5:00 PM
Oh. My. God. "What the fuck was I thinking?" sounds like a good place to start. It took me four hours (including about an hour of resting) to hike five miles. Tomorrow I have to hike eight miles. So I need about eight hours. Fuck. What if I don't make it? Amazingly enough, I was worried most about sleeping alone, before I left. Now, I'm most worried about dehydrating or just not being able to make it. Ah, reality, my old nemesis. My anticipatory fears flee in your harsh wrath.
Mostly my spirits were ok, although I enjoyed the walk significantly less than I thought I would. Sure it was beautiful - whatever. Mostly I put one foot in front of the other and kept my eyes on the trail so I didn't trip over the roots. There are a lot of tree roots on the trail path, making it knobby and ripe for tripping. Makes you wonder a) if the trees do it on purpose and b) if any of their goddamned roots are underground at all. Fucking trees.
Aside - at the moment of writing my biggest worries are mosquito-based: will I go insane from their constant dive-bombing my ears? Will I sue the people who make Cutter Backwoods Insect Repellent ™, because none of these fuckers seem repelled enough to go more than three inches away. Sure, they're not landing; however, I expected more distance. And finally, will I die a horrible death for failing to follow their warnings "Do not spray directly on face" (what about on hair?) and "Avoid breathing spray mist." Fuckers.
My courage failed me twice, I admit. Once when the friendly, never-ending redwood forest turned into chaparral and then sandstoney desert, sunlight and dry rocks, and my second wind from my long break was totally gone and I hadn't seen a trail marker in a long time. I was sure I was lost. I would have sat down and cried except there was no place to sit and that would have been a useless waste of moisture. God, I sound like a Bedouin. Only without my camel or Allah to save me.
The other time was when I got to the marker that said camp was .1 miles away. Uphill. Up gravelly, dry, sunny, manzanita lined hill. Not unlike my driveway. That was the longest fucking tenth of a mile in my whole entire fucking life.
Anyway, I found a camp site, caught my breath after attracting the attention of a 40ish SWM who was concerned that I was all right. (See Gerald? Just like I told you. The world sees naivete and inexperience in my face and tried to help. I can't wait to be old and wrinkly and evil looking. Then they'll learn! Muwhahahahahha!)
So now I'm eating and figuring out what to do with the last three hours of sunlight. I ate my apple faster than I've ever consumed one, and even ate my smushed banana without complaint. I wish I had more water. My kingdom for a bath. And since my kingdom is currently a dropcloth, sleeping bag, dried foot, sweaty clothes, and a WIP slash story and this journal, I doubt I'll get any takers. And by the time this is posted to Cant, I'll be clean and rehydrated anyway. Maybe if I can get moving early, I'll go wading at the beach.
Everyone else has tents. How am I going to have enough privacy to change clothes? Perhaps this was not well thought out. I'm so tired. I guess I could change in the pit toilet. Blech. Maybe as it gets darker I'll get less modest.
Note - a 35 lb. pack is too fucking heavy. How much does this damn thing weigh empty? Yes, I'm tremendously grateful to have it (thank you Evan) and it's not horribly uncomfortable (no shoulder or hip blisters like the other time I went backpacking [again, thanks Evan]).
Oh god. I just laid down. I may never get up again.
Where was I? Ah yes, the pack. Mine is heavy. It looks heavy. Everyone else either doesn't have one at all (?????) or has a little teeny pack. What the fuck? Were they just day hikers? Without food or water? Christ. It's a conspiracy to keep the weak-hearted out of the forest. My pack is heavy. Why? Because while I own adequate camping gear, I don't own the special space-age ultralight backpacking gear. My sleeping bag is too heavy. My clothes are not fleece. (Aside -- I no longer roll my eyes at the idea of "wicking" panties. I understand now.)
And those people all always going the opposite direction as me, with no water. Were they on crack? All smiling, happy, not sweaty, ass-licking bastard fuckwards. Die, die die!
There needs to be trail markers every mile, for reassurance. Like they can't afford them. Fuckers.
6:00 PM
Paul is back (the SWM). He has informed me of a waterfall/shower and now he is refreshed. An hour after arrival and the back of my T-shirt is still soaking wet. But I cannot move. Not until my bladder demands it. I will stay here, stinky and dirty and revel in my filth. In many ways I'm very fastidious. I wonder if this causes my enjoyment of my own filth or if it's the opposite. Maybe it's simply the power in the ability to choose. Plus, hard work should make you sweat - if you didn't sweat, you didn't work hard enough. Even a full day of writing makes me sweat. But maybe that's because I write about sex. But I digress….
I'm actually quite relieved to be surrounded by other campers. Privacy is nice, but… sleep is better. I am so phenomenally tired.
Notes for next time - mosquito netting. Extra T-shirt. More water.
The sun is too high. Go down. I'm tired.
My camp site is in the exact center of a fairy ring. Coincidence? Hmm…
The bugs are winning the battle with my sanity.
Changed clothes in the privy. The foul stench doesn't bother you so much after a few minutes.
I'm so dirty. I'm torn between appalled and delighted - my mother's or my own perspective after being caught playing nude in the mud.
