ODT Part 2: Peters Creek to Paisley
Day 5 | September 15th, 2023
We hiked along two-track roads, followed animal trails through fields of clasping pepperweed, and dealt with numerous barbed wire gates.
We made our way into the Lost Forest Area of Critical Environmental Concern, located at the eastern edge of the Fossil Lake Basin. According to the guidebook, “the forest is what remains of a once-expansive pine forest occupying the hills above a series of pluvial lakes which dried up during a hot and dry period 6,000 years ago. All but what is now the Lost Forest succumbed to this climate change and were succeeded by desert vegetation.”
Following the guidebook's directions, we embarked on a cross-country section, proceeding carefully and cautiously over fragile soil, and made a brief detour to the summit of Sand Rock Mountain. This distinctive geological formation stood out in the otherwise flat landscape.
Continuing along a shadeless dirt road, we were searching for Water Cache #3, desperate for respite from the scorching sun.
During our water break, I removed my shoes to inspect painful areas on my toes and found several sizable blisters along the sides. Fortunately, I successfully popped the largest blister, cleaned it, and wrapped it in Leukotape, bringing some much-needed relief.
Unfortunately, we lingered at the cache for over an hour, consuming more water than planned, which would affect our essential water supply for the next day.
Once more, my backpack bore the weight of extra water, making it uncomfortable to carry. With my body drenched in sweat, the pack constantly shifted on my back as I walked.
After a short but steep climb, we set up camp on a high ridge.
Exhausted and thirsty, we had minimal water left and at least 10 more miles to cover before reaching the next reliable water source. We rationed the remaining water for the night and planned an early start for the next morning, hoping to cover as much ground as possible before the heat of the day kicked in.
Day 6 | September 16th, 2023
The morning was quiet, and we embraced the tranquility as we hiked with the rising sun. Each of us had less than one liter of water, which we needed to last for the next 10 miles.
We hiked cross country through juniper and sagebrush. The undulating terrain offered a welcome contrast from the monotonous flat dirt roads we had traversed earlier.
Amidst the tranquil quiet, interrupted only by the occasional distant cow mooing, the rhythmic crunch of dry dirt beneath my blistered feet resonated alongside the songs of the Western meadowlarks perched on the sunlit hillside.
I was trailing behind the boys, with Showers leading the way. The glimmering reflection of his umbrella in the sun was the only thing that helped me keep sight of him.
The cool morning made hiking with limited water easier, but as the day’s heat intensified, it became more challenging. The trail-less, cross-country hiking was slow in a land covered in sagebrush stretching as far as the eye could see, with no shade and little water under a relentless sun.
In the scorching heat, battling dehydration and navigating the demanding cross-country terrain, I could feel my mood growing increasingly irritable. Cosmo, who had been waiting patiently for me at the intersection of a dirt road, now walked by my side. Fortunately, our years of backpacking together had conditioned us to each other's fluctuating moods. We walked together without the need for conversation.
By mid-afternoon, we caught sight of Christmas Valley Highway, and amidst the green sage, there was Showers' umbrella shining like a beacon of safety in the distance, guiding us towards Water Cache #4.
Showers had his umbrella, but for Cosmo and me, there was no relief from the sun as we took a short break to rehydrate. We briefly discussed the possibility of hitchhiking to Christmas Valley for cold drinks and French fries, but none of us could confidently commit. Only a few cars passed by, and our feeble attempt to stick out our thumbs didn't yield any success. Eventually, we gave up and continued our hike.
About an hour later, we reached a full, blue trough of clear water and collected five liters each for the next 25 miles.
We walked along a primitive road, heading towards Burma Rim.
We set up camp on a picturesque hilltop below Burma Rim, one of our favorite campsites of the whole journey. The view was breathtaking, with the vast expanse of the desert stretching out before us. It felt like we were truly "out there," disconnected from the chaos of the world.
We were surrounded by the serene silence of the desert, broken only by the occasional gusts of wind that rustled the nearby shrubs.
The temperature was perfect, mild and comfortable. The sun had warmed our skin during the day, and as the evening unfolded, a gentle breeze brought a pleasant coolness to the air. The clear sky, adorned with a blanket of twinkling stars, encouraged Cosmo and me to forgo the shelter of our tent.
