I talked my friend and neighbor into a wet hike today, despite/in spite of the rain; we dressed to get wet, yet be warm, and were two of very few souls out on the trail this morning behind Montecito. Tracey had never hiked in the rain before like this, and she made me promise her a trip to the local tasting room, Municipal Winemakers, for some hot mulled wine after the hike. I, of course, was happy to oblige! Win-win.

It was so nice to be out, as I really had been planning a longer day hike for today until the forecast became dismal.  It was also fun to have the company, and I think Tracey was excited to approach a hike from the mindset that she could be out in the wet weather and still enjoy herself. I simply gave her instructions to wear synthetics and a brimmed hat, and she showed up with bells on and ready to hike.

The Cold Springs trail starts in the creek bed and then eases up into the chaparral as it climbs into the foothills behind Santa Barbara. Because of the lack of shade cover, I actually prefer to do my “front country” hiking in the less desirable weather — fog is especially lovely, though it squelches whatever views of the Channel Islands you might hope for. After over eleven years living here, however, I think I’ll be able to supplement the foggy overlook with a few images from my overactive imagination :) You’ll have to use yours in viewing the photo of Tracey on top earlier today.

Hiking in the rain is also a bit of a treat in southern California — it’s not like we get a huge accumulation of precipitation around here. The earthworms were out en masse on the trail today, their lithe bodies exposed in the trail — though you’d never suspect their panic to look at them momentarily as you tried to step over them in their apparently careless sloth. Besides the worms, and the lack of traffic on the normally busy trail, what really stood out to me was how loud the sound of the rain and the water dripping from the sycamore and oak and bay laurel was,  complementing the gurgling of the still only moderately flowing creek. It was really delightful, the juxtaposition between the chaotic stormy weather and the lazy quiet heat along the same trail I hiked last weekend with Laurie and her daughter.

I came home and had the most amazing hot shower I can remember in ages — reminiscent of the baths we took as kids after playing outside for hours on snow days. The water hit my skin and the heat started soaking into my bones and I felt so completely, presently, helplessly content. What a joy living is.

Sitting here wearing striped woolen socks with my little cat, Juju, and listening to the gentle rain synchronize with my dripping kitchen faucet; wondering if my roof will leak with this storm in my antiquated apartment. The weather report on my phone is a solid wall of water, with no respite until sometime near the end of next week. Though while the phone reported steady precipitation today, my experience claimed otherwise — drizzles intermingled with some bona fide rain drops, at best. After picking up the children from their last day of school we stopped by the local farm, devoid of customers for the weather, for their help in picking out a little Christmas tree for my house, and while there we managed three laps around the leftover corn maze from Halloween. It was so nice to be out with the children, freed from school and schedules for the next few weeks, and in the fresh damp air, our boots in the puddles and the wet plants brushing against us as we turned circles in the forgotten maze, our voices hushed by the tall cornstalks as we tried to find each other. We came out soaked, refreshed, and toting a darling little tree… all in all, hugely successful.

Last night I met my girlfriends for dinner, to celebrate the holidays and graciously reflect on the past year together. We went around the table, each offering up what has stood out to them or what they are most thankful for; naturally, we all agreed that we cherished each others’ friendships. There was gratitude for our relationships, to be employed steadily in this economy, our health, our growth. But I’m most thankful that because of all of those factors, the year ahead presents me with opportunities. I’m grateful that I have friends and family who support my choice to hike, who express their excitement and interest and enthusiasm to help me accomplish this. I’m grateful that I have had a steady job for these many years so that I could pay off my debts and save up some money and then quit it to go on this hike. I’m grateful for strong feet and a sense of balance and clear eyes to take in the grandeur of the world around me. I’m even grateful for the challenges that have tested me, that have broken me, so that I could grow into the person who has the courage and the will to even consider undertaking this adventure. The momentum is building, and each day the anxiety over the small stuff is giving way to the resolve that I am going to do this hike, and that I’m going to do my best to finish it.

So last night I waited for Whitney (named after the famous peak, which her mother hiked while pregnant with her) to sink a few martinis into her belly, and then we talked details. Whitney is applying to graduate programs for the autumn quarter, and in the meantime, she is planning to sublet my apartment while I’m gone. At first, this commitment made me panic, as in “if I agree to let you live in my house, which I would need to do to hike all summer and have a home to come back to, then that means I really have to leave”; a few days pass, and suddenly I begin to accept that the Universe has just put the perfect solution on my doorstep, and I’d better shape up. Now I just feel so relieved to know that someone I know and trust is willing to commit to covering my rent for six months — and water my plants and mind to my fourteen year old cat; I am so lucky to have such great friends! Thank you, Whitney, for your flexibility and willingness to help me do this. I’m grateful that I have a village behind me, because I could never do this on my own.

