Silly miles.

How the hell did I just manage to hike 38.6 miles in one day? It wasn't intentional. I needed to 'crush miles' (as it is referred to out here) in order to get to Ashland. I had left Pockets in Etna, he had serious toothache and was going to go to Portland to get it seen to, we arranged to meet up in Ashland. Not just that, a couple of deer hunters had told me the weather was closing in and rain was expected. I have a tent of course but then I saw that Grouse Gap had a shelter where I could stay dry at least without the inevitable dampness that goes hand in hand with camping in the rain.

I felt good from the set off, even a couple of 1500 feet ascents didn't deter the leg muscles. I hit 25 miles at about 5.30pm which is a good days walk at present and considered stopping but my legs were convincing me that they had a lot more gas left, so I carried on. Dark clouds were billowing up over me threatening to unleash at any moment. "Just hold of for a few more hours" I thought to myself.

A sign by the trailside made me stop and I smiled cheekily at it. 'Welcome to Oregon' it said. At last! Out of California. Progress out here is measured by little things like this.

I south bounder approached and on my second look I suddenly realised I recognised him.
"Patch!" I exclaimed.
"Fozzie!" he replied, equally surprised to see me. "I haven't seen you since . . . "
"Wrightwood" I said, finishing the sentence for him as he struggled to recall the name of the town.
"That's 1200 miles back!"
"I know. How come you're southbounding?" I enquired.
"I flip flopped up to Canada from Hat Creek in case the snow came early" he explained.

Flip flopping is the term used when a hiker travels to another section of the PCT by car, bus, or whatever and walks another section. It's usually done to beat weather. For example, a few hikers missed out the Sierra Nevada mountains because of late snow, travelled north to walk at lower elevations and then flipped back to the mountains to complete that section when the snow had receded. It was strange seeing him after all this time, we chatted and swapped stories for a few minutes and parted company wishing each other good luck.

The trail was quiet. I am at the back of the pack now, most hikers are ahead of me, some have even finished. I don't mind. The only thing concerning Pockets and I now is getting to Canada before the snow hits.

I reached 30 miles and felt good, really good. On a  normal day my legs would be aching a little but they would be aware that I would be stopping soon. The light faded quickly and before long I was in darkness, a waning half moon trying its best to illuminate my surroundings. My head torch picked out the path in front of me as I concentrated on foot placement. Every couple of minutes I would either hit my trekking pole on a rock or shout "Yo bear!" to let any of the resident Black Bears know I was about, they usually run off if they hear someone. A loud crashing of undergrowth to my left startled me and the beam of my light picked out a large adult bear thundering up the hill away from me, my heart skipped a few beats.

I crested a ridge top and sat down for a quick snack. Clouds varying in intensity raced across the sky above me, painting my surroundings in differing shades of black of white like an old movie. The lights of Ashland were visible a few thousand feet below me and car headlights flashed on a distant hill as they swung around hairpins. It was an eerily quiet and exceptionally beautiful night. The only sound was the occasional breeze rustling the fir trees. I carried on, dipping from a meagre light in the open stretches to darkness as I reluctantly moved in and out of dark forest sections

At 9.30pm I reached an intersection of fire tracks. A sign read 'Grouse Gap Shelter - 1/4 mile' and I swung right. My feet crunched on the gravel as the way sloped down, I could pick out a few dim lights below me. The shelter manager came out of his caravan as he saw me approaching. Sam welcomed me, we chatted for a few minutes commenting on the mildness of the night.

Before long my stove was rattling as water came to a boil providing me with a sorely needed cup of tea and some rice. I ate eagerly, my body almost demanding calories and I wrote my diary for the day. 38.6 miles after a quick mental calculation had me smiling at what I was was now capable of and I recalled the first few weeks on trail putting in daily totals of 15 miles. I nearly contemplated walking another 12 miles and pulling in a 50 mile day, the only reason I didn't was because the elevation dipped a few thousand feet and I knew that poison oak would be lying in wait by the trail side, undetectable in the darkness.

So, I lay out my sleeping bag and listened to a few drops of water drip off the tin roof. I was fast asleep in minutes dreaming of the Canadian border.