevation, to the north all the way to Scotland and south, the English Channel glistens gloriously away to our French neighbours. The occasional clump of trees funnel us through, birds soar and dive on thermals like boats on choppy waters and sometimes a lingering mist in the lowlands below us clings on as church spires break through and bells toll.

Lunch? Of course! The Downs descend every now and again to charming and historic hamlets and villages, some no more than a few houses. Thatched roofs blend into oak beams whilst wattle and daub still clings in between and The Abergavenny Arms welcomes us each year with a roaring fire. Food plays second billing, this is fine English Ale time and chins are scratched as we peruse the various beers on offer. Menus are scanned and the specials board eyed before deciding on a lunchtime fuel for the afternoon shift. Invariably chips feature somewhere, or fries as my American friends would know them better.

The Fondling of the Marble Ceremony

Perhaps the strangest, most curious, weirdest and amusing tradition of the entire walk is known as ‘The Fondling of the Marble.’ In 1977, Michael, for some reason, had a marble in his pocket. Wondering if it would fit into a hole drilled hundreds of years before in one of the weathered oak beams he quickly discovered that it did and subsequently, could not retrieve it. 36 years later and it is still nestled in the same spot. Turns are taken in eagerness for the ceremony as each of us stands on a small chair, inserts the middle finger perhaps a couple of inches and fondles this small glass treasure. Never in the history of mankind has such a humble ball been held in such high and revered esteem. The act of fondling the marble has been likened to touching god, reaching enlightenment and indeed, shares somewhat dubious sexual similarities. Those with us for the first time, known as the ‘Marble Virgins’ are forbidden from taking part as it came to light one year that participants were using the walk as cover to take part in the marble caress. Virgins are barred, if it’s a marvel at the marble you’re after, show your dedication to the cause and wait till your second year.

A few notes scribbled in the visitors book and on we march over the bridge spanning the River Ouse, a quick dash between traffic speeding along the A26 is now a much more sedate affair with the installation of a fine wooden bridge. The steep climb up Itford Hill gets harder each year and after a further 3 or so hours, we descend to our final destination. The name of this charming village dating back many hundreds of years is our secret but I visit regularly during the year and it always welcomes me.

The café always knows we are coming, often staying open late to solve an immediate hunger crisis with offerings of toasted teacakes, coffee and of course a cup of Earl Grey before the pub caters for the main stomach fill later that evening. A few of us hard-cores splinter off to the village green and erect tents, just within visible distance of the ‘No Camping’ sign. I like to think if there is a warden, he or she turns a blind eye our way in favour of our harmless tradition.

Watered by fine English Ale

And to round of, as we say over here, a ‘splendid’ day, we all squeeze in the local pub. Built in 1358, it still hangs on to many a fine feature. Original stone slabs lay an uneven floor, logs blaze in the fire where 2 seats either side offer a somewhat hot resting place until limbs are warmed, and I still peer up a soot scarred chimney and wonder at the height. Blackened timbers bolster a sagging ceiling, dogs seek affection and food scraps whilst many a froth topped beer lines the bar or is held in right hands. Once stomachs are satisfied again, carol sheets are handed out and with a small keyboard guiding us, the room is filled with somewhat poor voices, becoming worse as the evening moves on and beer intake increases. Rumour has it that some travel miles just for the experience and arguably some of the locals travel miles just to get away.

Come last orders handshakes are offered to those driving back home and the rest of us retreat to our tents on the green as we ponder and delight in another year of jolliment.

And, of course, tradition.

Our group outside the church in 2012

About Keith Foskett

Keith Foskett has hiked around 7,000 miles in the past few years and holds a deep respect for our outdoor spaces. He has written two books on thru-hiking and a third, his Appalachian Trail account is due for release in early 2014. He contributes to various outdoor publications and hosts his blog, amongst other stuff at his website detailed below.

In 2012 Keith was shortlisted in 2 categories in The Great Outdoors Magazine Awards – Outdoor Personality of the Year and Outdoor Book of the Year for The Last Englishman, his Pacific Crest Trail account.

His future plans include walking the Continental Divide Trail in 2014 and a long route somewhere through Europe with a border collie.

Partial to a decent bottle of Rioja, down sleeping bags and woollen underwear, he divides his time between writing, walking, running and the odd cycle ride.

He was born, and still lives in West Sussex, England.

To follow his adventures, visit www.keithfoskett.com

This article was sponsored by RailRiders Adventure Clothing, The Toughest Clothes on the Planet. Hikers, backpackers, and professional guides swear by their adventure apparel because it is lightweight, super-tough, fast-drying and ventilated. For more information or to sign up for a free catalog, visit RailRiders.com.

           

Gates of the Arctic

An open ridge-top in the White Mountains rose to meet the tiny Super Cub, then fell away towards the next unnamed creek. Marty, my pilot and old smokejumper buddy, glanced at the instrument panel then studied the open tundra of the next mountainside.

We were headed to a tiny fuel cache on a gravel bar of the Porcupine River. There, we’d refuel before continuing on to Joe Creek in the eastern Brooks Range, just a few miles from the Alaska/Yukon border.

