CHAPTER 3 ALTERNATE ROUTES Foresthills, CA to Middlegate, NV; Distance = 227 Miles; People Met = 33 As we were down in the valley

y dealing with the unusual onslaught of cold rain we learned of increasing snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Driving across Donner Pass on our way out in late May we saw plenty of snow to begin with, now in June there was more. We learned that the Sierra received 200% of normal snow pack this past year, much of it coming late. We learned from a trail crew as we were coming into Foresthills that our route following the Western States Trail over Squaw Valley had a minimum snow pack of over ten feet. This on June 14 or Day 021 of our journey. We needed to make a decision at Foresthills whether we would stick to the official American Discovery Trail or discover some alternative because of the snow. I'm no stranger to alternative routes. When I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 1977 our guidebook claimed that the average thru-hiker got lost for 200-300 miles, mainly because of new logging roads. The second logging road on the right was not the same on the ground as in the guide. My friends and I surpassed the average in being lost. Then when I hiked the Continental Divide Trail in 1985 I intentionally chose alternative routes because a permanent route really did not exist. The Forest Service had a suggested route for the CDT, as did the Continental Divide Trail Society. I sometimes followed a route that kept me closer to the Divide than either proposed route, like the time I stayed on the crest of the Wind River range until Gannett Peak forced me down. That was in a younger day, when I felt invulnerable, or at least acted that way. I ran down mountains with sixty pound packs; I put in thirty mile days with the same; I crossed raging creeks and hiked over spring snow without a care in the world. My young body healed quickly from some of the torment I put it through. Hiking over six feet of spring snow was not a big deal back then. If you hike in the afternoon on a warm day you deal with the slow going of deep slush, but you avoid that with an early start hiking over hardened snow. There is the occasional snow bridge you fall through, usually accompanied by some

hidden obstacle around which snow melt underneath has occurred. I have fallen through 3-6 feet snow bridges as a young man often enough. I've never fallen through a 10+ foot snow bridge, as a young man or otherwise. We met Ky at Foresthills in the afternoon to pack for the next four days. We aimed to leave Foresthills that evening, still not sure of our eventual route but at least starting out on the ADT. I became puzzled a few times in plotting our course out of Foresthills (I'm never lost, mind you, just puzzled). When that happens I don't hesitate to ask for directions. There are times when I know from studying the maps what's ahead better than the people I'm asking, but it's always nice to meet local people. We encountered a woman doing yard work; I no sooner stopped with apparent intent to ask a question when she came racing over with manic energy. At the time I thought I would be able to remember all the names of people we met who were kind to us, but that was before it became apparent we would meet hundreds. I'll call this woman Margaret. She virtually begged us to camp in her yard, and we accepted as it was getting late. We spent a good amount of time chatting in Margaret's living room, where she told us her life story, a story that did not include good luck with men. Her youngest child had just finished high school and her parents had helped set her up with her current home in a permanent manner, so one might assume her toughest days were behind. Still, what drew her to us what not our large packs but the fact that we were a couple. She longed some day for the type of relationship that might embark on such endeavors together. Margaret cautioned us against following the Western States Trail to Squaw Valley, or to at least check in with the Forest Service station in town. She drove us there the following morning, where we learned that the trail crew we met the previous day was not just blowing smoke to deter hikers. The snow pack ahead was a minimum of 15 feet with a maximum over forty, in mid-June! Fifteen feet does not differ from six feet when the snow is hard, or even slushy. Fifteen feet does matter for falling through snow bridges, particularly for mature backpackers. Time to draw upon my PCT and CDT experiences

and plan an alternative route on the fly. Ah, but there was a second problem to consider. For as much snow as had accumulated up to June, that snow was melting now. That meant raging creeks and rivers, yet we would have to find a way to cross the North Fork American River somewhere. Plans B, C and D started to form, but all of them were considered problematic by the Forest Service rangers at the station. Margaret brought us back to resume our hike and we headed out on a route that eliminated Plan B, the furthest upstream crossing of the American River, but kept either Plan C or D open. We were not upset by the forced change in plans. Ken and Marcia Powers, our gracious hosts from early on, probably followed the ADT route closer than anyone; yet even they warned us we would not be able to follow the ADT precisely. Plus the ADT guide was written East to West; we would be the first hikers to complete the trail continuously going West to East. Our overall hiking goal was to surpass 5,000 miles with the ADT as our main route; as long as we surpassed that mileage I would be satisfied. We stopped at a Forest Service fire station up the road and they gave us an even more foreboding picture of the creek crossings. From there we chose a route that further ruled out Plan C, but opened up a new Plan E as a last resort. That last resort added mileage but would bring us to a hiking bridge across the American River. The trail down to the river gorge and up the other side reminded me of the good old days of hiking on the PCT. We should have camped right by the river but we could not resist a piped spring encountered on the way down. The next morning we trekked along the North Fork American River as the sun was arching over the mountains sloping steeply by the gorge. Raging river mists combined with advancing morning sun to provide delightful entertainment, like watching a dance unfolding. The climb up the other side was challenging, though still Sierra scenic. The steep climb called for taking breaks on the one hand, but mosquitoes dissuaded us from doing so. Once out of the gorge we had to plot a route pretty much due east to Donner Pass. We started by following railroad tracks for a few miles, a first for me. The tracks were often blasted into cliffs, creating

