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August 12, 2006

Confessions of a nature guy

Mark Grossi

I'm known around the newsroom as "nature boy." In the last year or so, I've written about vernal pools on flat-top foothills, the least Bell's vireo (it's a bird, I think) and the potential to use gooey hippo sweat as a dandy sun block.

So you might not be shocked that I'm quivering over the opportunity to hoof it through Evolution Valley and gaze up at the glaciers along the spine of the High Sierra.

I love trekking. I love the easy ambling. I love the sweat in the climb. I love the thin air and the snow fields. The granite, the red fir, the erratics, the night sky. I even love the massive downed snags where parasites crawl in and out for centuries. Nibble, nibble, nibble goes nature.

OK, I'm kind of a nature guy, but I have to come clean here. There is something I must tell you.

I really don't like camping. Strike that. I mean, I don't like it most of the time. The rest of the time, I just put up with it.

It has taken me decades to get comfortable with tents, sleeping bags and whatever else I drag along on these treks. I've been doing this a long time.

I sleep just fine usually. I've slept through visits by marauding bears.

I eat just fine. I pretty much don't care what I eat, although I have learned pop tarts don't agree with me in the morning.

When I was young, I remember going to campgrounds. They were a lot of fun until I got a little older and a little less sociable with people who brought radios and small, whining children and cases of beer. Not that I'm against any of that, but I just wanted to be miles from other people. I can just go into my back yard if I want to hear screaming kids.

I now consider a good camp site to be a place somewhere near 10,000 feet in elevation in the vicinity of a lake that was created by the glacial retreat 10,000 years ago.

Even then, I'm not keen on dragging all this stuff with me, preparing in case a blizzard hits overnight (it has happened to us) and then packing it all up the next day to keep moving.

When I hit the trail on Aug. 22, I know I won't be doing a 77-mile day hike. I'm keeping my pack light, hoping the wind will be at my back and walking as swiftly as I can away from civilization.

If you want to find me, just wait until the sky fills with stars and look in the general area of a high-elevation lake in Kings Canyon National Park. I'll be the guy who left the rain fly off his tent because I wanted to see the night sky and because I just didn't want to hassle with all this camping stuff.

THAT reporter

Diana Marcum

"Hey," he says. "Are you THAT reporter?"

I'm beginnning to cringe at this question.

What it usually means is, "Hey, are you that klutzy know-nothing who has the audacity to go wandering around my backcountry?"

I've chatted with too many people who have seen me struggle to put on a backpack.

The only way I can do it, without a nearby rock, is to shake my hips in a manner that they forbid at high school proms.

The word seems to be getting passed down the trail that trouble is afoot. This man in the long beard knows I am THAT reporter. He was sitting here by the pay phone in Tuolumne Meadows while I talked to my editor.

He heard me say I understood I was not to leave Darrell and not hike alone etc. etc. etc.

(I let a bear can lid get away from me, causing an underscoring of my lack of wilderness skills.)

So I'm not suprised when the man says, " 'Cause I'm thinking about writing an article called, 'What kind of idiots aren't safe in the wilderness.' "

He's sitting in front of a payphone a few feet from a snackbar. So it's not like he's foraging in the forest or anything. But he says it with a bit of a twinkle, so I just sit down at the picnic table and join him.

This was written while out on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.

"So you've never tried anything new? Never not done well at anything?" I ask. "Do you think all this beauty only belongs to people who know how to read a topo map and grow a long beard?"

He laughs. He tells me to enjoy my journey.

I am feeling optimistic as I leave. I was very careful to say I would stay with Darrell, I didn't say anything about Dudley Doright. I have every intention of getting back to that payphone, putting in some blogs. Taking a shower and getting, yes, a Diet Coke, before shimmying back into that pack. Dudley can just march on.

But I have been foiled. When I get back to camp. Jim, Emily and Darrell are waiting for me.

Jim has told Darrell that from here on out it turns into real wilderness. No more Wilderness-lite. We'll soon be in territory you can only get to by backpacking a couple of days. Darrell doesn't want to go any farther unless we stick with Jim and Emily.

I don't blame him. He's not exactly nature-boy. (At least not at this point. In a matter of days, he'll be scaling mountains and chasing bears.) He is someone who has only been car camping. Once.

Dudley/Jim dictates that we leave from the trailhead in two hours. They are already packed up. They go off to shower and shop, leaving me with the pack that I cannot pack.

I SO want a shower. And to buy some food. And call a friend. So I try and try. But it's not working. I see a nearby Boy Scout. I offer him $10 to pack my pack. But he's 14 and never been backpacking before. Frank Purcell, from Huntington Beach, overhears and comes over to help. He's been backpacking the Sierra every summer for 32 years. But more key to this undertaking is that back in his youth, he used to deliver furniture.