Leaving the White Mountains we flew over the Yukon Flats, ribbons of creeks meandering through birch and spruce, past countless lakes and ponds, where an occasional moose could be spotted feeding.

“There’s the Yukon!” Marty shouted over the drone of the engine. The huge, braided river shimmered ahead, with it’s major tributary, the Porcupine, joining it from the northeast. Soon the little plane was bouncing along a gravel bar near an eroded river bluff.

“Want me to tell you if I spot a mammoth tusk?” I joked. We walked over to the willows and grabbed a couple of cans of fuel Marty had recently cached for today. As Marty poured the fuel into the wing tank I walked along the gravel and then stared down incredulously.

Mammoth Tusk

“Hey Marty, come over here for a second.”
“What have you got?” he said.
“Take a few more steps towards me.”
“Holy $#*7!” Marty shouted, reaching down to pick up a chunk of mammoth tusk at his feet. What an incredible coincidence. Neither of us had found a piece of tusk in all our years in the Alaska bush.

Later, Marty studied the “landing strip” at Joe Creek, then dropped the flaps and expertly executed a slow, bumpy landing on the tundra. Marty handed me my pack and in no time I was watching him hand-spin the prop to restart the engine. It sputtered to life and he gave a salute and hopped in. The roar of takeoff quickly receded and the plane shrank to a tiny speck before disappearing over the mountains. I was alone in the most remote wilderness of America, the Brooks Range, with a thousand miles to the Chukchi Sea on Alaska’s west coast. It was June 18th.

Brooks Range Route

And that was my goal: to traverse Alaska through the beautiful Brooks Range, alone. In 2006, it was a time when I was relying on paper topo maps to plan a new route. There were no guidebooks. It was impossible to determine, from the maps, whether rivers would be fordable or mountain passes negotiable. I’d simply have to see for myself.

In the morning I hiked along Joe Creek towards my start at the Yukon border. Ahead of me a white wolf ran across the open creek bottom and disappeared in the willows! A few minutes later I spotted him sitting on a ridge a safe distance away. He tilted his nose to the sky and seconds later his low howl reached me, a pattern repeated many times before I reluctantly continued on.

In early afternoon I reached the imaginary Yukon border, then turned back westward, crunching along the gravel bars and over lingering rotten creek ice, often six feet thick or more.

Route-finding, in the larger sense, was fairly easy. This was open country and it was relatively straightforward to figure out which drainages to follow. Sometimes I’d pull out my GPS and match the coordinates to aeronautical charts to verify my position. The greater challenge was route-finding on a smaller scale: picking the easiest route through country where the only trails were animal paths that would appear and just as quickly vanish. The best walking was generally gravel bars or “white tundra,” covered by light colored lichens that favor drier ground.

The weather was running cool and rainy, so my main stream-crossing tactic was rubber-banding my rain pants tightly over the tops of my Gore-tex boots, then wading the countless shallow crossings as quickly as possible, which generally kept my feet dry. When the warm sun came out I’d hang my gear on bushes to dry and set out my solar panel to charge my camera batteries. What a huge boost in morale those times were!

Alaska Wolf

Three hundred meters ahead an animal loped towards me. Grizzly! He’d spotted me and was hurrying over to see if I was something to eat, perhaps an injured caribou or moose. I moved out into the open so he could see me clearly, then pulled out the sides of my unzipped raincoat to make myself look bigger. He eyed me from fifty yards away, then moved downwind into a thin screen of willows. As the tension mounted he suddenly smelled me and whirled to run.

The mosquitoes were often thick. I wore a bandana hanging down from my cap to keep them off the back of my neck and the sides of my face. I put a little DEET on the backs of my hands if they were especially bad. My pants and shirt were mosquito proof. Although the skeets were annoying at times, I didn’t suffer excessively. At “night” I would pull off my wet boots and change into dry long underwear and socks, then watch as mosquitoes battered themselves against the screen trying to get at me. In the Arctic summer it wouldn’t get fully dark for many more weeks. The magical light of sunsets flowing into sunrises lasted for hours.

One overcast day I stood on the bank of a swift river. The water was thick with glacial silt. It was impossible to see how deep it was. Was it wade-able? And if it wasn’t? I’d have to find out. I looked for a wide spot where the river braided out between little gravel islands and with my hiking staff for support slowly waded across, making sure of each step. The cold water swirled up to my crotch but I was able to keep my feet and was relieved to reach the opposite shore safely, dumping out my flooded boots.

Bush Pilot

A few hundred yards away I spotted a small green steel box, a resupply cache Marty had dropped off for me over a week ago. I felt like a kid at Christmas: lots of good food, spare bug dope and more. I sorted out my trash and left it in the cache with excess food, all of which would be flown out later.

One day I was walking through willows along a mostly open gravel bar. A beautiful tan colored wolf trotted towards me. I quickly sat down in the shade of a willow before he spotted me. He warily watched me as he approached. My sitting position confused him. Was I something to eat or something to fear? When he was only a few yards away he dashed away and ran up the mountainside.