beds of large gravel that were uncomfortable to walk on, while the railroad ties were not spaced suitably for a good stride. We made sure to avoid the tunnels along this active railway, though we did not encounter a train for the few miles we were on the tracks. Concern for the tunnels, along with the poor footwork, eventually led me to find a different route. The roughly built roads by high voltage power lines provided us a route for awhile, sandwiched in between stretches of paved roads. We even bushwhacked through one section, followed by a cross country route (meaning, without any type of path) over a rocky rise with spring flowers coming into bloom. From my CDT days I loved doing cross country work, though that love would be challenged later on in Nevada and Utah. Our cross country route here eventually led to a cliff that came right down to the edge of Interstate 80. Walking on an Interstate is illegal, but we had a choice of climbing cliffs with full packs or dashing for about 100 yards along the shoulder of I-80. We chose the latter and were grateful that a highway patrol officer did not come by at just the wrong moment.

A few days later I made my biggest navigational error of the journey, leading to an unintentional alternate route. We had decided to slack pack from Truckee to Lake Tahoe, and to slack pack again from there up to the Carson Range to rejoin the ADT. Our day up and over the Carson Range was a top ten day for beauty and weather. While ascending the steep slopes from the west we often looked back on magnificent Lake Tahoe and, descending to the east, we had breathtaking views of Washoe Lake in Nevada and beyond. There was enough snow for the fun of glissading and for the beauty of a white accent to the evergreen and aspen woods, but not too much snow to hinder our progress. I hindered our progress all on my own instead, misinterpreting the guide I was reading backwards. We continued to enjoy a breathtaking day for awhile, because of the stunning beauty in contouring at a high elevation along the eastern side of the Carson Range, and because we had gone miles before my mistake became obvious to me. We crossed several challenging snow fields in the process of going off route. I had to carefully

dig foot holds or at times we would have slid a long way down, without ice axes for self-arrest. Fortunately these snow fields did not end in a cliff like the ones we once crossed along the Continental Divide Trail, on top of the Chinese Wall in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Sometimes you think back to the daring of your youth and just have to shake your head. Once I discovered my mistake I certainly was not going to lead us back over those snow fields. Yet my Forest Service map revealed no quick fix via trails or roads without adding even more miles to the day. I spotted a Forest Service road far below that I located on the map; we bushwhacked our way down steeply through mostly open pine. Once we had reached the road, and the focus needed for cross country bushwhacking had passed, I started to beat myself up for adding an eventual six miles to our day. I cussed at myself; I apologized profusely to Cindy; I muttered under my breathe. This journey was partly for relieving Cindy of stress. That strategy now seemed to be working as she listened to me rant for awhile then calmly stated: I'm not worried. You'll find the way; you always do. Later on in the hike I joked about the dynamics between us. I would look at a map and wonder out loud: Are we lost (er, puzzled)? while at the same time Cindy would marvel about the pretty flowers. Or I might be looking at the map and stressing out about the lack of water ahead, while Cindy would comment Isn't this a colorful rock? as she picked another one up for her collection. Ky eventually would get after Cindy to mail all the rocks she was collecting back home, to prevent them from accumulating in the support vehicle. During our hike to Lake Tahoe Ky experienced her own trauma. She had been out looking for geocachets, one of her favorite pastimes during the journey. On an ill-fated search she stumbled and a sharp stick punctured her leg deeply. She needed treatment but she had no health insurance. Due to a combination of leaving her job for this journey and arcane bureaucratic red tape, she was denied access to health insurance she was quite willing to pay for. Now she was unwilling to risk the unknown costs of an emergency room visit for her puncture wound. She tracked us down along our route and I treated her the best I could. To this day she swears I

