The Pacific Coast Highway: Port Reyes and The Golden Gate

The first time I heard of Port Reyes National Seashore was when I saw the exit sign. It’s not on my list, but what good is a life list that doesn’t allow detours?

I saw arrow signs pointing to the Port Reyes Lighthouse. Since I had no idea what the park offered, I had no reason to not follow them. As it turns out, I showed up on a day the lighthouse was closed, but I found enough to make the two-hour detour worthwhile, lofty views of a deep blue Pacific Ocean, miles of uncrowded beaches, and a national park full of trails worthy of a future visit. I say, future visit, because my sights are set on another mountain. And I'd like to beat the first alpine snowfall to the top of it.

After a drive around Port Reyes, I got off the Pacific Coast Highway to cross a small item off my list, “Drive Over the Golden Gate Bridge.”

When I got to San Francisco, something occurred to me almost immediately.

“Oh, yeah… I hate big cities,” I said to myself.

Somehow, I always forget that and end up with unsubstantiated high expectations when going to a big city. It’s no different than how I will continue to go to All-You-Can-Eat Chinese buffets even though, without fail, I leave thinking, “Ugh, I’m never eating Chinese food again.”

San Francisco seems like a nice place, it’s just after this past year, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve learned I have a strong preference for a quiet unhurried life. And I haven't found big cities to be compatible with that.

I went from quiet forests and relaxing beach to a sea of tourists and hectic traffic jams. I prefer people in smaller doses. Don’t get me wrong, I love being around people, but I love a refreshing glass of ice water too, and yet still have little desire to be tossed into the Arctic Ocean.

Once I crossed the legendary bridge, I was ready to leave. I promptly set my GPS to Yosemite National Park.

My next and final hike for the summer will be a two or three week journey, but at the end, I’ll be standing on the summit of the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States. What better place is there to bring a summer exploring America’s best wilderness to a close?

- - - 

I’m sure to have limited cell service during this time and will only be able to upload low quality cell phone camera photos, but I’ll continue to update the blog as often as possible. As always, thanks for reading.

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

The Pacific Coast Highway: Hand-Picked Breakfast

While driving down the coast, I spend as much time out of my car as in it.

I stopped to take another photo and found an overgrown deer trail leading down to the beach. The trail was lined with blackberries. I went back to my car for a zip-loc bag and gathered breakfast.

On the Pacific Coast Highway, there is no shortage of secluded and beautiful places to eat and read a book. The "day's drive" to my next hike is turning into three really quickly.

The Pacific Coast Highway

Liv and I drove the southern half of the Pacific Coast Highway after our Route 66 trip in March, so I decided to do the northern half on this trip.

They are slow miles, but not only because it's one of the largest collection of hairpin curves in the world, or because every third vehicle is a bicycle without a shoulder or bike lane.

The miles are slow because you can't help but pull off at every turnout to admire the countless views. When you have the time, you feel like you must hike down every roadside trail, and walk on every sandy beach.

They are slow miles, but perfect for my slow-paced life.

   

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

The Redwood Forest: Song of the Redwood Tree

I had a lot more photos of Redwoods, so thought I would post a few more with one of my favorite excerpts from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. I have a greater appreciation for it now.

Song of the Redwood Tree

Farewell my brethren,

Farewell O earth and sky, farewell ye neighboring waters,
My time has ended, my term has come.

Along the northern coast,
Just back from the rock-bound shore and the caves,

In the saline air from the sea in the Mendocino country,
With the surge for base and accompaniment low and hoarse,
With crackling blows of axes sounding musically driven by strong arms,
Riven deep by the sharp tongues of the axes, there in the redwood
forest dense, 

I heard the might tree its death-chant chanting.

The choppers heard not, the camp shanties echoed not,

The quick-ear'd teamsters and chain and jack-screw men heard not,
As the wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years to join the refrain,
But in my soul I plainly heard.

Murmuring out of its myriad leaves,

Down from its lofty top rising two hundred feet high,
Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs, out of its foot-thick bark,
That chant of the seasons and time, chant not of the past only but the future.

  

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under
a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

The Redwood Forest: Avenue of the Giants

After leaving the Redwood Forest, I planned to head south to San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway, but I saw a road sign that said, "Avenue of The Giants." Those words had a certain allure, so I took a detour.

The old road lead me through Humboldt Redwood State Park. I spent most of the day photographing more giant trees, but it's difficult to photograph a Redwood. The scale of me standing next to a Redwood Tree is the equivalent of a mouse standing next to me. It is impossible to convey that feeling of smallness in a photo. The closest I could come was to put myself in the shots.