Days later I was forced by towering stone walls into an ice cold creek rushing with knee-deep water. I was soaked and chilled from the rain and the creek. This would be a very bad place to be injured. I had a sat. phone for emergencies but it would be unlikely to work in the narrow gorge, a hundred miles from the nearest village. Every time it appeared as if my route was going to be blocked by water falls or deep water or cliffs, I’d find a barely negotiable alternate. Climbing cold, wet scree late in the afternoon I reached a mountain pass and descended on aching knees, anxious to set up camp. When I finally approached a flat camp spot along a stream a sow grizzly was feeding there with two tiny cubs. When she caught wind of me she turned to flee up the steep mountain, the two tiny balls of fur bouncing along behind her. I felt sorry for them as they tired and slowed, but they were soon out of sight far above me where the little guys could catch their breath.

Eastern Brooks Range

And so I walked across the map among the beautiful wild mountains of the Brooks Range. I crossed many unknown passes of the Continental Divide. Dall sheep fed on the ridges. Occasional caribou trotted past, anxious to rejoin the Porcupine Herd somewhere to the north. Lone grizzlies ambled across the tundra. I walked through trees only in a handful of drainages south of the Divide.

One afternoon I noticed scattered metal near a high pass I was headed for: a plane wreck. Bits of paper fluttered in the rocks. One was a citation for a rifle seized from a bear hunter back in the 50′s. A game warden’s plane. A boot lay among the twisted wreckage next to a curled propeller. I later learned that this plane, flown by Clarence Rhode, had been the subject of the greatest aerial search in Alaska history. It had lain undiscovered for decades in this remote wilderness until being found in the late 70s, when the bones of its three victims were at last recovered.

On July 17 I left the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and crossed the Alaska Pipeline and Haul Road, where a friend had left another food cache for me. It was strange to see plumes of dust and an occasional car rattling along the gravel road.

My next stop was the tiny Inupiat village of Anaktuvuk Pass, where I picked up a resupply box and got my first hot shower in a month. I also enjoyed a half gallon of Neapolitan ice cream from the village store!

One day I startled some wolf puppies in a willow thicket who promptly scampered up the hill. One sat howling for help. Its mother sat concerned, high up on the ridge, with the father watching from the opposite slope. I left them to arrange their reunion. The next day I spotted, a stone’s throw away, an old white wolf sleeping contentedly in the sunshine of a high ridge.

Joe Creek

The Alatna River was fast and deep. I considered my options. How about a raft? It took a few hours to drag together enough dead logs, then gather up every piece of cordage I could find, from tent lines to shoe laces, to lash the whole thing together. It was an exciting and tense time poling across the river. That night I had the rare treat of camping in tall spruce trees.

The Arrigetch Peaks were spectacular: some jagged, some conical, all beautiful. But ahead there was a steep pass to negotiate and I was concerned whether I could safely descend the opposite side. When at last I reached the top I was elated to find a reasonable looking descent route. I gazed at the breathtaking mountain walls surrounding me and the incredible mountains beyond. What a thrilling sight. What a relief to have made the climb safely!

A grizzly was eating blueberries (as I had been) across a small river. As I walked downstream parallel to him he began to cross to my side of the river, pausing to lounge in the cool water. I watched from a safe vantage point then crossed to the other side to avoid him. When he spotted me from a few hundred yards away he stood up on his hind legs to watch me, then began wading back across the river towards me. I stood up on a rock and yelled “HEY BEAR!” several times. He approached steadily while keeping an eye on me. I didn’t like his attitude. He entered a patch of nearby willows then stood up on his hind legs again for better look. The wind swirled and he picked up my scent for the first time and he went running off. “That’s right” I yelled after him in relief, “you’d better run!”

Moose Antlers

On August 11, I’d walked over 600 miles and reached the Noatak River. I found my inflatable canoe stashed in a steel drum as protection from grizzlies. It was a new world as I launched and followed the small upper river through the tundra of the western Brooks Range.

Sorting through my gear at a riverside camp I heard a woof. A sow grizzly and cubs had swum the river and were just about to land near my camp when she spotted me. All three were frantically swimming away. The two cubs were tiring rapidly on this, their second river crossing, and were trying to climb on the mother’s back for a ride. Happily they all reached the opposite shore, where they shook themselves and loped away. That night a wolf began to howl nearby, joined by another and another, louder and louder, each individual wolf’s voice rising and falling, until it seemed as if the large pack had my tent half surrounded, which, in fact, they did. It was an electrifying experience.

Gravel bars were often covered with fresh caribou tracks. I began to see small bands of the Western Arctic Herd. The fishing was getting better and at good spots I’d stop to try my luck. Large grayling would often end up roasting over coals. I caught more and more chum salmon but my main target, char, eluded me.

On a foggy morning, soon after leaving a pleasant camp at the mouth of atributary, I saw a black animal next the the river. I grabbed my camera. As I got closer I could see it was a black wolf. He was chasing a caribou! The caribou was frantically trying to escape, running along the water. Another black wolf dashed out in an attempt to cut him off! The caribou fled into the water and swam hard for the opposite bank, eyes big with fear as it swam right past my boat, fearing the wolves more than me. The wolves stood on the shore, disappointed, repeatedly glancing at their departing meal and back to me, their eyes glowing from the deep black hair of their faces.