had a little too much pleasure in gouging out the remnants of the stick and applying iodine. Be that as it may, my primitive treatment mainly worked, though she had to follow up by changing the bandage frequently and then getting some antibiotics through family connections. At least my treatment worked better than our health care system does for many. Out of my mantra of Housing, Health and Hunger, the most problematic of those facing our country is Health. The specific problem we face is not health care so much as health costs, embedded in the extra costs involved with health insurance. Think about our particular health care system. In essence, we have bookies taking money from people who want to lose their bets, transferring some of the money from the glad losers of their bets to people who want to win theirs, while taking a cut of the action for themselves. The bookies are public stockholding corporations; the people who want to lose bets are the insured; the people who want to win bets are the stockholders. Some of the money from insurance goes to actual health care; some goes to paying the bookies, er, corporations; some goes to the successful gamblers, er, stockholders. Overall, there must be far more losers than winners among the insured to support the system of bookies and gamblers. You could not devise a better system for escalating costs, nor for concentrating the benefits of those costs among the few. Our stay outside the community center in Virginia City, Nevada placed an exclamation point on the health care issue. Inside the community center was a sign that stated an objective to provide affordable health CARE, the part of the system that actually produces goods and services for our health, because attempting to cover the extra inherent costs for a system of bookies and gamblers would be impossible for a community. Imagine if public education required from a community the same additional costs of bookies and gamblers for insuring educational wellness.

Virginia City holds historical significance as a mining frontier town. Mining still goes on, while the town has made a revival playing up its frontier heritage for tourism. The point of the American

Discovery Trail is to cover the broad sweep of culture, history and scenery that characterizes America. We experienced mainly a scenic tour through California; Nevada would steep us in history. Soon after Virginia City we came to a famous historical trail, the Pony Express. The Pony Express Trail had been used to deliver mail via horseback riders from 1860-1861. Riders generally rode from 75-100 miles between the relay stations where horse and riders were relieved. The entire journey from St. Josephs in Missouri to Sacramento was done in ten days. This was blazing fast compared to wagon trains, but not fast enough to compete with the telegraph once one was in place. The most desolate, challenging, cussed stretch of the entire 1600 mile Pony Express was the remote stretch across the Nevada desert that we were on. We slack packed the route, doing high mileage in order for Ky to meet us with water at the end of the day. We learned much of the history from the only other people out on that God-forsaken stretch at the same time as us: Matt and Miriam. They were a couple from Switzerland who scouted historical trails of the American West as a hobby, doing so via a Land Rover that they kept on the ready with a friend in the United States. Matt and Miriam came up to us from behind, heading in the same direction, and of course had to stop and see who would be walking across the open desert in summer. They gave us ice tea and water as we each shared our stories. I think we were both equally surprised and glad to see the other. For us there was some peace of mind in knowing someone else was out here with us in the middle of nowhere. For them there was the added bonus of coming across some modern pioneers while enjoying their hobby of discovering the American West. A couple miles after parting company we came across a gallon jug of water left by the side of the dirt tracks we were following, with a note from Matt and Miriam. This was actually more water than we needed and we were disinclined to carry it for the entire 28 mile day, but who else was going to pick up this water? After going over a small rise we could see two sets of dirt tracks diverge from the one we were following. The map was confusing regarding which one we should take. You might wonder how this can

be, it should be simple enough to choose between two paths out in the middle of the desert. Yet tracks often appear on the ground that are not on the map. You could take a left before the real left occurs. Fortunately, Matt and Miriam came to our aid once again, though this time unintentionally. They had taken the wrong set of tracks, the one to the left, and the dust clouds we spotted coming towards us came from their Land Rover as they backtracked. We came to the junction at about the same time, where they we were able to learn from their mistake as well as return the gallon jug to them (minus some water). Later in the afternoon we met the Swiss couple one last time. We had stopped for a break by some power lines because: 1) we were once again unsure of the route to take; and 2) the utility poles provided the only shade for the entire day. We were there for awhile to enjoy this only shade, shifting our positions in the migrating shadows as the sun headed west. We were there long enough for Matt and Miriam to once again come to greet us. This time they backtracked deliberately for the sole purpose of giving us advice. If we followed the way that they just came from we would be adding seven miles to our day. OK, then, we took the other route. We parted company for the last time with our trail angels, sent to guide us through this parched, remote stretch. As it turned out I perhaps gave back too much water. Cindy and I have different metabolisms. As a result I sweat and drink more naturally, and did not think it unusual that she drank far less than me throughout the day. Yet towards the end of the day she was a bit spacey, perhaps with a touch of mild heat exhaustion. The next day, without our Swiss trail angels to guide us, we went slightly off route a couple times. We started the day going by a marsh, as strange a sight as their could have been out in the Nevada desert. The marsh was doing quite well, considering the abnormally wet year out west, as we already witnessed with the Sierra snow. I should have kept that in mind towards the end of the day when we came to a large salt flat between us and our destination on US 50. The official route stayed on a jeep road, but going cross country over a salt flat appealed to my sense of adventure.

