July 8

1294-1319

We finish the climb out of Belden before the heat is overwhelming. A sign tells us that we have officially entered into the Cascade Mountain range, our home mountains.

Hiking through this bleak and charred landscape during a heatwave is mentally trying. I tell myself that I am here to listen to the story of the areas I pass through, and unfortunately the story of this area in Northern California is one of raging wildfires every summer.

We have been transported to the land of the dead. We see no signs of animals, we walk through piles of ash, and the forest is silent in the merciless heat.

I will be happy when we are back in the world of the living. Sometime along this stretch amber loses on of her water bottles and must carry half of her water in a gallon sized zip lock bag. It sloshes and leaks with every stretch.

When hiking through particularly hot or dry environs I envision our water as an hourglass. The water represents time and miles that we can cross, and we constantly have to manage our supply to make sure our time does not run out. Today during the peak of the heat we have to take a long rest. It is simply too hot to hike.

Usually we can get away with walking very slowly, but today we are burning through our water too quickly and it feels like our skin is broiling even under the protection of our clothing. We get to a piped spring and see that other hikers have the same idea we do. As we walk up we see them laying down, in various stages of undress, finding meager shade in the charred remains of standing dead trees. Close to dusk we cross a road and see a few cars parked with a large canopy tent set up.

I laugh to myself and question the sanity of anyone driving up here to camp during these blistering temperatures, when all I would want to do is lay in the AC if I were in there position. As I get closer I see the familiar faces of a few thru hikers I know. The owners of the cars and tents call us over and offer us BLTs, cold drinks, and fruit. We gasp. It is as of this scene was a manifestation of a daydream. These kind folks were not camping. They drove an hour from Chico, CA to provide food and refreshments for thruhikers. After our sandwiches and cold drinks we walk a few more miles and make camp in a reasonably safe strand of small dead trees.

If they were to fall on us, we would likely only be maimed and not killed and that seems like a reasonable compromise. In the middle of the night we are descended upon by a herd of deer. They try to pick up our clothes and trekking poles to be able to suck the salt off of it. We gather all of our belongings inside our tent. For the next few hours the deer press their noses into the fabric of our tent to get our salty items. I close my eyes and try to ignore their heavy breathing.