One day the wind was fierce. Progress was painfully slow on large river oxbows. I was now confident I’d beat winter to the coast, so I set up camp in a grassy opening in thick, twelve foot willows. I lay back in my tent reading, completely protected from the roar of the wind; warm, dry and rested. What a treat to relax so comfortably!

Musk Ox

The river carried me westward. A large animal waded a side channel of the river. Musk ox! I quietly approached and he strode steadily out of river, streaming water from his long hair. He turned his head to contemplate my approach, the deep curves of fiercely pointed horns on each side of his head.

The fishing got better and I finally caught my char, a beautiful five pound fish. I made camp. He soon roasted over hot coals. At the same tributary I caught several more char and many salmon, primarily on green or orange flies. As I neared the Eskimo village of Noatak I began to see an occasional boat, the occupants waving as they passed. Trees often appeared along the shore providing better camps and handier firewood.

On September 2nd, the brisk wind had a different feel. I realized I could smell salt water! I tied off my boat and headed through the willows. Swans trumpeted overhead.

Finally the willows thinned. I stood looking westward where the ocean met a light blue sky at the end of my journey. The cold waves of the Chukchi Sea lapped at my feet. One thousand and fifty miles of spectacular wilderness lay behind me. What an incredibly challenging and rewarding summer it had been.

In the eloquent words of Aldo Leopold, “Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map?”

Buck Nelson

About Buck Nelson

Buck Nelson was an Alaska smokejumper for over 25 years, parachuting to remote wildfires in Alaska and across the West. He has enjoyed many other adventures, including thru-hiking the Triple Crown: the Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail and Continental Divide Trail. In 2012 he was the first person to thru-hike the Desert Trail from Mexico to Canada. Buck lives in a log cabin near Fairbanks, Alaska. You can read more about his adventures, find gear lists, see a highlight video of his Alaska traverse, and order the DVD documentary of this story, Alone Across Alaska, at his website: www.bucktrack.com. “If there were an Oscar for indie adventure films, Buck Nelson would be a runaway winner.” Backpacker Magazine.

This article was sponsored by RailRiders Adventure Clothing, The Toughest Clothes on the Planet. Hikers, backpackers, and professional guides swear by their adventure apparel because it is lightweight, super-tough, fast-drying and ventilated. For more information or to sign up for a free catalog, visit RailRiders.com.

           

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View from Dick’s Pass

Like too many young women, my standards for dating in my twenties were not exceptionally high. I wanted a date who could ski and hike and who liked my naughty husky-wolf dog Dylan. That’s about it. I dated men with no job and no aspirations for one. I dated men missing teeth, men who were stoned every waking hour. So when I met Jack, I thought I’d hit the dating lottery. He liked to hike and ski; he loved my dog Dylan even after he ate one of his ski boots. He even worked both summer and winter jobs—building hiking trails and teaching skiing.

But.

Jack had a speech impediment that made him sound stoned. Finally one of our friends asked him about it, and Jack said, “Once when I was working on an Indian Reservation digging a water line, I took peyote every day for six weeks. It sorta messed with my speech.”

Jack and I lived together in a single-wide trailer in Edwards, Colorado with our dogs and a roommate I peed in a bag for so he could pass his drug test and get a job. I worked during the day teaching toddlers how to ski and at night serving cocktails in a sports bar called Champions—a life every bit as glamorous as it sounds.

But.

Jack and I liked to ski and hike together, which is a lot if you think about it. We liked to go to a fancy restaurant in Vail, where we would order the onion soup with extra bread and share a glass of wine because that’s what we could afford. It didn’t occur to me to want anything more, not even my own glass of syrah.

I will tell you when that changed.

My college friend Jason invited us to hike in Tahoe’s Desolation Wilderness. We travelled from Colorado to California to meet Jason and go backpacking—the plan was to hike from Emerald Bay to Echo Lakes, along the Tahoe Rim Trail.

After camping at Middle Velma Lake and then Dick’s Lake, we planned to camp one more night on the other side of Dick’s Pass at either Aloha Lakes or Lake of the Woods. When we reached the top of Dick’s Pass, the landscape unfolded before us, with dark blue lakes scattered across the granite. The mountains notched the sky, and we could see all the way to Carson Pass and beyond. As we started down, Jason noticed a faint trail up Dick’s Peak. “How about we drop our packs here and climb the peak?” he asked.

I felt a little nervous because of the snow, but Jason said, “We’ll follow the rocks on the ridgeline. We can mostly avoid the snow that way.”

We dropped our packs, pulling out water, the food we had left, and our rain gear—you never know what will happen in the Sierra—to bring with us, and then started up the boulders. Jason went first, testing each rock for stability, calling to Jack and me if anything seemed wonky. Though climbing up the ridge proved slow going, we reached the peak in about an hour. After admiring the view—one that stretched across the whole of Desolation wilderness—and taking pictures, we decided we’d better head down because clouds were building on the horizon.

