Total Weekly Mileage: 269.5
PCT Mile: 1670.5
“A Dying Breed”
I was at mile 1401. My shoes? Mile 1502, thanks to a 2-mile side trail. The ones I was wearing? Toast. After trudging through snow for 400 miles, the glue holding the sole together had given out—and I still had 100 miles to go. This was Friday at 2 p.m.
I called KellyFish, the owner of Castle Crossroads in Dunsmuir, just east of my shoes and west of Mt. Shasta. Told her I needed a spot for Sunday night. Aggressive? Sure. But slowing down to hobble along in trashed shoes wasn’t appealing either—may as well push hard and hope they held up. Fortunately, this section through Lassen isn’t too bad—pretty flat, with limited water unless you want to hike 0.3 miles down into a canyon. I hit a water tank and chatted with an Aussie couple starting from Chester. They said they were ultrarunners but taking it easy to start. The guy had some gnarly blisters—awful for hiking. I gave him a pair of five-toe liner socks I wasn’t using; it would help reduce the rubbing from his Smartwools. I told them to pick up the pace unless they wanted to be dodging fires, then I took off.
That night, I aimed for Burney Mountain Guest Ranch. I needed water, charging, and a light resupply. Christina and her husband are amazing people. I’d met them the previous year, and they had just opened back then. I’d wished I could stay longer, and this year was the same—great place, wrong timing. That’s one of the toughest parts for me out here: seeing familiar people I’d love to spend time with, but knowing I can’t. So I do my best to make the most of the moments I have.
As soon as I showed up, Christina recognized me—said a few hikers had mentioned I was heading north. She handed me a Dr. Pepper. Her husband, Lehen, noticed how wrecked my shoes were. He went into his shed, grabbed some supplies, and caulked between the sole and upper before duct-taping the whole thing. It bought me the next 100 miles. I went inside for an ice cream sundae and couldn’t resist the seafood buffet—absolutely incredible stop. Charged up, resupplied, full belly, and my green handprint now on the water tank of fame. As hard as it was, I hit the trail again at 7:30 p.m.
The next day, I went big. I’d booked a bed at the Dunsmuir Crossroads Hostel the day before, which meant I had to log big miles to arrive by Sunday night around 8 p.m. I pulled a 42, then a 44, then a 38—arriving by 7:15. KellyFish picked me up, took me to grab my shoes and resupply at Dollar General—or, as she calls it, “The Dirty G.”
I met Ugly Stick at the hostel, along with two Germans having a very good time. They’d say something in German, then giggle for five straight minutes. It was hilarious. Ugly Stick was the first through the Sierra this year—breaking trail in snowshoes. A true thru-hiker. He’s kept a continuous footpath despite slicing his leg open (needed stitches), getting blistered so badly he had to hike with a cane, and taking a few days off. But he never broke the chain. A rare breed these days, with all the skipping and flip-flopping going on.
I got a late start out of town. My goal was to knock out the 155 miles to Seiad Valley by Thursday night. That way I could reach the RV park, charge up overnight, resupply early, and start the big climb out. KellyFish dropped me at 11:30—late start—which meant I’d need a string of huge days to make it. The climb out was rough. I’d packed a lot of food, so the weight was punishing. Still managed 25 miles, with the last 3.5 gaining over 1,000 feet.
The next day? Into the 40s. Then a 44 on Wednesday. By Thursday morning, I had 39 miles to go to reach the road—and another 6 miles of roadwalking into Seiad. I pushed hard, through blowdowns and burn zones. By 9 p.m., I hit the road.
Earlier that day, a section hiker had told me about Brian, who lets hikers stop by his place—right on the road into town. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but by mile 42 I was ready to be done. I reached the sign at his driveway: “Trail Magic.” All the lights were off—it was 10 p.m. I walked onto the deck and found a note that read: “Make yourself at home. Charge your things. Have a drink. You can sleep on the deck.” I did all that, and I was beyond relieved I didn’t have another 2 miles left.
Next morning, I was at the store by 6:30. They didn’t open until 7, but Joshua let me buy what I needed. After organizing my pack and eating two burritos, I headed out. Spotted a Porta John on the side of the road and made full use of it—always grateful to save my quads from a cat-hole squat.
With food to last me, everything charged, and a couple pounds lighter, I began the climb. It’s a beast—gaining over 3,000 feet in 8 miles. Thankfully, the weather was cool and breezy. I’ve done it in full sun before, and it’s brutal. When I reached the top, I stopped at the forest road and chatted with a couple of dirt bikers. From there, I kept pushing—crawling over blowdowns and wrapping up one huge week. Almost to Oregon.