After inflating my sleeping pad and arranging my sleeping bag, we gathered for dinner, a beloved part of our daily routine. Our customary practice involved sharing our meals, passing bowls of mush around in the triangular formation we sat in. However, on that particular evening, Showers and Cosmo decided to swap dinners.
Cosmo devoured Showers' quickly rehydratable beans and rice, which Showers had planned to consume every night on the trail. Meanwhile, Showers had to wait a bit longer for Cosmo's homemade chili to soften. As Showers began digging into his meal, he immediately noticed an unfamiliar crunch. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that an oxygen-absorber packet had broken in the chili, and the spilled iron powder pellets rendered the entire meal inedible.
It was a double blow for him--not only did he miss out on much-needed calories, but he also had to carry a heavy bag of ruined chili until we found a proper garbage can.
Fortunately, I had prepared a generous amount of soup and had plenty left to share.
As night fell, the winds picked up, carrying the scent of wildfire smoke and a reminder of nature's unpredictability. Cosmo stood up to brush his teeth and relieve himself when his eyes caught sight of a small, black scorpion scuttling nearby. Startled, he swiftly returned to the safety of his sleeping pad. "A scorpion?!" I exclaimed, a mix of alarm and disbelief in my voice. "Where’d it go?" Panicked, my eyes darted around the perimeter of our sleeping space. My fears were confirmed when I glimpsed the scorpion quickly heading towards my sleeping pad.
There was no way we were going to cowboy camp tonight. “Fuck that!” Cosmo said, and we set up.
From the confines of the tent, I watched the scorpion as it darted around. It inched closer to the edge of Showers' groundsheet and froze, resembling a statue, its black tail curled, taking aim and pointing towards him. Showers was unaffected, confident in his raised bathtub that offered a few inches of protection from the ground as he cowboy camped each night
I carefully closed the zipper of our tent and felt a surge of comfort wash over me. The thin layer of nylon separating us from the outside world provided an incredible sense of security.
Day 7 | September 17th, 2023
I woke up to the slight scent of smoke and the beautiful meadowlark song, which echoed across the tranquil desert landscape. As I unzipped the tent, I found Showers peacefully nestled in his sleeping bag. The gentle crinkle of his polypro groundsheet as he began to stir reassured me that he had safely made it through the night.
Immersed within a dry and secluded stretch of the ODT, we were fully enveloped in an authentic desert experience. Water sources were scarce in this area, and as we journeyed through vast fields of sagebrush, rattlesnakes lurked amidst the grasses. Despite evident signs of cattle ranching, our sole presence emphasized the extreme remoteness of the area.
The terrain posed challenges: constant elevation changes, sun-exposed dirt roads, and intricate navigation through the landscape. The cross-country sections were slow as we weaved between low shrubs, sidestepping large piles of wild horse manure. Despite the unyielding sun and with scant clouds offering little respite, a serene beauty persisted in this harsh, arid environment. The vast expanse around us created an illusion of being nestled deep in the heart of nowhere, far removed from the bustling rhythms of civilization.
I climbed up to a ridge overlooking Depoali and Packsaddle Lakes in the near-distance, and to my surprise, it appeared that these usually unreliable water sources might hold some water. I called out to Cosmo and Showers, who were standing several hundred feet below, trying to grab their attention but my shouts failed to reach them from so far away. I stopped shouting and began hiking down toward Cosmo, who was signaling for me to join him and Showers.
We briefly discussed whether to check out the water sources, but eventually, we decided that going to the waterholes wasn't worth the distance off the route. Each of us had around 2 liters of water, which seemed sufficient for the upcoming 12 miles until we reached our next water cache.
As the day grew hotter, I started to strongly regret our decision to skip the waterholes. The intense heat made it more difficult to manage my rapidly diminishing water supply. In the scorching sun and with dehydration sinking in its raspy claws, I became increasingly irritable. I desperately wanted a satisfying gulp of water, but I had to ration it, taking only tiny sips. Each sip briefly relieved my parched throat, but the dryness swiftly returned, leaving me longing for more. Why hadn't I insisted on checking out that water earlier? How foolish was it to overlook a potential source? It wasn't even THAT far off our route!