Can't wait till it's dark enough to remove my sports bra and add it to the bush of clothes airing out.
Fuck. I just realized the flashlight's going to attract bugs.
And that if I keep writing every thought down for posterity, I can't really be said to be alone , having this monologue with an audience. Perhaps I'd best stop writing.
7:30 PM
Well, I just became the evil bitch in the eyes of a bunch of teenagers who were about to set up their tent in the main path between camp sites, specifically between me and another camp. Which would have royally sucked, since you can bet they'll be up late, loud, and loudly fucking all night. I wonder if they're even college-aged, they were so clueless. I also wonder if I was wrong, but… not really. They wouldn't number the obvious coves if you could camp wherever you wanted. It sounds like they're near the family with the loud boy child now. Fitting. I'm quietly reveling in being a busybody. I like my privacy, damnit.
I wonder if you can OD on bug spray.
8:30
Sweaty bra finally off. Mosquitoes mostly gone. Crickets chirping. When can I go to sleep? Everyone who seemed asleep is now up making dinner. Fuckers. I have to pee but am afraid of how much it will hurt to put my boots back on. I'm going to run out of water tomorrow. Christ. Am I insane? I'll never make it to Wadell Beach. Oh god.
9:00 PM
Dark. Mostly. I thought it was a new moon, but there's a hell of a lot of light coming from the sky. The trees are dark, but not scary unless I take off my glasses. I may sleep with them on.
Wish the teenagers would shut the hell up. So you have cocktails? So what? I'm so tired. I hope it doesn't get cold. I guess I'll try to sleep again.
7:00 AM
My fingernails are black. And the privy smells, if anything, worse in the cold crisp morning than it did at night. The stupid teenagers didn't shut up until at least 11 PM, but I thank them for joking about raccoons because that's when the skittering noises started, and I packed my stuff up tighter. I barely dozed all night, then woke up and after a few hours looked at the time - 5 AM. I didn't know there were still stars at 5 AM. Dozed from about 5:45 to 6:30 and then up. Sort of saw sunrise; it's on the other side of the hill. Must eat and get going!
9:00 AM
Left at 7:30. Asked for directions - thank god, because she said the way I had planned was really strenuous. It was a gorgeous walk down Berry Creek Falls - I miss the sun though, walking by a river. Now I'm on the road and spirits are high. I've gone three miles in one and a half hours, so I'm certain I'll make it to the end.
Notes for next time - Oak cakes are yummy, but crumbly. Fresh fruit is tastier than dried. It's hard to make myself eat. Always bring more water. Blister pads before you even get started. Two pairs of hiking socks.
I'm thinking of greeting Gerald with something clever and weird like, "Lo, I am but a weary and footsore traveler. Ferry me in your wagon to your tavern and tell the keeper I'll be wanting a bed and bite for the night, and a bath and wench if she has them as well." Or maybe I'll just burst into tears. Either makes a good entrance.
This feels so wonderful. It's not really even a trail anymore, but a horse-road. I know it will go uphill eventually, but for right now I feel like the most competent person in the world. It wasn't the spiritual experience I had in mind, but I feel good anyway, and since when do I ever get exactly the experience I thought I would? This is certainly acceptable. I feel good about myself.
11:00 AM
My "Julianne, Conqueror of the World" feeling has been completely eclipsed by the pain in my feet. Not just the dull throbbing of the numb pinky toes, nor even just the two blisters that both popped and multiplied, but most especially by my knobby ankle bones, which feel like they're digging though the boots.
In addition to the bug repellant people, I'm suing the blister-pad people. Fuckers.
Note - horses are very big. Whoever decided to ride them in the first place?
Rest break over… now to find a place to pee. Poison oak everywhere makes me hesitant to maneuver into the correct position. Finally, I have penis-envy. Men are lucky bastards.
12:30 PM
I made it! In by 12:30, so five hours for eight miles. Although I quibble with the last "mile" - the road for horses and bikes may have been a mile, but the hiker's trail got really steep and full of shale and switchbacks and just SUCKED and had to be way longer than one mile.
I almost got weepy on the phone. I think I'm too tired. I wish I could see the ocean from this bench by the ranger station, but I'm too sore to move. I thought about walking down the paved road and crossing the highway and going to the beach… for about twenty seconds. Ah well.
Every time I stand up my whole body screams in protest. I hurt everywhere. And I'm so dirty. I want food, bath, and sleep, in that order.
6:00 PM
Whimper. Everything hurts. My skin is so dry it feels tight, my scalp itches even after a bath, my face is sunburned, my boobs have raw spots under them from where the bra was wet for too long, my tummy feels like I'm recovering from the flu, my hip bones have scabs and purple bruises from the belt strap, my joints hurt, my back and neck ache, my feet… my poor feet. The ankle bones are bruised, the bottoms feel bruised, and the blisters burn. Whine. Why did I do this?
9:00 PM
I feel like a cripple. But I did it. I followed another one of my hair-brained schemes to the end. I didn't die.
Behold Julianne, Weary Conqueror of the World!