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Every now and then, I like taking an extended hiking trip in the Sierra Nevadas to test my
level of fitness, to shed a few pounds, to gawk at tall pinecone-bearing trees, sweeping
vistas and formidable granite rock formations. I am wild at heart, but these days I’m more
mild and urban-challenged. So it was with a great sigh of fresh-air relief that I recently
took to the high road (literally) and hiked along the Pacific Crest Trail between Echo
Lake Resort, which is just east of Lake Tahoe, and Ebbetts Pass, which is a third of the
way to Yosemite.
The Mosquito Battalions Descend
I was gone for less than a week on the trail. I lost a few pounds and had to tighten my
belt a few gratifying notches. It was a wonderful experience except for one troubling,
nagging problem. Mosquitoes. Millions of them. I left behind in the high country a mass of
bloodied, squashed mosquitoes which unwittingly felt my hand come between them and their
Draculaic destiny. These battalions of mosquitoes were fully mobilized to wreak havoc on
any carbon-dioxide-exhaling, red-blooded human who foolishly dared to venture near their
slushy meadows. I was that foolish human.
As a heavy-breathing hiker, I thought I had come prepared. Mosquito netting for the head.
Hat for the non-Rogained male-pattern bald spot. Lightweight gloves for the hands. But on
the topic of insect repellent, I flunked. The non-toxic Jungle Juice bug spray from Whole
Foods came in an eye-catching, jungle-motif metal bottle, yet all it really managed to
accomplish was perfume my skin with a pleasing, lemon-scented, bathroom-freshener aroma.
Thankfully, an elderly south-north hiker from Vermont in a metal-hinged, full-knee brace
accepted my offer of two energy bars for a half-bottle of very toxic DEET. “Nobody in New
England goes out in the woods without their DEET,” he boasted with genuine Yankee pride.
(I later read that U.S. government scientists had tested over 250,000 chemical compounds
during WWII before they arrived at the formula for DEET, which perhaps contributed to
victory in the Pacific war theater.)
Meanwhile, as I labored across the snowfields and marshes, but before I met up with my New
England savior, thick clouds of skeeters mocked my every move. This swarming nimbus of
torment never left my fastpacking side. I was flesh pudding for these flying devils! I
yelled at these bloodsuckers to go take a hike.
But millions of years of predatory, natural selection have taught culcidae diptera
a valuable lesson in the evolutionary waiting game: Be patient, and the world will
certainly be yours for the having. Whenever I rested, it got worse. These Furies licked
their chops, sharpened their beaks, invited their carnivorous sisters and brothers over
for trailside Dim Sum, and began to feast on this all-you-can-eat human dartboard. (And
they were such poor tippers.)
Lekis for the Next Lucky Person
Relief finally came as I left behind the high-altitude snowfields and boggy meadows where
the headwaters of the Truckee River begin. Crossing Highway 50 to Carson Pass marked a
Rubicon line of sorts; the buzzing and probing miraculously abated. I was entering into a
mosquito-free zone. I was thrilled. But a late-afternoon thunderstorm put a damper on my
mood. Lightning has that frightening effect, especially when you are exposed on high ground.
And especially if you are carrying aluminum Leki hiking poles. Sadly, I had to discard
these expensive collapsible poles; it was either that or become a mobile lightning rod. So
I stuck them in the ground next to a roadside mound of discarded beer cans, Lekis for the
next lucky person.
The next few days on the trail were one of the most exhilarating times I have ever spent
hiking in the backcountry. Hot days, cold nights. Ascending and descending. Huffing and
puffing. Old muscle aches giving way to new strains and pulls; it was as if my body were
playing musical chairs with itself. (In my early 20s, I would spend weeks at a time
backpacking with a much more resilient body.) I was covering as much ground as possible
during daylight hours—between 10 and 16 miles. At an average altitude of 8,000 to 9,000
feet, that’s considered fastpacking.
And, as for the Gear
I wore running shoes rather than my favorite pair of Redwing hiking boots. I carried no
tent. Ground cloth and tarp was a nylon shower curtain I bought for $3.99 at Rite-Aid. The
backpack was the French-made Lafuma-smallish, super-lightweight, and made with rip-stop
material. It’s the kind adventure racers use. Less weight is the goal for fastpacking. On
level sections of the trail, I tried jogging for several hundred yards at a stretch.
My only real folly was my sleeping bag; an old Camp Five goose down bag that I have lugged
around the country since graduating from college in 1979. (By the way, I still have the
same stereo system I used in college when I used to listen to Buddy Holly and Bruce
Springsteen.) Many of the bag’s feathers have flown its bedding coop. It offered poor
insulation. In other words, I slept cold and miserably, despite wearing a double layer of
Polartec fleece and polypropylene top.
Reluctantly, due to my sleepless nights, I kept my trip short (I wanted to go another 60
miles). I hitchhiked back to Lake Tahoe after reaching the highway at Ebbets Pass. The
first car stopped and gave me a lift. I later found a $25-a-night motel and nearby pizza
parlor with all-you-can-drink root beer on tap. It’s amazing how quickly my belt returned
to its old, familiar well-worn notch. After several days of freeze-dried food, I binged
and binged for the next week. You might say that I have a healthy appetite for hiking.
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