PCT 2024: Dixie Fire pt 2

June 15-18; Mile 1277-1332

Day 5

The day started out with wide-open views and chilly morning air. But then it was a long slog dropping almost 5000’ down down down to Belden. Parts of the trail were overgrown, and with three miles still to go, the undergrowth started to include poison oak in the mix. I did my best to dodge the clusters of three, but as soon as I reached Belden I washed off my legs with soap and water in the restaurant bathroom. Tomorrow I’d face the same slope – but instead I’d have to climb it.

I lolled in the cool shade of the restaurant, enjoying a break from the midday sun. My resupply package had been mailed to the RV park 2 miles down the busy road, and I wasn’t looking forward to walking or hitching. But just a few minutes into the walk a truck pulled past and veered off at the sight of my thumb. Two cheery men asked if I needed a ride to Quincy. When I said I was just going to Caribou Crossroads, the man sitting shotgun began to regale us with stories from when he’d been the owner. Apparently he had rebuilt the small cafe building twice due to fires: one time it was completed on a Thursday and burned down again the following Sunday when an RV next to it caught fire. As they dropped me out front, the man gave me a business card to send them a postcard from further up the trail.

After sorting through my food box, I met another section hiker named Extra Mile who was planning to go a few more miles and camp that evening. I’d originally planned on staying in Belden, but after I’d showered (and done my best to scrub any poison oak oils off my legs and clothes) I was actually antsy to get back out.

Extra Mile and I set out around 4pm from Belden, switchbacking up the slope past brittle grasses that tucked their pokey seeds into my socks. She surged ahead, chatting amiably the whole way about the local flora, and occasionally she’d stop to point out a particularly interesting plant like spice bush (whose flowers smelled like a glass of red wine that had been left out overnight).

I stopped at an old cabin site and ate dinner alone, my brief hiking companion having left me far in her dust. She had chosen to come back to this section for fun, having enjoyed it immensely in 2019 before it burned. That morning I had been thinking how I would never choose to backpack in this area again; but now as I moved through the charred landscape, I tried to imagine it as it had been instead of seeing it just for how it was.

Day 6

The day began with more bushwhacking, but thankfully the trail climbed steadily upward out of the scratchy grasses and poison oak. It wound in and out of canyons full of the crashing of snowmelt-swollen creeks, and the views opened up toward the surrounding peaks, the tops of their ridges sheltering the last vestiges of the winter’s white bounty.

I forded several of the streams, unwilling to deal with balancing across rocks and slippery logs, and the icy water was a salve for my aching feet. In addition, there was a necessary ford of Chips Creek ahead, which was thankfully only shin-deep.

I stopped for a break in an idyllic meadow with a burbling stream. A sign marked the official beginning of the Cascade Range, and with it the end of the granitic peaks of the Sierras. Not long after that the trail topped out at a beautifully stark view of Lassen Peak. The entire valley below it – some 30-40 miles north – was gray with dead trees.

Much of the afternoon passed through miles of charred trees, their bark as black as coal, with a thin ground covering starting to grow back. I met a southbound hiker named Indigo who was also finishing up sections of the trail that she’d missed. And just before camp I came across a day hiker exploring the area post-burn.

I came to a wide meadow area ringed with green trees; I had considered pushing on another 3 miles to a camp spot on the ridge, but the wind was starting to pick up. I nestled in among the healthy forest and relaxed in my tent instead.

Day 7

The meadow grass was coated in a thin layer of frost the next morning as I packed up my gear. The colder temperatures made the burn scars more bearable, but I was glad the previous week’s heat had melted most of the snow from the trail.

After crossing a few flat sections of ice, my feet led me upward along the rocky ridge line. At every saddle Lassen Peak loomed closer and clearer, the peaks around it growing more prominent and distinct. The path was lined with blooming balsamroot with a few patches of paintbrush and lupine mixed in. The trail alternated between sunny, exposed rocks and shaded forest slopes. I sailed along, thrilled to be surrounded by views and healthy forest.

As for water, I had a choice between hiking to one of three off-trail springs or carrying enough to last 15 miles (plus camping overnight). I opted for the extra weight over the extra mileage.

A mile before camp I came across one of the iconic markers of the PCT: the halfway point. A small, unobtrusive stone pillar only reaching up to my waist, it stood out against the blacks and browns of the charred trees all around. I rushed forward, signing the logbook and paging back to 2022 to find the signatures of the friends I had hiked alongside.

I was enjoying myself more, despite the landscape and the loneliness. An entire day had passed without me seeing a single other person.

Day 8

With only seven miles to cover before reaching the highway into Chester, I slept in a bit and waited for the day to warm up. As I was finishing packing my bag, I was startled by a thru-hiker, my first of the season! Two more thru-hikers – Ox and Smash – came by as I was filtering some water and eating breakfast. I hiked with Smash for a bit, swapping stories of places we had hiked in Washington, before we reached the final challenge of the section: a stretch of swamp covered by deadfall.

The cold, mucky water seeped in around my toes, the thick mud holding fast to my sandals. I sank in to just below my hips, but the water had no current and the crossing was only about 20 feet wide. On the other side lay a mishmash of charred, scratchy trees over a wide shallow swath of stagnant, scummy water.

Once I’d balanced my way through the maze of deadfall, it was only a half mile to the road. I relaxed in the shade as a car pulled up to deposit none other than Jet and Just Right, the two Aussie hikers I’d met on my first night.

Not long after, my friend Kevin and his wife Carie arrived to whisk me to town for lunch, laundry, and a shower. They were gracious enough to provide a ride between two relatively isolated sections of California, and soon we were on our way toward Trinity Lake campground, where we would spend the night before driving to Etna.

One section down, four more to go.