In tense silence, we trudged onward for the remaining hours until we reached Water Cache #5, a vital lifeline carefully maintained by the dedicated volunteers of the Oregon Natural Desert Association.
We collapsed among the desert shrubs, gratefully embracing this essential oasis. I felt a wave of relief as I chugged the cool, revitalizing water, and instantly, my mood improved. We passed around liters with different drink mixes, laughing with exhaustion.
After quenching my thirst, my attention was redirected to other bodily discomforts, such as the irritation caused by yet another blister on my toe. Carefully, I removed my shoes and socks and lifted my foot to get a closer look. It was huge! My middle toe was engulfed by a large, tightly stretched, swollen sac, resembling an inflated bubble. It seemed as though the slightest touch could trigger a remarkable eruption. I couldn't help but feel a bit giddy. Its intriguing and somewhat oddly satisfying appearance fascinated me—there was a peculiar allure in dealing with such things.
Equipped with a sterilized sewing needle, I cautiously punctured the blister, prompting a sudden gush of clear, watery serum that erupted with surprising force, shooting me in the face. Involuntarily, I flinched and chuckled. It was magnificent! Like a miniature geyser in the heart of the dry desert. Cosmo stood up and moved closer; his eyes grew big as I continued to gently probe "Old Faithful." We were both captivated by the demonstration.
Feeling satisfied, I cleaned my toe, wrapped it up, and put my shoes and socks back on.
The sun was beginning to set, and I didn't want to move. I was avoiding the inevitable: hiking away with a heavy pack of water. I made a feeble attempt to convince the boys that we should camp at the water cache, but they rightfully insisted that we hike a few more miles during the cooler evening hours.
We each carried six liters of water and a total of eight empty gallon jugs from previous caches. With all that weight, I struggled to stand up, let alone hike uphill out of the canyon. Showers and Cosmo kindly offered to carry some of my water. At first, I declined and stubbornly tried to wobble uphill behind them. However, when they turned around and saw me struggle, they insisted that I let them lighten my load. Begrudgingly, I complied, feeling frustrated about having to accept their offer.
As we climbed, storm clouds circled around, and flashes of lightning lit up parts of the sky on the horizon, creating an epic sunset and a sense of concern.
After a few miles, we decided to stop and set up camp just off a dirt road. Changing into my sleeping clothes, I became acutely aware of my grimy state. My clothes hadn't seen a decent wash in over a week, enduring various elements and bodily fluids. My stiff, salty shirt bore numerous stains, while my sports bra felt greasy and damp from sweat. I had transitioned from feeling pleasantly dirty and connected to nature to simply feeling gross.
Just as we settled down for a communal dinner, a light rainstorm interrupted us, leading us to quickly set up shelters. Even Showers staked out his tarp that evening.
At 2 AM, I woke up to the suffocating scent of wildfire smoke seeping under the tent door. Alarmed, I woke up Cosmo. He unzipped the tent door and looked outside. The sky was clear, and we couldn't see any visible smoke. He didn't think the smell was that strong, but he validated that I have a sixth sense when it comes to wildfire smoke. We decided that we were in no immediate danger and agreed to reassess in the morning.
Cosmo fell back asleep while I lay awake, consumed by worry. This situation felt eerily familiar, reminiscent of past experiences where smoke had seeped into our tent. There was a particular instance in the Sierra Nevada when Cosmo and I found ourselves alone, hiking out of a remote, smoke-filled basin in the middle of the night. That time, we made the call to swiftly pack up and leave -- a decision that undoubtedly proved to be the right one. Recalling that event, I couldn't shake the concern that Cosmo might not be thinking through the threat of our current circumstance.
I moved my phone around, trying to follow one bar of cell service and scour the internet for information. Despite my efforts, I couldn't find anything. The uncertainty of not knowing the fire's proximity or the potential threat it posed gnawed at me. I tossed and turned, with my mind racing. Every time I closed my eyes, I smelled smoke and saw images in my mind of our tent filling up and suffocating us.
The hours passed slowly, but somehow, between three and four in the morning, exhaustion must have taken over, and I finally fell asleep.
