Zero Days. Barbara Egbert

      CHAPTER 1

      IN THE BEGINNING

      Day 3: Today was not all that interesting. We walked through a burned area and walked 16 miles.

      —from Scrambler’s journal

      JUST NORTH OF KITCHEN CREEK, 30-some trail miles from the Mexican border, the Pacific Crest Trail crosses a clearing near a campground. A small PCT marker guides thru-hikers on their way north; a side trail to the left leads down to a dirt road. As Mary, Gary, and I entered the clearing through tall, fire-scorched brush on a warm April morning, a woman wearing a bright red shirt watched us curiously. She and her husband and their two children—boys about 7 or 8 years old—had walked up the small hill to the trail intersection.

      “Hello,” Mary greeted the young mother as we approached. Always friendly, Mary is eager to socialize with everyone she meets. “Hello,” the woman responded. “Where are you going?”

      Mary pointed to the trail sign: “We’re hiking the PCT.” The woman had obviously never heard of the PCT, and she looked at me with the quizzical expression of an adult confronted with a completely nonsensical statement from a child. “We’re hiking the Pacific Crest Trail,” Gary explained. “It goes from the Mexican border to Canada, 2,650 miles. We’re on our third day.”

      At this point, the woman’s expression changed to something between disbelief and fear. I assured her we were sincere. She looked at her husband and children, then at Gary and me, with our sweaty faces, big packs, and little kid in tow. “You’re kidding,” she said. Then she said it again, “You’re kidding.’’ Finally, she turned to Mary and exclaimed, “You’re not going to let them make you do this, are you?” Mary folded her arms, stuck out her chin, and replied, “They’re not leaving me behind!”

      As the magnitude of our endeavor sank in, I could picture what was going through this woman’s mind. A hike of the Pacific Crest Trail is an impressive feat, especially for a child. Beginning in southern California’s Mojave Desert at a modest monument near the wall along the southern border of the United States, the Pacific Crest Trail runs from Mexico to Canada, ending at a matching monument on the northern border, at the edge of British Columbia’s Manning Provincial Park. Along the way, the trail rises and falls through the San Jacinto, San Bernardino, and San Gabriel ranges (and the desert valleys in between) before ascending to the crest of the Sierra Nevada. Its highest point, at 13,180 feet above sea level, is at Forester Pass in the southern Sierra. Continuing north over a succession of lofty mountain passes through Sequoia, Kings Canyon, and Yosemite national parks, the trail takes in views of Lake Tahoe in central California and then winds its way north through the mountains toward Lassen Volcanic National Park in northern California. Following the crest of the Cascade Range, the PCT offers views of Mt. Shasta before continuing into Oregon and Washington on a route punctuated by more volcanoes, including Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, the still-smoking Mount St. Helens, and the mighty Mt. Rainier. At the Canadian border, as if ushering jubilant hikers back to civilization, there is a broad, 7-mile trail to the nearest paved road.

      The PCT zigzags along ridgelines, meanders through public property, and follows wandering rights-of-way across private lands. The trail is more than twice the length of the highways that travel the same route from south to north; indeed, if you wanted to drive a distance equivalent to the trail, you would have to take your car from Los Angeles to Baltimore. Because of its length, PCT thru-hikers typically allow five to six months to hike the entire distance. Our own PCT adventure lasted from April 8 to October 25, 2004.

      It’s not surprising that most people who encountered our threesome reacted with disbelief. Even if they had heard of the trail—and many had not—it’s rare to see a pair of 50-something parents and their 10-year-old cheerily saddled up with big packs for the trip. The people least likely to believe we could do it—much less would want to do it—were adults engaged in a weekend camping trip, complete with RV, generator, running water, and television set. It’s hard enough explaining to sympathetic friends and relatives why we would want to spend an extended vacation lugging heavy loads up steep hills, sleeping on the ground, and digging holes for trailside latrines. But parents whose children have to be cajoled to move more than a few feet away from their video games cannot imagine a 10-year-old girl who can walk 20 miles a day with a full pack, and get into camp still capable of climbing trees and making up games with twigs and pinecones.

      We found ourselves constantly responding to the kinds of questions that dayhikers and car campers are prone to ask upon meeting a trio of hard-muscled, razor-thin, scruffy-looking hikers intent on racking up a 20-mile day: How do you get food? How often do you take a shower? How come your daughter’s not in school? But the biggest question everyone asks, which is even more important than how much weight has been lost and how many bears have been seen: Why are you doing this?