Part of planning and preparing for this epic adventure has been slightly counter-intuitive: instead of making more time to go out and play/practice/work out (I prefer to think of it as play), I’ve spent the last year picking up shifts at a local brewery on top of my full time job as a nanny. My good friend Laurie has been quite the catalyst in helping me make a one-season thru-hike a reality; her family owns the incredible Island Brewing Company in Carpinteria, CA. Laurie and I used to get together, usually with a couple of our girlfriends, and go on an evening ride weekly through the foothills behind Carp or Ojai. This was about the same time I was putting together my daydream to hike the PCT, and at that point I still had a considerable amount of debt to pay off on my car and credit cards. While my nanny job pays well enough and offers me a lot of stability, the cost of living in the Santa Barbara area is considerably high; while I had enough to get by and live comfortably, I didn’t have enough wiggle room to really make a significant dent in my debts. This is where Laurie became instrumental.

Like my Monday night “Girls’ Night”, which has been tradition for a few years (!) now, our Tuesday night rides served as an opportunity to catch up with my girlfriends and reflect on the past week and the coming weeks with the caring insight of my friends. I’d chat with my friends as the miles of asphalt counted up and minutes of dusk diminished, and the fresh air and speed sated us physically. There was Diana, the Ironman competitor, who taught us technical tricks and how to draft on her recovery days, and Cindy, who I could always depend on to match my pace perfectly. Fran would drop in from time to time to remind us of how slow we really were riding, and occasionally a guest rider to liven the group dynamic. But at the beginning, it was Laurie and I who hatched the plan to ride, and from that a season of memorable weekly rides was born.

On one particular evening, while pacing Laurie, I half-jokingly told Laurie that if she ever needed any help at the brewery, I’d be happy to pick up shifts. Thank God she took me seriously. She threw me into the mix, trained me on hooking up kegs and dominating the register and mostly pouring the perfect delicious beer, and then set me free to cover shifts at will. Suddenly, I had a little extra cash in my pocket… which meant I didn’t spend the money in my bank account… which meant I could put a chunk of change toward my debt… and then, over time, the debt evaporated. Ta da! Laurie saves the day!

But the story doesn’t quite end there. For several reasons, the weekly bike rides fell apart. First, the ruthless Daylight Saving Time does no one any favors. Cindy and I had a falling out. Diana and Fran got serious about training for their next Ironman. And then, best of all, Laurie got pregnant.

That was nearly a year ago. This last weekend, before a shift at the brewery, my sister and I joined Laurie in taking her eight-week old daughter Alia on her very first hike. We met at the Cold Springs trailhead, and swaddled Alia up in her Ergo carrier, and we set up the trail through the creek bed. We passed several other hikers, coming and going in the unseasonably warm weather, all who remarked cheerfully on the peaceful babe hitching a ride through the woods. When Laurie first announced that she was pregnant, I warned her that babies are for everyone — she has taken to motherhood like a duck to water, and it was so fun to watch her beam with pride when everyone swooned over her beautiful daughter and complimented her on bringing her out at such a young age. The entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking that this is how it should be. We followed the creek up through the foothills, in and out of the shade, while Alia stared up at what must only be fuzzy patterns and shadows to her young eyes, perfectly content in her carrier. Just exactly how it should be.

I am so lucky to have Laurie (and her family, as well as the IBC family I’m now a part of) in my life; I can’t wait to share many more adventures with them, and in so many ways because of them.


PS. Check out the brewery at http://islandbrewingcompany.com/ and of course stop by for a beer if you’re in the neighborhood!!

I would say that it’s a peerless morning tucked up next to the Wonderland of Rocks, except that yesterday morning was just as flawless. The air is still, even warm, and silence reverbs in the ears in that satisfying way. We are the only group camped out in Indian Cove, at least at this end of the campground, and have been enjoying the solitude. Yesterday we climbed the Feudal Wall, having our pick of routes where usually it resembles a climbing gym. The rock is hungry, and my skin sacrificed a few layers during our private session on the wall. In the evening we scrambled up Chipped Rock, which flanks our campsite, and enjoyed a few moments of softening light at sunset overlooking the jumble of the Wonderland that cradles Indian Cove. Dinner was spent at Crossroads Cafe in Joshua Tree, with the robust crowd of dusty climbers and quirky art adorning the walls. An early bedtime as the air became brisk, and now another morning to ourselves and more rocks to climb…