Day 8 | September 18th, 2023
In the morning, I was greeted to another sunrise cloaked in red hues, accompanied by a sore throat and a slight headache—a telltale sign of a nearby wildfire.
We were en route to an off-trail ascent up Diablo Rim, which remained hidden behind a dense cloud of smoke. After hiking a few miles with no improvement in conditions, it became necessary to reassess our plan. Engaging in strenuous physical activity in such poor air quality seemed unwise.
We consulted our maps and settled on an alternative route, opting for a dirt road that stayed low, below the visible smoke line, and had minimal elevation changes.
I put on my KN95 mask, hoping it would provide some relief during the hike, but it felt suffocating either way. I was either breathing in smoke or sensing my breath restricted by the mask.
The past few days had involved a significant amount of slow cross-country travel and I was enjoying the simplicity of navigating along a dirt road. I could walk while listening to podcasts without constantly needing to check the map on the phone. The miles seemed to pass effortlessly, and we spread out to enjoy some solitude.
Later in the afternoon, I noticed an arrow drawn in the sand by Showers, who was ahead of Cosmo and me. The arrow indicated a potential water source nearby. Following yesterday's incident, we had collectively agreed to be more vigilant and communicative about water sources. As I ventured over to investigate, I was immediately struck by a pungent, fishy odor emanating from the stagnant, cloudy water surrounded by cow droppings. Despite my commitment to avoiding another day of thirst, I decided to give this one a hard pass.
After several hours of walking along the dirt road, the repetitive motion made my feet begin to ache, and my blisters, once minor annoyances, had become aggravated by the unforgiving rocky ground. The road, which I had earlier been enjoying, had now turned into a source of discomfort, highlighting the inevitable ups and downs encountered during a day of backpacking.
Eventually, we started looking for a lower saddle and began a cross-country ascent to reconnect with the route.
Leaving the Diablo Mountain Wilderness Study Area, we finally reached Cache #6, signaling the near completion of the longest dry stretch along the ODT. The smoke had cleared significantly, and the remote landscape of the day had left us feeling optimistic.
Hiking through dusk, we were captivated by the magnificent sunset painting the sky. It was truly a spectacular scene.
However, our attention quickly shifted as a new plume of dark smoke appeared to the south (enough with the wildfires, Oregon!).
Suddenly, the picturesque landscape, which had enchanted us, became overshadowed by the looming presence of yet another emerging fire. We watched as a helicopter flew overhead, making its way towards the foreboding column of smoke.
I texted Shaggy to see if he had any information from further up the trail, and he confirmed our suspicions. He replied that he had actually called in a fire he had spotted close to the trail, and firefighters were on their way. He wasn't the only person to report it, and since then, it had been growing.
The news of the fire injected a sense of uncertainty into our trail plans, but there was nothing we could do at the moment except to hike on. We camped awkwardly alongside a road, only 10 miles away from Paisley, the first real town of the trip. We ate dinner and tried not to dwell too heavily on the situation. All we could do was remain flexible and be prepared for our journey to potentially take an unforeseen turn.
Day 9 | September 19th, 2023
The air was surprisingly clear, and thankfully so, for our easy road walk into Paisley.
We followed a scenic dirt road cutting through an expansive valley flanked by rolling hills and distant mountains. The landscape is adorned with golden grasses, low vegetation and sagebrush.
We descended through Sand Hollow and merged onto the paved Red House Road, marking the transition from untamed wilderness to an area where nature is utilized for commercial purposes.
Sharing the road with massive tractors, we passed by ZX Ranch, one of the largest cattle ranches in the United States.
Cattle congregated near the edge of their enclosures and observed us as we paraded past. Pausing for a moment, I found myself gazing at the thousands of heifers standing behind sturdy bars. They seemed to watch us with a mix of curiosity and reservation, their innocent eyes questioning our presence amidst their confined existence. The presence of cows in this environment felt incongruous. In our brief time on the trail, we had witnessed and experienced how their free-range activities wreak havoc on the High Desert – trampling delicate soil, overgrazing the land, and polluting precious water sources with their massive shit piles.