Velma Lake at Dusk

But.

“Hiking the ridgeline was too slow,” Jack told us. “Way too slow. Let’s go down the rocks here.” He pointed to the north side.

“But there’s snow,” I said. “And lots of it.”

“We should stick to the rocks on this side,” Jason said, pointing the ridge we had just hiked up.

“I’m going to slide down,” Jack said. “It’ll be way faster. And fun.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jason said.

“It’s really steep,” I added. “And it looks icy.”

“It’ll be fun. You’ll see and then you’ll wanna do it too.”

Even though we were hiking in July, the winter before received record snow, so a white swath clung to the rocks. The sun-cupped snow field smeared with a light pink algae. It fanned out into a huge pile of sharp boulders. And it was steep, so steep that Dylan whined at the top. Dylan was the type of dog who takes risks, yet he wasn’t stupid—he stuck to the rocks.

“Dylan won’t even step onto the snow,” I said. “It’s probably not such a good idea.” At that time in my life, I often used my dog—a crazed half breed of wolf and husky—as my compass. Strange as it sounds—even to me—it mostly worked.

“It’ll be fine,” Jack said.

“I wouldn’t do it,” said Jason. “The snow is still pretty frozen.” He kicked at the snow with his boot.
“Nah. You’ll see, and then you guys will want to do it,” Jack repeated. Then he pulled his rain gear out of his day pack and put it on so he would slide faster. He crawled sideways onto the snowfield. Dylan whined and stomped his paws, but nothing would stop Jack.

Jack sat on the snow but quickly lost his grip and started sliding sideways down the slope. Dylan barked. And then he howled. Jack fell like a rag doll, his arms and legs thrashing. He gripped at the snow but his flailing body tumbled down. His bare hands left scraped blood on the snow. He screamed as he slid down the icy slope. I stood there watching, with my hands over my mouth. Luckily before Jack crashed into the rocks, he had gotten himself belly down on the snow, feet facing downhill. Otherwise, he probably would have broken his back. He tumbled over the rocks and lay between two boulders. Jason and I made our way down the rocks as quickly as we could, as Jack lay unmoving. I hoped he hadn’t been seriously injured, but I was also mad at him for doing something so stupid. And for ruining our trip.

We finally reached Jack, and he was moaning. Aside from being scraped up and bloody, he had hurt his knee, and Jason, who was studying to be a doctor, thought Jack was going into shock. Jason put his jacket over Jack and raised his legs. I stood there amazed that Jack hadn’t killed himself and that Jason could be so calm and so efficient. I tried to act sympathetic, but once I saw he wasn’t dead or even seriously injured, I felt more angry than concerned.

“Try to walk,” Jason said. “See if you can.”

Finally, Jack could limp a little. I thought one of us should hike out to get help, but Jack insisted on walking out. I imagined the helicopter swooping down to get us. It seemed exciting to me, and I wanted to be rid of him right then and there, but Jack didn’t have health insurance, and we all knew how much a medical evacuation cost.

With Jack staggering along, we headed down the ridgeline. “Why didn’t you tell me not to do that?’ Jack asked me.

“Jason and I both warned you. Even Dylan tried to warn you.”

“But you should have stopped me. Why didn’t you stop me?” he said.

“I’m not your mother, that’s why.”

But.

To get back to the ridge, we had to re-cross a snow patch, which now after witnessing Jack’s snowslide, terrified me. Heights in general tend to terrify me, and the slide exaggerated this fear.

Dicks Pass

Because of what happened to Jack, or rather what Jack did, I was doubly afraid of slipping and ending up on the rocks below. Jason went first, kicking out each step carefully, and then Jack, in a daze, somehow made it across. I started, following the steps Jason made. But in the middle of the snow field, I made the mistake of looking down. I dug my fingers into the grainy snow, and I started to cry. Jack was in no shape to come rescue me, and Jason knew that if he came back down across, we would both be in danger. At first, Jason encouraged me, shouting, “Almost there. You can do it!” When he saw that I wasn’t going anywhere, he realized he should perhaps take a different approach. While Jack sat there in a post-traumatic daze, Jason yelled at me: “You need to take one step after the other.” And, “Now would be good.” And then, “Get a grip, Suzanne. Really. You need to.” I wasn’t moving, just crying.

Finally Jason shouted, “Get a fucking grip.” That got me going, and somehow I made it to the rocks and then back down to our packs.

After redistributing the weight so that Jason and I were carrying the majority of Jack’s stuff, we made it down to the closer Gilmore Lake and settled in for the night. “Aren’t you going to sleep in the tent with me?” Jack asked when he saw that I threw my bag down onto Jason’s tarp.

“No,” I said. “I think I’ll sleep out with Jason.”

At this point, I hope that it’s clear that Jason is my gay boyfriend and that “Get a fucking grip” was not a love song. Or maybe it was, but not in the way you might think.

Jack sulked around that night, and the next day, he limped out to the Echo Lakes Ferry, carrying his near-empty pack. We hadn’t originally planned to take the boat the last few miles of our hike, but Jack’s injuries changed that. And other things too.