It's hard to think of such massive trees as plants. There are species of ants that live solely on one Redwood tree and nowhere else on Earth. A single Redwood is a planet for an entire species.

It is also impossible for a photo to give you the feeling of respect you have for them when you see one. A respect you might ordinarily reserve for wise elders or the representatives of a bygone era.

I suppose you'll just have to see them for yourselves.

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under
a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

The Redwood Forest

Even though, “Hike Through the Redwood Forest,” is at number 57 on my Life List, it was really on my list before I knew what a Life List was. Actually, before I even knew they called it the Redwood Forest. Come to think of it, it was on my list before I even realized I wouldn't live forever, and so, need such a list.

You see, the Redwood Forest is where they filmed the forest scenes in Return of the Jedi. 1983. That’s when a five-year-old Ryan wanted to come here… and live among the Ewoks.

As an adult, I think I was just as happy to be here as I imagined when I was five, even though Wicket W. Warrick and I didn’t run around the forest floor hand-in-hand, having amazing adventures.

Instead, I walked alone in the scattered sunlight that poured through the dense green canopy. I didn't feel alone, though. The Redwood Trees, 300-feet tall and hundreds of years old, groaned and creaked in the wind like the deep voices of megafauna. I frequently stumbled over rocks and roots with a crick in my neck from trying to walk while I gazed up their monstrous trunks.

A hollow Redwood stood like a hut welcoming me inside to sit a spell. A long-extinguished fire blackened the interior. Despite this, it continues to live and thrive. Actually, during its long life, the tree had probably been set on fire numerous times. The bark of a Redwood lacks the volatile resins found in other trees, and their sap is mostly water. This slows their combustion. The “heartwood” on the inside, however, burns then decays, leaving behind hollows other animals use for shelter. Animals like me.

The tree is a survivor. Probably more than twenty generations have come and gone since this forest giant felt its first ray of sunshine. It survived as a seedling when most do not. It survived hundreds of years of disease, harsh weather, raging forest fires, and encroaching industrial-era humans.

And then, after all those centuries, a man with the initials W.F. walked by. This irreverent and vain human being figured that, after all this history, the immense tree was almost perfect. All it lacked were his initials carved into the bark.

Such a small amount of damage irritated me, so you can imagine how I felt when I learned that, in less than a century, lumbermen reduced 96% of these mighty old-growth forests to stumps and open pastures. It astonishes me just how foolish we can be.

That generation of men are gone now, but their work will haunt these lands for hundreds of years. Sometimes, people living life like me, are made to feel guilty for not working and contributing to society. In some cases , that's justified, but if I ever feel any guilt, I'll just think of the contributions of those hardworking lumbermen.

This is why the National Park System was America's best idea. Only 4% of the Redwoods remain, but at least we didn't lose them all. And even though I won't be around to see it, I'll be hoping those seedlings that are pushing feebly through the soil, will survive the next twenty generations and reach the height of their towering relatives. Because when left alone, it is amazing what a forest can become.

  

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

Number 109

I walked up the sandy slope of the six-mile wide caldera wondering what that famous shade of blue would look like in person. When I reached the top of the rock wall, I found it to be as blue as every photograph I’ve seen. And now I can cross Number 109 from my list, “See Crater Lake.” 

It’s been a while since I’ve really talked about why I’m doing all this, what this blog is about, and why at thirty-two I decided to leave everything and spend a major chunk of my savings travelling around America. The past fourteen months have been all about one thing, crossing as much from my life list as possible. 

I started a Life List when I was about twenty and spent year after year doing nothing but adding to it. After a while, the list just made me feel anxious and guilty. It was a constant reminder that I was wasting my youth. It took years to finally get fed up enough to do something about it. 

Even though the words “Life List” are in this blog’s title, it’s easy to forget that this isn’t just a backpacking blog. Not everything on my list involves backpacking, but most of it does, and I’m still young and healthy enough to do these things now. I mean, Number 34, “Find the exact point where Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico meet and eat a burrito in each state,” I can do that when I’m old. 

It is always satisfying to cross something off the list. I guess I’m a collector of sorts, although I’ve never understood the compulsion some people have to collect related trinkets to put on shelves. I collect experiences. They don’t clutter attics, closets, or basements, and to me, are more rewarding than a shelf full of troll dolls, bobble heads, or NKOTB trading cards... That's right, NKOTB. 

This latest addition to my collection formed when the Mount Mazama volcano, erupted 7,700 years ago. The eruption ejected 12 cubic miles of magma and left a hollow cavity underground that collapsed into a bowl shape. Over time, the crater filled with nearly 5 trillion gallons of water, up to 1,900 feet deep, solely from rain and snowmelt. 