"Packing a pack is like packing a truck full of furniture," he says.

It still takes him a half hour and he doesn't think I should use his work as a schematic.

I barely have time to run into the store, grab three packages of trail mix and catch the bus to the trailhead.

No shower. No shopping. No Diet Coke. Worst of all, no writing.

And now, no way out until Agnew Meadow.

As we start out, I feel more like I'm herded than hiking. I'm dejected and lonely and thinking about the people who say I shouldn't be out here. And how my very purpose of being out here -- to write about it -- is slipping away.

But with every step I still feel better. I know it can seem kind of precious to talk about trees and rocks speaking. You can't really get by with it unless you're John Muir or Rogers and Hammerstein. But nevertheless, there's something in the air. The Sierra is whispering to me: "Oh, ignore them. Look around. You're welcome here."

I flash back to the Desiderata, a philosophical statement that used to be on a poster by my dorm room, so I just happened to read it every day even though I thought it was a bit trite. I had no idea until this moment decades later that I had memorized it:

"Do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness ... You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here."

Ahead of me is a man with a red bandanna wrapped around his head . He's smiling at me. It's McCray from the sports store in Yosemite village. He helped me with my pack four days ago. I can't believe it. He had said he was going mountain climbing and would see me on the trail outside of Tuolumne, but that seemed so many days and miles away to be realistic.

He's a friendly face. McCray can climb mountains and pack his own backpack, but he's on my side. He seems to think it's amusing and right that I'm trying this. I've only met him once. But I hug him like a long lost friend. I walk back with him until we run into my trio of herders. He teaches me the names of some wildflowers.

About a mile later, I meet Marnos and Jerry. It's like the trail is a cookie and there have been a few chocolate chips scattered throughout to keep me going. I meet them because of the way Marnos says hello.

You see, there are different kinds of smiles on the trail. There's the standard smile/nod hello/pass. and then there's the "Well, there you are! Who are you, fellow traveler?" smile. Marnos has one of those.

She's from New York and makes even hiking clothes look stylish with her big sunglasses and colorful bug hat. They're hiking this section of the JMT to get a taste of it before they try the whole thing.

On their honeymoon in New Zealand they picked up a hitchhiker who wanted to shoot a documentary on the JMT and they've been intrigued ever since. New Yorkers in New Zealand meet someone who sends them to JMT in California.

They tell me they ran into a Pacific Crest Trail hiker. The JMT is part of the bigger PCT that runs from Mexico to Canada.

"He came over the pass smoking a cigarette! " Marnos says. "We watched him leave in a puff of smoke. He was a 90-pound Jerry Garcia."

I want to stay. Make them some of my best friends. But Dudley has now passed with a pointed, "Hadn't you better hurry up?" look. So I reluctantly move on.

After a while I hear someone running up the hill behind me: "Diana! Diana!"

It's Marnos. "Here, you're going to need this," she says, stuffing a stylish mosquito net head cover into my pack. Well, at least as stylish as mosquito head covers can be. It's cuter than the black one from the hunting department of a sporting good store in Fresno.

A good look at the world

Diana Marcum

Leaving Sunrise in the early afternoon, I walk out of the meadow where my full-moon friends from the night before are now playing softball. I try to wave goodbye. But I still haven't got my balance with the pack, so I can't walk and turn my head at the same time without stumbling. They get a half-wave, half-trip.

I start climbing one of the mountains that look like a cathedral. The world keeps changing, changing in front of me. It's open and blue-skied. It's woodsy and pine-scented. There's a white mountain to my side. No, wait, that's a snowbank!

My range of focus keeps changing, too: a tiny yellow wildflower with a butterfly the exact same color sitting on top; vistas that make something inside me stretch out the way it does when I see the ocean.

My legs are stronger than they were yesterday or the day before.

In what seems like no time I am nearing my first crest, the meadow way below me. I am gently thinking about Mark Grossi's father who is ill and a dear friend of mine in Three Rivers who is battling a brain tumor.

When I do get to the top and look down at yet another meadow, this time with a deep blue lake and snow-glazed mountains behind it, I have a morbid thought. Or maybe it's not morbid at all.

I think that this day, when the time comes, will make it easier for me to die. Because on this day I got such a good look at the world. On this day I got such a good long draught of life.

I mistakenly think I'm making great time. There's the meadow right down there. (Wrong meadow. I'll find I still have 5.8 miles to go.) But near the top, I'm still feeling cocky.

"I'm going to pause and look at that snowbank just because I want to and not because I'm tired," I crow to myself.