This past week I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather with an upset tummy — just in time to miss the Thanksgiving gluttony, which is both a blessing and a curse; after a few days of white bread and ginger ale, I’ve begun to go a bit nostalgic for anything slightly colorful, let alone savory. Instead I’ve been feeding myself with information: backpackinglight.com’s gear swap forum, searching for an ice axe on sale (done! found a CAMP Corsa at mountaingear.com for $78, which is about as good as it’s going to get I reckon), and I even finished an entire book in one sitting (albeit, it was not hiking related in any sense, but an accomplishment nonetheless). I’ve also had plenty of time to ponder what I would do if I were knocked out by a bug while hiking, and rest assured, if I can power through a day at work with children (I’m a nanny) while calorie-deprived and running a fever, I am pretty confident I’ll probably manage a few miles forward in the woods. Well, one can hope that children prime your pain threshold in a useful way, anyway.

Now that my lifeforce has been sucked dry by a microscopic villain, I’m getting a few things together tonight for a long weekend in the desert. After work tomorrow, I’m heading out for Joshua Tree — a place I’ve been several times over the past few years, but which is accessible enough from home in Santa Barbara to make weekend trips realistic, as well as a great winter escape when the rest of the local wild places are enshrouded in a layer of snow. Granted, there are plenty of beautiful areas in my backyard which are at their best any time except the summertime (San Rafael, Sespe, Dick Smith wildernesses), but Joshua Tree also seduces with the promise of incredible climbing, and plenty of it.

So into the car goes the climbing gear, the camping gear, a new Patagucci NanoPuff to try out in the brisk air, and of course a loaf of white bread…

I’ll leave you with a quote from Ed Abbey:
“There are some good things to be said about walking. Not many, but some. Walking takes longer, for example, than any other known form of locomotion except crawling. Thus it stretches time and prolongs life. Life is already too short to waste on speed. I have a friend who’s always in a hurry; he never gets anywhere. Walking makes the world much bigger and thus more interesting. You have time to observe the details. The utopian technologists foresee a future for us in which distance is annihilated and anyone can transport himself anywhere, instantly. Big deal, Buckminster. To be everywhere at once is to be nowhere forever, if you ask me.”

Fortunate.

I paid off my credit card tonight.

I feel incredibly proud and empowered to know that I am so much closer to living without debt (there’s a bit left on my car yet). Soon, I’ll be net positive! It felt like such an impossible task when I looked at my credit card statement last year, and yet, nearly nine thousand dollars later, I feel all that much richer.

About a week ago I was talking to a friend of mine, who suddenly got very animated when we started talking about The Impending PCT Attempt. When I hushed them, citing that it was months away, I soberly realized that those many months are quickly dwindling. Six months. Just SIX months! I’ve got some work to do.

While I’ve been toying with the idea of hiking the PCT for many years, it was about two years ago that I really started to seriously consider doing the entire trail in one season. Up until that point, it always seemed like too large an undertaking. Originally, it was just a faraway thought — it was something “other” people did, retired or rich or crazy or committed to living on nothing people; then my mom gave me a book that had been written by a woman who had section hiked the entire trail over the years (“One Hundred Mile Summers” by Eleanor Guilford), and I thought how impossible it would be to spend my entire years’ worth of vacation time every summer to hike for the next thirty years, though inspiring. But the idea sat with me. I thought of my grandmother, Lotte, who hiked with a group of women long into her sixties despite her losing fight with breast cancer; I finally bought my own camping gear (as opposed to using my family’s, now eight hours drive away in northern California) and dragged my then-boyfriend out into the rain on a trip up Big Sur (with no campfires for the fire danger, ironically); we talked about the realities of hiking, of being uncomfortable, of expectations; I read John Muir’s “Mountains of California” while sitting next to an empty upper Maggie Lakes on a perfect Labor Day weekend; I got a second job to pay off my lingering debts from college, decided upon a reasonable time line for paying it down and then saving some up; I became unreasonably emotional when a hiker I’d never met blogged about dropping off the trail, or finishing at the border; I talked and talked and talked about it, garnered more support, and started to believe I could really do it; I celebrated my 29th birthday at ADZPCTKO surrounded by the hikers whose blogs I’ve been religiously reading for the past few summers; I read and re-read reviews, bought more gear, seam-sealed my tent, and I picked 2011 as the year.

So there. Game on.


But now, just six months away, it’s difficult to not have doubts. Can I really save enough money? Can I really, really, really quit my stable job after five years? What about my apartment? Can I really honestly hike 2650 miles in one season? Yikes.

To honor Lotte, actualize the dreams that Patrick helped me believe in, and inspired by John Muir’s legacy.
I’m excited. 2011.