I hiked ahead, waited, and then when Jack came hobbling down the trail, I would took off again. We hiked past the most stunning scenery yet—past Susie, Heather, and the island-scattered Aloha Lakes—but I was more concerned with getting Jack out. With getting out.

“Are you mad?” Jack asked.

“Not mad,” I said, which was both true and not true. I was done being mad at Jack, but I was mad at myself. Did I think I didn’t deserve someone with common sense? Why hadn’t that made it on the list with the hiking and the skiing and the dog loving? I realized on that long, slow hike out that I ought to add a few other requirements to my short dating list. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that my standards had been so low, that I constantly chose the wrong man rather than just being alone. But with each step, I started listening to myself—a tedious but necessary listening. I’d been stuck—it was both too true and too hard to see.

But.

There is nothing like moving your body across a landscape, a mountainscape, to get unstuck, to figure things out, to get a fucking grip. We would finally make it to the trailhead and return to Colorado, where Jack would need knee surgery. Dylan and I would move out of our trailer, and before moving to the Sierra, I would visit that fancy restaurant in Vail and have my very own glass of syrah.

Author Suzanne Roberts

About Suzanne Roberts

Suzanne Roberts is the author of the memoir Almost Somewhere: Twenty-Eight Days on the John Muir Trail (winner of the 2012 National Outdoor Book Award), as well as four books of poetry, including Three Hours to Burn a Body: Poems on Travel and Plotting Temporality. Suzanne was named “The Next Great Travel Writer” by National Geographic’s Traveler, and her work has been published widely in journals and anthologies, including The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader and Best Women’s Travel Writing 2013. She holds a doctorate in literature and the environment from the University of Nevada-Reno and currently teaches at Lake Tahoe Community College and for the low residency MFA program in creative writing at Sierra Nevada College. More information may be found on her website: www.suzanneroberts.net

This article was sponsored by RailRiders Adventure Clothing, The Toughest Clothes on the Planet. Hikers, backpackers, and professional guides swear by their adventure apparel because it is lightweight, super-tough, fast-drying and ventilated. For more information or to sign up for a free catalog, visit RailRiders.com.

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• Loved the story and the writing — and I swear I've been out ... by Karen Berger
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• Thanks, Gail. I am so glad you enjoyed Almost Somewhere. I am ... by Suzanne Roberts
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Crotch Blowout

Rrippppp! The crotch of my hiking pants tore open on day two of a six day backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail. Hard to believe, but I’d worn out those hiking pants in less than a year and the fabric just wore through. Nothing much to do for such a catastrophic clothing mishap except to hike through it and wear my rain pants when I was in mixed company.

That was before I discovered the RailRiders hiking pants and shirts which I now wear on all of my hiking trips. They make indestructible, yet extremely comfortable and functional pants and shirts that are perfect for hiking, backpacking, and all of your outdoor adventures. I’ve been using them on every hiking trip I taken since 2008 and I still think they’re the best adventure shirts and pants available.

Raffle Prize:  Choose a pair of RailRiders mens or womens hiking pants.

The drawing winner will be able to choose one of the following pairs of hiking pants from RailRiders:

• X-Treme Adventure Pants – the toughest pair of pants on the planet (msrp $99)
• Weather Pants with Insect Shield – bombproof and lightweight (msrp $98)
• Adventure Khaki Pants – super quick drying, very packable and wrinkle free (msrp $69)

Please note – Mens and Womens pants may differ in styling and sizes. Check the RailRiders catalog for full product details.

To Enter the Raffle: Describe Your Worst Clothing Mishap while Hiking

Describe your worst clothing mishap – while hiking – in the comment form below:

• Crotch blowout?
• Tore off a pocket?
• Front zipper fell off?
• Rip your favorite shirt on a tree branch?
• Melt a fleece glove while cooking dinner?
• Pants frozen in the morning?
• Wore a hole in your socks in less than 2 days?

Deadline to Enter

The deadline to enter this raffle is Sunday, May 19th, 2013 at midnight EST.

• All raffle entrants will have one chance to win in a random drawing.
• Please keep all responses rated G.
• The prize winner can live anywhere that has postal service (including international.)
• If you have any questions, leave a comment.
• The drawing winner will be announced by June 7th, 2013.

Submit your answer in the comment form below!

Describe your worst clothing mishap while hiking

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• One winter in the mid '70s, I canoed with my father through ... by Grandpa
• This happened years ago as a teenager. And if I remember ... by Jeff P
• So far I've been lucky enough not to suffer any major clothing ... by Robert
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On September 7, 2007, my wife of 32 years passed away from cancer. My life as I knew it also ended that day. I had a choice to make. Either lament my misfortune and wallow in pity for years, or make an effort to find peace and meaning in what remained of my life.

