900 Miles In
My friend Tony and I just returned from meeting up with our friend who we nicknamed Mountain Man Mike, in Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite, California, one of the world's most spectacular locations. We were Mike's fourth resupply on his 1,800-mile journey along the Pacific Crest Trail. Yosemite was Mike's halfway point. He began on the Mexican border and will end for this year in Ashland, Oregon. Due to snow conditions in Washington State he's planning to hike the last 900 miles to the Canadian border next spring. He'd given us a box to bring him before he left, and we were to meet-up at a tiny Post Office/General Store in the Yosemite Valley.
Where Was Mike?
Tony and I arrived on time and looked for Mike, age 70. At 6'4", and 250 pounds, Mike isn't normally very difficult to find in a crowd. He's always had a short, grey beard, which also helps to notice him. Tony drove while I scouted for Mike. After a few minutes I saw a tall, reed-thin, older guy with a long, scraggly gray beard standing next to a huge backpack, leaning against the Post Office. It was Mike.
While Tony parked the car I walked to Mike. His voice quavered a bit at first, which struck me as odd until I realized he hadn't spoken with anyone in a while. Mike's tanned, weathered, face had a serene quality that suggested he was at peace with himself and the world. We hugged and laughed and shed a few tears of joy seeing each other again after a few months.
Unlimited Calories
Mike discovered he needed 9,000 calories a day just to maintain his current 200-pound, lean body, which was a little more food than he could carry. He'd made reservations for us at a motel in Lee Vining, 20 minutes from where we picked him up. As much as I love this bear-like guy, he smelled like he'd been sleeping in a dumpster. He was anxious to take a shower.
Old Man Walking
We shared a pitcher of beer while his few items of clothing were washing in a laundromat, and Mike told us stories from his 900-mile trip so far. There were Trail Angels, men and women who held the Pacific Crest Trail hikers in such high regard that they offered hikers barbecued chicken, chili, and cold beer from their makeshift shacks in the desert. It was also one of Mike's few opportunities to chat with other hikers. The Pacific Crest Trail Association issues 1,000 permits each spring, and fewer than 200 hikers finish. At the halfway mark half had already dropped out. The Association gives each hiker a moniker, and Mike's was OMW, Old Man Walking. In Yosemite I noticed young hikers asking Mike if he was Old Man Walking. They all wanted to shake his hand and ask him about his journey.
Pizza And Stories
The three of us went out for pizza at a nearby restaurant, something we'd joked about before Mike left. The pizzas were 16", huge by most pizza standards, and we ordered two with the works. Tony and I each had a few slices of one. Mike ate an entire pizza, followed by a huge Caesar Salad.
His stories about being in the wilderness alone, camping under the stars, waking up with elk and deer nosing his sleeping bag, hiking up a 12,000 foot mountain off the trail just for fun, trekking through the heat and desolation of the desert, and washing in ice-cold glacial lakes, were fascinating. He told us that he no longer bothered putting up his tent unless it was raining. I asked Mike what he thought about all day while he was hiking. He said his daily 15-17 miles had become a Zen meditation and that he wrote poetry at night.
He had a bear-proof food container, an ice axe, which he used to cross several ice fields, a stove that weighed less than a pound, and an array of intriguing equipment. But even with all his high-tech gear, Mike still had to endure the wilderness and hike 17 miles a day with a 60- pound pack.
On the way back to the motel we stopped at a small general store where Mike bought a few jars of peanut butter, Pop Tarts, and other fattening, high calorie food. There were two queen-sized beds in the room and Tony and I had planned to share one and give the other to Mike, but Mike insisted he slept better on the floor in his sleeping bag.
Adios For Two More Months
We woke up at 6:30 the next morning and went out for coffee before driving Mike back to where we'd picked him up in Yosemite. There was a group of young men and women backpackers drinking coffee and talking about their journeys. We had lots of leftover pizza that Tony and I didn't finish and we put it on a picnic table with a note, "ordered too much, help yourself." It was gone in an instant.
We hugged Mike and he slung his huge backpack on and crossed two-lane Highway 120 that cuts through Yosemite. When we could no longer see him, Tony and I grew a bit tearful from our joyful reunion and our extreme pride in Mike's 900-mile journey that had taken him two months to accomplish, which is exactly how long he said he'd need to meet us in Yosemite. Mike is a boomer adventurer extraordinaire, and as the oldest of the 1,000 hikers who started out, an inspiration to both young and older adventurers.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
