Day 67, June 30th
Start: rock creek, mile 1,429
End: moosehead spring, mile 1,452
Miles hiked: 23
I slept so hard next to the creek. Just something about running water that is so relaxing. I want to sleep next to a beautiful creek like this every night.
It’s just carrot and I still, and I’m really beginning to miss our group. We haven’t seen any of them since they decided to spend the night in chester, while I hiked 20 more miles. It’s hard to make up that ground, but I wish they would. They took an easy day into old station, and due to that they likely won’t catch up until we zero in mount Shasta, the town. I wonder how they’re all doing, how coughees ankles are, how sheriffs book bag of a backpack is holding up, how Guthrie feet are holding up, and if JrSr is still with the group.
The trail is nice and soft this morning. A bed of soot, leaves, and pine needles. Carrot and I hike quickly and comfortably until 9 am. Then, in a quick turn of events, the earth decides to quit spinning around the sun, and rather recklessly, it heads right for it. I’m in my bro tank, but it means nothing. I’m sweating profusely, in the shade. Even when I’m not hiking.
“What’s happening?!” I ask carrot as I drop my pack and lay down in the dirt.
“So heat, much sun.” She responds.
As the earth continues on it’s path to destruction, we keep hiking. We’re stubborn, nothing can stop us from getting our miles in… Ok, there’s actually a lot that can stop us. Most notably pizza, or cold beer. But nothing natural!
I start to get light headed. I haven’t pissed since last night. How could that be, I wonder. I’ve drank at least 4 liters by noon. Yet it’s clearly not enough. I feel awful.
We take many breaks. I feel like a day hiker, not able to hike more than a few miles without having to break. No hulk twinkle today. Each step I wish more and more that I was back at the wild bird cache. Or maybe rock creek, bathing in its icy waters. Instead I’m stuck in a dry, hot dust bowl, the sun beaming down on me with an intensity that’s indescribable.
We make it 23 miles. It’s 7.5 miles to the next water. Impossible. We’ll never make it. It would surely spell death. A hot miserable one, at that.
So we camp. We’ve been. Defeated. I check my phone, getting service for the first time since the earth moved off its axis, and it’s 100 degrees, with a high of 108 earlier in the day. 106 tomorrow. 100 the next two days after that. Mount Shasta is only 54 miles from here. This seems impossible, again.
“How did we ever survive 700 miles of this?” Carrot asks, referring to the desert section.
“We were young, and reckless.” I respond.