I did what I often did when life’s burdens became overwhelming, I scheduled a hike. The Grand Canyon and Zion Canyon had been my venues for stress reduction from a busy management job. The latter part of October of that same year I arrived at Zion Canyon for my therapy sessions. The early morning hike up Angels Landing found me crouched under a sandstone overhang while a lightning storm blazed its glory. In the early morning light several waterfalls emerged from the distant cliffs. I knew I was on sacred ground. Later, as I meandered along the East Rim Trail, I realized how healing and calming these hikes were. A seed was planted in my mind. Could a hike of much longer duration assist my search for peace and freedom?

The seed sprouted and grew, and on March 31, 2008, an apprehensive thru-hiker was dropped off at Stamp Gap on Springer Mountain, Georgia. At the edge of the woods, a narrow trail led off into the unknown. Well, not entirely unknown, since many folks have hiked this famous trail wandering through 14 states and ending on a mountain top in Maine. The Appalachian Trail had been only a vague and distant dream for many years. Now it was reality, made possible by my misfortune. I hoisted my backpack and with tears streaming down my face trudged northward. I was “Apostle,” hiker #391 heading for Maine. Two steps later I dropped my pack and donned more gear as raindrops welcomed me into my new life. The rain mixed rather well with my tears, I thought.

After hiking 10 miles that first day, I set up camp at Horse Gap with several other hikers I had encountered on the trail. We set up our encampment near a small stream and retired into our individual cocoons for the night.

Sleep was impossible that first night. I spent the night contemplating the events that had brought me to this moment. Looking back, I knew I had it made. I had a great family and a good job. I had aspirations of getting out of debt, retiring early, and doing volunteer work for my church and community.

In May of 2007 I entered the hospital room where my wife Mary had been admitted. I waved an envelope holding our last house payment. “Honey, we are out of debt!” It had been a long difficult journey to become debt free. “That’s great,” she replied feebly. Four months later she was dead. We had struggled so much and worked so hard to get to this point and now I was debt free but alone. Perhaps I should have enjoyed the journey more and not worried so much about reaching the goal, I mused.

All night long the rain drummed on the roof of my tent as I reminisced. Born Amish and raised as a very strict Conservative Mennonite, I was held by a long list of dos and don’ts. Living a Christian life seemed nearly impossible. Every failure left doubts and fears about my eternal destination. Although I had married a more liberal Mennonite girl and felt I had progressed spiritually, I still had many questions about life. Was an almighty God actually in control of events or did they just randomly happen? Where was God when my wife was sick and died? Did He see my family’s pain…and not care? I determined to invite God along as my hiking partner on this trudge to Maine, because I wanted answers. I will admit that conditions on some sections of the Appalachian Trail were so bad that I felt the Creator had opted out of our hike. You keep going, if you insist on being a purist, He seemed to say as He blue blazed and yellow blazed, slack packed, and generally abandoned me at times.

No, readers, I did not get struck down by lightning for my irreligious thoughts. It was close though. In Pearisburg, Virginia, during a miserable thunderstorm with lightning flashing about, I offered my body as a sacrifice to the storm. “Go ahead and hit me,” I screamed to the lightning bolt flashing across my path. “I am so miserable and cold—just finish me off.” Perhaps not a wise challenge to make to my seemingly uncaring hiking partner.

During all those years of dreaming, I had read a great deal about the Appalachian Trail, and now I was looking forward to staying at popular hostels and meeting trail angels. I was aware that some trail traditions would collide with that long list of prohibitions defining my religion. I wasn’t certain, for example, what my hiking partner would think of naked hiker day on the summer solstice. But as dawn ended the night of relentless thinking, I determined to immerse myself in this hike and the life of the AT and avail myself of all the trail’s traditions.

For the next five days I hiked in rain. Day and night it rained. Occasionally we got a respite when the rain turned to sleet and then snow. The leaf-covered trail turned slippery, and rocks and roots conspired to trip any careless hiker. I started to doubt the wisdom of giving up a good career for this walk through misery.

My first hiking partners were a marathon runner and a marathon speed walker. I was a slightly out of shape restaurant manager but had one characteristic necessary for a thru hiker—stubbornness. My two hiking partners were former Boy Scouts (an organization I was prohibited from joining because of my church’s belief in…well, belief in anything fun being wrong), and they had scouting skills I now wanted to learn. Only my tenacity and their graciousness kept me with them. Working hard to keep up with them took its toll. Twenty days later, I stepped on the scales at the outfitter’s in Hot Springs, North Carolina. I’d lost 30 pounds in 20 days. I did the calculation. “Wow. At this rate, by the time I reach New York I will weigh as much as my backpack, and somewhere in the White Mountains I’ll disappear completely.” I was burning 6,000 calories a day and taking in only 2,000 calories; something had to change.

My fifth night on the trail was also my first shelter experience. To this point I had set my tent up every evening. I was quite adept at erecting my abode in falling rain. However, on this evening the driving rain forced me—and everyone else—indoors. Deep Gap Shelter was aptly named since it matched my deep dismay at having quit my job for this misery.