Since there are no tributaries, rivers, or streams, flowing into the crater, the water is some of the purest and clearest in North America. The water is so clear, in fact, that you can look down into it and see 144 feet below the surface. 

After walking around on the steep walls of the caldera, I hiked to Garfield Peak for a better view. I almost left after that, to go to my next destination, but then I remembered that I wasn't in a hurry. I sat by the lake, made dinner, read my book, wrote in my journal, and waited for sunset. It was worth the wait. And it was a great reminder that I have undoubtedly made up for any wasted youth.

  

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.   

That Weird Guy in Town

I wonder if I’ve become that weird guy in town. Every town has at least one that you see now and again. A guy that looks like he just walked out of the woods after a month without a shower or laundry.

My car has racked up 20,000 miles in 6 months. Another chunk of my bumper fell off when I hit a jackrabbit south of the Grand Canyon. With the bumper's gaping hole, I can now check my washer fluid without opening my hood, which is good because my hood doesn’t open anymore without two people and considerable effort.

A wheel rim cover flew off when road construction forced me to buzz down a California highway’s rumble strips. It soared along side me for a brief moment, like a Frisbee thrown vertically, then became just another piece of roadside litter.

The record-breaking summer heat, combined with a lot of time parked in the sun at trailheads, has rapidly caused the clear coat to peel off. And I think someone keyed it recently, but there are so many cosmetic problems, it's hard to remember if the scratch was already there.

What I'm trying to say is, my car is a junker now. And between National Parks, I can be seen sleeping in it, reclined in the driver’s seat, with nearly all the possessions I have left packed neatly in the small space around me. Or you might see the car parked at a rest stop, walk into the restroom, and see me at a sink washing my hair, cleaning my cook pot, or brushing my teeth.

But that isn’t why I feel like the weirdo in town.

While walking through the two-story high aisles of a superstore, I realized I never changed out of my filthy hiking shorts. The pair with the hole on the left thigh I got while climbing over a huge pine tree that had fallen over a trail in Vermont. They are the same pair with the hole I got while sitting on a rock with a jagged edge in Montana. Two holes that I fixed on the trail with duct tape.

I've lost more weight on this trip, so like the hiking shorts before them, they have begun to slide down my waist. I fixed this by making a makeshift belt out of a rain tarp guyline.

If you saw me in the woods, you might say, “This guy had a problem and he used his limited resources to fix it. This guy is like MacGyver.” If you saw me in town, however, you'd probably say, “This guy had a problem and he had to use his lack of resources to scrounge up a free solution. This guy is like James Belushi without Curly Sue.

But that isn't why I feel like the weirdo in town.

I sat in an almost empty restaurant when two boys in little league clothes walked in to sell fundraiser calendars.

“Alright, I’ll go over there and ask them. Go ask that guy,” the taller boy said and motioned to me with his chin. I didn’t need a calendar. I don’t even know, or care, what day it is most of the time, but really I just didn't want to spend money if I didn't have to.

While I waited for him to come to my table, I thought of how I’d tell him I didn’t want one without hurting his feelings. I thought I might just say, "Sorry kid, I'm homeless." and then say, "Have any spare change?" It wouldn't feel like a lie. Afterall, I am the guy that slept behind an abandoned bank in New Hampshire, in a baseball dugout in Maine, on the loading dock of a Vermont Big Lots store, and inside a concrete whale in Oklahoma.

He walked toward my table, but sat down in the adjacent booth and never asked me. A minute later, the taller boy returned. “They didn't want one. Did you ask him?” he said, not quite soft enough to keep me from hearing.

The boy got up from the booth and quietly said, “He didn’t want one either.” Then shuffled toward the exit.

But no, that's not why I feel like the weird guy in town. What leaves me with very little doubt about being the weird guy is that, not only do I not care about any of these things, I'm thoroughly enjoying every moment of it.

The Wonderland Trail: The Best Miles

If you want to sample a smaller section of the Wonderland Trail, park your vehicle at the Sunrise Road Trailhead and hike 16.2 miles to the trailhead at the Box Canyon Picnic Area. These were my favorite miles.

Mount Adams	Summerland
Summerland	Summerland
Sarvent Glaciers	Ohanapecosh Park
People Sliding Down the Mountain	Summerland
Panhandle Gap	Wauhaukaupauken Falls Near Indian Bar
Summerland	Summerland

Cowlitz Park

Cowlitz Park

Stevens Canyon Waterfall

A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.