I remember the first time I misjudged distances while hiking in the desert. Three comrades and I were hiking across the Mojave desert at night. We saw a traffic light up ahead and determined to take our next break there. We watched as the traffic light went from green to yellow to red; green to yellow to red; green to yellow to red. A few hours and over ten miles later we finally reached the traffic light! I did not misjudge the distance quite so badly this time, but what I thought was a couple miles turned out to be more like four. Occasionally we would see a speck moving on the horizon, a vehicle traveling on US 50, and it took forever for those specks to become more than that. To aggravate matters the salt flat was downright soggy in many places, once again due to the unusually wet weather, though not soggy enough to counteract the oppressive sun beating down on us. We later learned that the temperatures were fifteen degrees above average as we hiked through this area, surpassing 100 degrees on the particular day we crossed the (soggy) salt flat. When your final destination is in sight you have a tendency to keep hiking, particularly when you think you only have a couple miles to begin with. We probably should have stopped at least once across the salt flat but we just kept trudging across, the sun beating down all the while. I could feel myself transitioning from being alert, to feeling tired, to being in a daze. Towards the end I had an out of body experience where my mind seemed to be observing with detachment what my foolish body was doing (of course, the real foolishness lies with the mind). My mind added a dramatic brush stroke by perceiving the scorched conditions around me as a sepia tone photograph. At least I made sure Cindy drank plenty of water this time, but I'm afraid I was the one struggling with heat exhaustion now.

We followed up the historically significant Pony Express Trail with the culturally significant US 50, alleged to be the loneliest highway in America. The cultural exclamation point to this was a town in the middle of nowhere on US 50 called Middlegate. The town was basically a trailer park with a combined restaurant/store/gas station/motel at its hub. We arrived at Middlegate on a Saturday evening, in time for the all-you-can-eat steak and chicken barbecue. The barbecue was mainly intended for

motorcyclists, of which there are plenty sightseeing along the loneliest highway. As travelers in our own right we fit right in, enjoying both the barbecue and the band that came to play. Ironically, we encountered a fair amount of traffic on US 50, say, one vehicle every three to five minutes. No doubt the reputation of being the loneliest highway was self-defeating, attracting tourists to the area. That just goes to show that because of the wide variety of human behavior anything can serve as an attraction if given enough attention. That includes things like kindness and community. We stayed at the community center back in Virginia City because of the media coverage we received from the Nevada Appeal, Carson City's daily newspaper. That had positive ripple effects including our stay at the community center and a complimentary stay at Fort Churchill Historic State Park. I also was contacted for a speaking engagement (though we had moved on) and others started following our journey on my web site for the remainder of the trip, due to the coverage. We almost had local coverage out of Fallon, Nevada, where Ky transported us to a campground during the Pony Express stretch, but the fates intervened. A truck collided with an Amtrak passenger train in Nevada on June 26 and the reporter went to cover that first. She intended to cover us still in the evening, and even drove into the campground where we stayed. Before she even left her car the paper called her back; the Amtrak collision was national news and she needed to be on call. It would be self-serving for me to complain about the focus on bad news over good news in this case, but let me put this in perspective. People go on travel adventures for a cause all the time, yet I'm willing to bet that bit of information is news to you (as in new information), more than fatal train crashes. Both the good and the bad news turn out to be of interest to people, as our coverage out of Carson City and elsewhere along our journey attests. Does the relatively common news of a train crash provide useful information as well as interest? Sure, even though the average person travels on trains infrequently. Does the novel news of kindness and good deeds provide useful information as well as interest? Absolutely, all the more useful because everyone's life has greater potential to be affected daily.

Yet the bad news gets a higher priority in our society with the justification that mass media merely serves the public what they want. Hmm. Let's turn to movies for a moment. The great majority of films are produced with a happy ending, or at least with some type of redemption at the end. Allegedly, what drives people to want movies with happy endings is an escape from the hard realities of life. So we are to believe that the public wants bad news about real life and good news to fantasize about. That's likely to be a self-serving rationalization that departs from the truth. The truth for us was that even on the loneliest highway we encountered kindness. While hiking along US 50 to Middlegate Ky met us midday to supply water. We discovered her battery was dead while we were there but no worries, two different cars pulled over at the same time to help out. Of course, I stayed in the background while a very fit, blonde Cindy stood on the side of the road holding up jumper cables; that might have hastened motorists to our aid just a bit. Ky experienced another kindness along US 50 when she went to visit the Sand Mountain sand dunes, which stretch out for about two miles and are 600 feet high. A recreationist gave her a ride up to the top and back down in his dune buggy, perhaps the adventure highlight of the trip for Ky. We were very happy for her, and for us in a way. The advantage of different people in the same group going their own exciting ways is adding other people's experiences vicariously to your own; sort of like doubling down on the adventure. Before we left Nevada there would be plenty more adventure, mostly of a challenging nature. Audio: The Fillmore Zone at Middlegate Photo Album: Foresthills, CA to Middlegate, NV Podcast: Creative Solutions