Same thing with taking off my pack and putting on some more sunscreen: because I want to, not because I'm tired. I'm stronger, see?

I see a flat rock up a little hill and head there so I can rest my pack while I get out of it. And that's when I slip and fall face down on the rock.

I stop my face's downward motion just as my nose and glasses come in contact with the rock. Nothing breaks, not the nose, not the prescription sunglasses. But I'm still face down on a rock and I have 36 pounds on my back. It's tricky turning over. When I do finally get upright, I start laughing. How can the words "Pride goeth before a fall," not come to mind, after all?

I'm on my butt looking at the tallest, pointiest mountain.

"I'm sorry!" I scream to her. "I promise. Never again. No more cocky."

I forgot to pack a mirror, so I gingerly pat my face. No blood. And I'm pretty sure that bump on my nose is the one that's always there. The mountain let me off easy this time.

I walk up and down and up and over and on and on. A Japanese family passes me and asks me how far it is to Cathedral Lakes. I can't tell them. I saw it. I passed it. But I've lost all sense of time and distance.

It's getting lavender. The alpine glow before evening. I'm worried Darrell will worry. I'm worried he'll call The Bee. (He does.) But oddly, to me, I'm not scared at all. Maybe it's the obliviousness of a spanking new novice, but the environment seems so welcoming. As if it was put together for my very delight.

Just as the evening really deepens, I hear a wail. I can't think at first whether it's a bird or an animal. Then I realize it's a saxaphone. It's jazz. I'm walking by another High Sierra camp. Just as it gets really dark, I see a sign that says Tuolumne Meadows Campground. I ask the first campers I see, Dave and Christine, where the backpackers camp is. They tell me I'm still 20 minutes away. It's a big meadow.

Christine says, "Jump in the car."

She is a travel photographer. She knows the writer Tom Cahill and some big-time magazine editors and an interesting writer's conference coming up. We have lots to talk about.

I feel no shame. I'm glad I met Christine. I have her card in my pocket. And quite frankly, I liked riding in the car for all of a mile or so.

This was written while on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.

August 11, 2006

A late start and the language of exuberance

Diana Marcum

I'm in trouble. Jim, whom I've now nicknamed Dudley Doright, and Emily are long gone.

Dudley is officious, but I have to admit he is capable. He doctored Emily''s torn feet with duct tape, whipped up oatmeal, broke camp and set off hiking before I finished reading blogs into the satellite phone, the one time it worked for me.

It makes Darrell nervous to be too far away from them, so he started hiking and I'm supposed to be right behind him.
But I can't get my pack packed.

It's been a problem every day of the trip.

My backpack is the latest and greatest in lightweight gear, which means no pockets and very little room.

Everything I carry first goes into compression sacks to be squeezed and deflated into small lumps. It's an exhausting ordeal every morning to shrinkwrap every item and even then things don't fit.

I first tried to pack my pack with my gear and my Yosemite National Park-issued bear cannister in my Yosemite hotel room. I tried over and over and couldn't get it to work. In a panic, I went to the mountain sport store and got help from Bill and McCray.

Bill and McCray threw out all my "real" food and almost all my first aid supplies. They told me to only take butterfly bandages because once you're out there you don't bother with any little scrapes or bruises. You don't bother with anything less than having to stick your skin back together. I'd find out they were right.

But, even after dumping stuff, the two of them still had trouble packing my pack.

And, today, on my own, it's a no-go. I pack and unpack , push and pull to no avail.

Everyone else is long gone. I'm alone on a rock with a pack I can't pack.

Then a man comes walking over to the rock and says, "Hey, are you that reporter?"

Peter Geissert, 30, is hiking the John Muir Trail with his girlfriend. His folks live in Fresno, so they showed him the story before he left.

He's lived with his girlfriend for 2 1/2 years in Oakland. He says sometimes they feel trapped in a concrete box. Plus, he sometimes gets caught up in what he calls the drama of the city, helping with needle exchange programs and other things that are worthy but draining. He says that he wants the trail to restore his faith in people. I ask him if he's lost his faith.

"No, my faith is always there wobbling along, but I'm hoping this will make it more robust."

"We wanted to do something really big because it's easier than making little changes," he says.

He asks if I've read any John Muir. I have. I wonder if he will then quote one of the same four John Muir quotes that everyone quotes. But he doesn't.

He says that John Muir created a whole new language. That before Muir, wilderness was only described as forbidding. Muir wrote about the beauty.

"He created the language of exuberance," Peter says.

Then he helps me pack my pack and I set off hours late. It will be dark by the time I get to Tuolumne Meadows.

This was written while on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.

