Welcome to Oregon

There is a field of study in which a scientist could spend his life trying to figure out why snow melts the way it does. As with most sciences, simple observation goes a long way. The sun travels a very similar path daily, burning away the snow in an eliptical sundial. Suncups hit the bottom, the dry ground spreads and the flat snow field vanishes. Simple observation, where there is sun – suncups, where there is shade – lasting piles. Doesn’t seem much like a science. But after living a small life time in snow I found myself being completely stumped trying to figure out some spots of snow. In open sun halfway up a rock face, snow in the face of summer. How could it possibly stay there? Why are there ice bridges over dry creeks? What makes snow make cornices? And the question most asked, where to step to not posthole. It’s possible that the search for solid footing single-handedly sparked an entire science. Where do you step to not posthole?Maybe snowintists will figure that out riight after the sort out global warming. Either way, my days of studying snow and it’s wily summer antics are over. I have walked down out of the Sierra Nevada and now stand on the lowland foothills of the Cascades baking in the snowless sun.
Nine of us bake in the sun in the low elevation of Ashland Oregon and I contemplate the many fences we now stand on the other side of. A man made straight state line across a contour map seems like an arbitrary fence to be concerned with, but after walking 1,700 miles towards it we were very happy to be looking back at California through imaginary picket fencing. Like loosing your virginity, new tires on your car or flossing your teeth, there was no percieveable difference immediatly on the other side. There was a sign on a tree that said Oregon so we took a break on the Oregonian side and only returned to Cali to urinate. Six of us took that break, but we were deffinately eight hiking together. The band of beardos broke up in Chester and we found eachother two weeks later. Our handshakes and smiles at paradise lake campsite said, “good to see you, let’s never be apart for that long again.”. With the short miles remaining and our strong legs underneath us it seems like we won’t meet any more thru-hikers. Even if we do match schedules with more hikers, we won’t have the time to get comfortable with them.
We have become a family on the trail. A bearded, dirt leg, full of bugs and stink family. We share, and wait for eachother, perform surgery on eachother and decide how far to walk together. Consecutive thirties and no zeroes for hundreds of miles. Our group represents some of the best long distance hikers in the world. If hauling a heavy pack uphill for insanely long distances was an Olympic sport, we would have golden rings stitched on the breast of our t-shirts. The way day hikers and weekenders look at us in the woods, we might as well have the golden rings on us. We got close to setting a downhill speed record and rolled out on to the pavement 12 miles down I-5 from Ashland. A few miles before the highway there is a spur trail off of the PCT that heads straight to a fancy faux-hunting lodge hotel and bar. The polished and waxy people of that establishment thought enough of our hike to give us a free beer to help lubricate for the hitch into Ashland.
Hitching on the west coast has been a challenge for us. As a group we are too much stink and dirt to ask anyone to haul at one time, and hitching singularly we just look like a rapist murderer. This hitch into Ashland was different. The first R.V that drove by pulled over to pick up the four of us with thumbs out. A reptillian man with tattoos covering his arms and face poked his head out of the side door, “Ive got pit bulls, they’re friendly, hop in.”. The two pitbulls were as friendly as the inch and a half thick chain that tied them together could let them be. The bed was strewn with brand new skateboarding clothes and the lizard-man driver fed his dogs a microwave burrito as he drove down the highway. He didn’t have no story and after nine years with parole was happy to finally be on this side of the fence. We didn’t talk much and were dropped off at the Mexican food place on the edge of town.
Ashland is our first and last real town in Oregon and pretty much the last town on the trail. We walked into town feeling like we were about to step into Canada. Ashland is reason to rest and celebrate. Reason to take a day off and soak up some hospitality. Sushi dinner, trash can pizza, live music. Ashland is a destination spot for young travelors, travelors of all kinds. Kids that ride trains, and runaways. Bands of hippies in VW buses, groups of hippies without buses, affluent hippies with new VWs and money for restaraunts. Beardos of all kinds. Here we are suddenly stripped of our obvious costumes. Our stink isn’t that much more than anyone else’s, our beards are no bigger and our clothes no filthier. We were even asked if we were from here. Having it assumed that we were neck deep in reality was a strange perspective and I never expected to be wrongfully placed on that side of the fence.
Today is the 1st and we head out of Ashland and into the woods. It’s time to check out of the hotel, hop a fence and head into the woods. Oh, adventure.

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