I have turned the corner and started to head north again. I am taking a zero and will restart the trail on mile 511. I have achieved a significant milestone – crossing the 500-mile mark, but it is bittersweet. I had to skip miles 486 – 511 due to a trail closure because of the Lake Fire. This is the second section of the trail closed by recent forest fires.
Ideas for what to write typically come and go. This post has been with me for three weeks emotionally, even though the pieces don’t seem evident on an intellectual level. Sharing what I am experiencing on the trail can feel like trying to explain a dream to someone – so please bear with me.
As soon as I started climbing mountains in Southern California, I experienced the scale and devastation of their wildfires. Many areas of the trail have been closed due to unstable soil and the danger of falling debris. The above photo from Apache Peak shows the damage 12 years later. I live in the northwest; I am used to hiking through some burned sections of the forest. But here, it is the norm – day after day.
I noticed my pattern of ignoring the burned sections and pushing through to the lush forest. The dense forests along the PCT in Southern California are few and far between. I understand that forest fires play a role in natural ecosystems. Still, we have crossed into a new regime of fires that burn hotter and more frequently fueled by higher temperatures, frequent interaction with humans, and misguided fire suppression methods.
I’ve always had a thing for trees. I befriend trees in our local forests and look forward to visiting them. I feel comforted by them, and they give me a sense of wisdom that spans the generations. On the trail, I have started touching them to connect on a different level and sometimes even chew on a small piece of bark. Many date back 400 years or more, and although they are independent, they survive together. Thru-hiking into a grove immediately calls me to attention.
To see even one, let alone scores of these wise giants, fall together gives me a feeling of extreme loss. They know how to withstand fires, and by the time they reach maturity, they have seen many fires come and go, and their bark bears these scars. But they were not built to withstand the infernos of these times.
The unexpected and tragic loss in the natural environment has frequently brought me back to those I have lost in life. My brother loved sharing wilderness adventures, was as kind, strong, and determined as they come, and became a kid when he was outdoors. We became two kids, the same ones who shared a bedroom for most of our childhood and talked about everything under the sun. He was swept away by cancer too young. He would have been so engaged in my hike, whether on the trail or giving me his full support.
Walking the trail provides a constant reminder of how fragile and precious life is – including the lives of all that share the earth with us.