As we approached downtown Paisley, the changing landscape became more evident. Sagebrush gave way to ranchland, accompanied by numerous towering stacks of hay bales. These stacks symbolized the transition from the natural ecosystem to the cultivated lands of the ranches and the encroaching town.
Paisley, a small city nestled in the High Desert of Southern Oregon with a population of approximately 260, held the promise of simple amenities that we eagerly anticipated. Our expectations were set on enjoying a warm cup of coffee and a meal at the Pioneer Saloon and Restaurant -- one of Oregon's oldest bars and a highly anticipated stop along our journey.
The downtown area was modest, featuring a small market, a few businesses, and a post office with limited hours and a "for sale" sign in front. Amidst posters advocating gun rights, we encountered friendly locals, a handful of passing tourists, and a group of young US Forest Service wildland firefighters lingering in a small parking lot.
Unfortunately, both the saloon and the coffee shop, which was more like a small coffee stand, were closed. Paisley also didn't have a laundromat or a shower.
The market attendant recommended a nearby food truck as an alternative to the closed saloon. Despite the lack of vegan options on the menu, the staff agreed to prepare potato tacos and tater tots for me, albeit at a high price..
As we were eating, a friendly passerby named Forest approached us. He recognized us as thru-hikers and even though it was only 11 in the morning, stopped to offer each of us a cold beer. It was a pleasant surprise and a generous gesture that undoubtedly brightened our day further.
We picked up our resupply packages from the post office before searching for the local gear shop mentioned in the ODT Town Guide. When I called the number provided, Michael answered, but to my surprise, he didn't sound like he was answering for a business. Despite this, he was exceedingly friendly. Through our conversation, I learned that the 'gear shop' was essentially a small section in his home where he sold miscellaneous items to his bike-touring clients. Feeling a bit confused, I asked if his shop was currently open. Michael chuckled and informed me that it was not. Being the owner and sole employee, there was nobody around to run the "store" as he and his wife were working at Playa, just up the highway. Nevertheless, Michael generously offered his yard for camping for the evening and his washing machine for laundry, though he wouldn't be home for several hours. Grateful for his kindness, we accepted the offer and, with time to spare, decided to hitchhike six miles down the road to Summer Lake Hot Springs.
Our spontaneous detour turned out to be an amazingly rejuvenating experience.
As we stepped into the inviting waters, we found ourselves among fellow travelers who shared stories that enriched our own. Among the group, there was a young woman in her early twenties who had just returned from a week-long conservation project in the desert with ONDA. She was a full figured woman, confident, friendly and seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was NOT a clothing-optional hot spring.
Then, there was the heartwarming father-son duo. Nelson, a cheerful and bearded man adorned with tattoos and piercings, and Cole, his late-twenties son who has Down Syndrome were traveling the world together in a converted bus. Nelson explained that they both worked at the hot springs for the time being, saving money for their next adventure in Southeast Asia. As experienced hot spring enthusiasts, Nelson and Cole eagerly shared recommendations for places to visit along our route.
Lastly, we reunited with Forest, our morning beer-gifter, who coincidentally was staying at the hot springs campground with his partner Jasmine. Forest entertained us with stories about his job as a wildland firefighter and his various camping trips, while Jasmine diligently worked on a drawing of the scenic landscape surrounding us, sitting in a lounge chair outside the pool. At one point, I half-jokingly asked Forest if the wildland firefighters ever start little fires themselves to ensure they get paid more, and he chuckled with an affirmative nod. Before we left, Jasmine kindly offered us a bagged salad that she had no intention of eating, and we were grateful, starved for any veggies we could find.
Michael and his partner, Kris, picked us up from Summer Lake and brought us back to their home in Paisley. After settling us into their backyard, Michael gave us a grand tour of their cozy mountain home, full of books and paintings.
We ran a load of laundry and hung our clothes up to dry outside, revealing that they looked dirtier than when they went in. Spice, Michael and Kris' cat, wandered around while we ate dinner on the deck outside. I made an effort to befriend her, though her feelings towards me remained uncertain.
After dinner, while tending to more blisters on my toes, Kris kindly offered me cannabis-infused cream. Hoping for relief, I applied it to my feet, said goodnight, and retreated to my cozy shelter.