Weird. Challenging. Beautiful. Scary.

Weird. challenging. Beautiful. Scary. A mix of bad things to deal with, or as my over-positive former boss used to call them “challenges.” That guy is either a millionaire, or a broken down hobo talking to himself in catch phrases. If anybody knows Mike Scarr, tell him I miss him. I hope he’s really successful, he was too slight of build to be a survivor on the street. 

Let me start off by saying that life is like Jiu Jitsu. It’s not the other way around, because from my perspective, life could learn a lot from Jiu Jitsu, and frankly, it’s not as important. Or as cool. However, it is filled with moments of triumph and mastery, followed quickly by pain, humiliation, and quiet, private tears. Hiking the PCT is a lot like Jiu Jitsu, although it’s not that much like life, except in some ways. Okay, it is, fine, but it involves much more walking than most of us would be comfortable with. Hiking the PCT is one of those things that most people tell you that they admire, and would like to try one day, and then they sort of back away slowly, trying not to take their eyes off you, but also not making direct, potentially perceived as a threat, eye contact. There’s a madness to these endeavors, one that alienates us from most of the people we encounter. There’s also a lot of hours. 

I train about 10 hours a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, but let’s say it’s forty a month, or 480 a year. No, I don’t take the holidays off. That’s open mat season. I expect, if I stay on track, don’t get injured, come to my senses, or fall in love with fly fishing, which, let’s be honest is a much more appropriate pastime for a man of my age and athletic prowess, I will earn a black belt in the ridiculously named Gentle Art in about 11 or 12 years. So, roughly, 5300 hours of training will yield unto me the god like powers that all black belts in BJJ seem to possess. 

Yay! Jen, my beloved hiker of misty mountains, walks about eight hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but let’s call it, for simplicity in math, 48 hours a week. She anticipates finishing this madness, baring coming to her senses, taking up gardening, or, as others have done failing to complete their through hike, writing a best selling novel and getting really famous people to play her in the movie adaptation. Note that Wild, written by Cheryl Strayed, started in Mojave, and finished in Oregon. Less than half the trail. Also, Bill Bryson, who is awesome, hiked less than half of the Appalachian Trail, and wrote a book about it. Reese Witherspoon played Cheryl, and Robert Redford played Bill. Yeah, this guy, played by Robert Redford. Jeesus. 

My point being, and I do have one even if I had to scroll up to remember what it was, is that Jen is hiking about 200 hours a month, for up to six months. That’s over 1000 hours, if she moves quickly. That’s a lot of time to put into something that doesn’t pay you anything in money and few people actually understand. Which is exactly why it’s so damn cool. 

and eat some pie. Jen walked to 163, decided, wisely, that her feet were fucked, and, after hiking an extra 3 or 4, came out for a few days to hang out at Chateau Marley. Remember that part where I said she’d be a good Catholic, never letting go of any deviation from the Catechism. Not that I’d know, I was marginally raised Lutheran, and wasn’t any good at even that lowered standard. Back to 163, which involved two miles up just to get there, then the 3 miles, then another three down. If you’re keeping track, and good math, that meant tacking on about 9 miles of non-PCT trail, to make sure the 3 got done. We returned to the estate, and dined on Pizza and puppy love. 

Speaking of weirdness and challenges, Jen had notice that Marley, beloved Marley, had a little lump under his chin. I felt it, and figured he had a little bite or something, and let it be. It wasn’t until a couple of nights later, as our trailer park rendezvous was wrapping up, that I noticed that Old Blue Eyes wasn’t himself. The next morning, as Jen was preparing to get back on the trail for a few days, that I got worried. Big boy didn’t want to go for a walk, wasn’t really hungry, and the lump had swollen significantly. I thought bug bite, maybe a spider, since snake bite would have been more dramatic. 

I dropped Jen off, left Marley in the car, not a good sign that he was cool with that, and headed up for a couple of miles of send off hike. Bernardo came along, and apparently only likes cool weather hiking. He was a freaking maniac on the trail. Usually he’s good for a couple of miles tops. Today, he could have gone to Canada.

 

We had to turn around, because I had made a vet appointment for Mars Bars. Say goodbye to Super!

Let me just say this area is amazing, and I live just outside of Tahoe. That’s saying something. Really dramatic, steep hills of old granite, mixed forest, water and springs and something that flew past me going about ninety and sounding like a jet plane. I’m guessing a hawk flying down a 45 degree hill. I didn’t see it, just heard this feathered roaring. 

After that, I put Bernardo back on his leash. He’s all dog, but to big raptor, he probably looks like an ugly bunny. 

The area is called Humber Park, and the trail is the Devils’ slide. Appropriate, yes, given our struggles? 

I drove down to Palm Springs and took my boy in to see the doc. The swelling had gotten worse, and while we were at the vet, he ruptured it. Gross. Blood and pus. Definitely not something that I should have treated with Benadryl and some epsom salt. The look him over, and give me an estimate of the bill. Remember how I was pleasantly surprised when the car guy estimated $700? This was a very different experience. $1700! Holy crap. The lady asked me what I wanted to do, like there were options. I guess some people would say he’s just a dog, and walk away. Maybe if the choice were between eating, or sending your kids to school, but as a Child Free (not childless) adult, there was no question. 

After about four hours a surgery, this is what they found out. 

No, that’s not some alien life form, or a bug of some sort. That my friends, is a grass seed. A particularly nasty kind, known as a foxtail or cheat grass. I’d been checking his eyes and ears, since Marley loves nothing more than to rub his face in weeds. Except maybe mud.  I had even combed him out after his latest excursion had him completely covered in a wide variety of plant life, but I missed this thing. It worked it’s way under his skin, just below his collar, burrowed down all the way through his muscle. I’ve read about them getting into internal organs and killing dogs. Gnarly. The doc got deep in there, and found this nasty little bugger, put a little drain tube in Marleys’ neck, and fitted him with a cone of shame. 

Poor little guy. 

Meantime, Jen was hiking up and over the San Jacinto mountains, and heading into Whitewater, just west of Palm Springs, where it had been over 100 for weeks. And then it snowed.