A church group doing a section hike had taken up residence at this shelter, and, along with an assortment of other hikers, we numbered about 15. Fatigue overtook me to the point where I was too tired even to finish my food. A young, unprepared hiker gladly scarfed up the remains of my meal. At 7PM I was ensconced in my down-filled bag, naked as the day I was born, sweating and chafing in areas where the sun didn’t shine. For hours, I used that bag as a blacksmith uses a bellows. The resulting air movement did dry out my sweaty, chaffed nether regions but also released a mixture of smells unknown to mankind. The hours passed and I lay awake listening to a snoring choir. The sounds emanating from Deep Gap Shelter that night assured me that no marauding bear would dare come near. The awful smells distressed me even more. The church group in its wisdom had cooked up a kettle of Western Chili Bean soup and shared it with everyone. At midnight, the natural gas producers joined the snoring choir. Misery upon misery. Dear God, I want my job back. This is the worst decision I’ve made in my life. I gave up my job for this, I whined.

With the first hint of day light, I packed up and hiked off into the falling rain. Ahead lay Dicks Creek Gap and potential redemption. I had read numerous hiker journals speaking about the Blueberry Patch Hostel run Gary and Lennie, a Christian couple. Their love and concern had helped many hikers extend their hiking experience. I needed a whole lot of help and encouragement.

At the Blueberry Patch, redemption did indeed arrive. Lennie greeted me with a laundry basket and offered to launder my wet, stinking clothing. I was offered the use of their bathroom and shower, and slowly the clouds lifted. I discovered a shoe dryer, and within a short time I had dry clothes, dry shoes, and a new disposition. Gary handed me the keys to his vehicle and I was soon driving a carload of new hiker acquaintances into Hiawassee, Georgia, for a buffet feast at a local restaurant. That evening while mingling with fellow hikers, I realized all my needs were met. I had dry clothes, my belly was full, I was among friends, I had a bunk to sleep in. Five days of misery had prepared me for what it would take to endure a thru-hike—determination, tenacity, endurance, and the encouragement and assistance of other hikers and trail angels such as I found at the Blueberry Patch Hostel.

The last weekend of March, 2013, I returned to the Blueberry Patch for a trail magic weekend. I hung around the hostel, visiting and shuttling hikers from the trail to town and back. Reflecting on my own hike, I recalled the misery that had preceded my stay there. Then other memories crowded the miserable aside. Memories of the journey northward are still so vivid. Incredible views, beautiful wildflowers, cascading waterfalls, and colorful characters, awaited me on the trail to Maine. And every step I took that summer of 2008 brought me one step closer to the peace and freedom I sought after my devastating loss.

On August 13, 2008, a weary “Apostle” approached the sign atop Mount Katahdin. I concluded my hike the same way I had started it, in tears. These tears, though, were not tears of uncertainty and questioning. They were tears of joy in knowing I had accomplished something amazing and along the way had found that peace and freedom.

Paul Stutzman tells the story of his AT hike in “Hiking Through: One man’s journey to peace and freedom on the Appalachian Trail”.

Apostle On Mount Katahdin

About Paul Stutzman

Paul Stutzman was born in Holmes County, Ohio in an Amish family. His family left the Amish lifestyle soon after Paul was born. They joined a strict Conservative Mennonite Church where Paul was raised to fear God and obey all the rules the church demanded. Paul continued to live among and mingle with his Amish friends and relatives his entire life. Paul married a Mennonite girl and remained in the Amish community working and raising a family. After Paul lost his wife to cancer, he sensed a tug on his heart- the call to a challenge, the call to pursue a dream. With a mixture of dread and determination, Paul left his job, traveled to Georgia, and took his first steps on the 2,176 mile Appalachian Trail. What he learned during the next four and a half months changed his life-and can change yours too. After completing his trek Stutzman wrote Hiking Through a book about this life changing journey. In the summer of 2010 Stutzman again heeded the call for adventure and pedaled his bicycle 5,000 miles across America. He began his ride at the Northwest corner of Washington State and pedaled to Key West, Florida. On his journey across America he encounters people in all circumstances, from homelessness to rich abundance. The people he meets touch his life profoundly. Stutzman writes about these encounters in his book Biking Through. Recently Stutzman released his first novel entitled The Wanderers. The Wanderers is a story about Johnny a young Amish boy growing up in a culture he is not sure he wants to embrace. A young Amish girl named Annie wins his heart and life is great for a time. Entwined with Johnny and Annie’s story is the allegory of two Monarch butterflies, worms who have been transformed into amazing creatures specially chosen to carry out the miracle of the fourth generation. They, too, must undertake a long journey before they finally find home. In addition to writing, he speaks to groups about his hiking and biking experiences and the lessons learned during these adventures. Stutzman resides in Berlin, Ohio and can be contacted through his website at www.hikingthrough.com or www.paulstutzman.com

This article was sponsored by RailRiders Adventure Clothing, The Toughest Clothes on the Planet. Hikers, backpackers, and professional guides swear by their adventure apparel because it is lightweight, super-tough, fast-drying and ventilated. For more information or to sign up for a free catalog, visit RailRiders.com.

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• Thanks for sharing. Great post. Sean by Sean
• read the book, and cudnt hardly put it down .. needless to say, ... by calvin hollowell
• Unfortunately some folks do get lost in their wilderness ... by Paul Stutzman
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