High country awaits

One of the nice parts of the first leg of the JMT out of Happy Isles is that there's a shot of home. Tuolumne Meadows offers hot meals, hot showers and pay phones. After 24 miles on the trail (about the halfway point of the first leg), Diana and Darrell were happy to enjoy some creature comforts.

They were headed back out this afternoon on a relatively flat, six-mile walk. Saturday, they'll likely attack 11,050-foot Donohue Pass.

The satellite phone has been hit and miss. All we can do is wait for updates and remember what we told you when we introduced this journey last Sunday: "We don't know for sure where all of this will take us. But an adventure, by definition, has no certain outcome."

Trail junction

Christina Vance

This wasn't what I had in mind when I thought of preparing for the trail.

I expected to sweat long hours in the gym, obsess about packing and plan daily hiking goals.

I didn't expect to have my cat euthanized this afternoon. But, that's what is going to happen.

Spooky, a wonderfully demented Siamese mix I adopted three years ago, has terminal kidney failure. As her body has lost its ability to filter toxins, I've watched her appetite fade. Her muscles have grown too weak to jump far. Her fears have kept her hiding inside dark closets and cabinets for long hours.

One of her only remaining pleasures seemed to be snuggling next to me every evening. When I leave for the John Muir Trail on Monday, I'll be taking that comfort away from her.

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Spooky

So, I had a choice this week: Should I end things by her side, before I go, and cut her fading life short by a few weeks? Or should I gamble -- knowing she could die surrounded by people she doesn't know while I'm miles away?

Spooky's seen me off for my last two treks up Mt. Whitney via the John Muir Trail. She's greeted me both times on my return, nearly falling over herself to rush to my sweaty, dirty side.

This time will be different. She won't be waiting for me when I get back. It's my turn to see her off.

Happy trails to you, sweetheart.

August 10, 2006

Prom in the High Sierra

Diana Marcum

The first I heard of the High Sierra prom was about my third hour of hiking on the way to Sunrise.

An off-duty Yosemite ranger named Juan was walking the other direction.

He smiled at me and said, "Don't you love it, when you can only hear the wind and your footsteps?"

I do.

I also love conversations that start oddly.

I told him we were heading to Sunrise. He said it was great timing. It was prom that night. It's a once-a-year party where workers from all the High Sierra Camps hike in for the get-together. Since the camps never opened last year because of high snow levels, this was going to be the first prom in two years. He said I should try to get invited.

But I couldn't imagine going to a party that night.

I still was unclear on how I was going to hike the next four uphill miles.

Even when we do finally get to Sunrise, I can't imagine doing anything but crawling in my tent.

But then I meet Tom, the manager at the High Sierra camp. He hiked the JMT in September 2001. He didn't know that 9/11 had happened until he got back.

"The weird thing was that all these people were excited to tell me, couldn't wait," he says. Even a month in the Sierra didn't soften that blow. He says he felt the same things as everyone else. He just felt them a few weeks later.

It hits me that I don't know anything that's happened anywhere except in front of my feet for the past three days. My mind goes roaming for a second. Lebanon. Korea. Iraq. My friends. My town.

But Tom brings me back with an invitation to dinner as well as the party.

I'm so hungry. I brought the wrong food. None of my research paid off. I'm all around badly prepared.

There's no way I'll pass up dinner. I wrangle Darrell an invitation as well, but when I go back to get him he is humming over a freeze-dried bag of Lasagna and not about to get up from the bear cannister he is using as a stool.
Emily says she is too tired. I'll find out the next day she has huge blisters on both heels. Jim and I are unlikely to go to a party together. We're already hitting heads: him, Mr. gung-ho "we're in it to win it" and me Ms. let me just go on my own merry meandering way. He seems to think were in an episode of Survivor and he's the tribe leader. I'm thinking more of a PBS production and I am, well, the writer.

I return to a warm kitchen full of people cooking who really know what they're doing. In no time the serving table is filled with halibut, fresh steamed green beans and carrots, rice with raisins and pine nuts. The sauce on the halibut is delicious, and not just because I am half-starved. It's flavorful and balanced and unique.

Later at the bonfire, I ask the cook where he learned to make meals like that.

"I'm just a drunk stoner from Tennessee who loves good food," he tells me.

Guests keep arriving. They hiked 10, 12, 15 miles in the dark, carrying backpacks full of beer and liquor. They're dressed up. Katie, a Kate Hudson lookalike, wears a short red mini skirt and hiking socks pulled up like go-go boots. She tells me that last year, having no clothes for the prom, she wrapped herself in plastic wrap and put paper stars over her nipples.

There's a procession led by Tom, who is now wearing three ties over his T-shirt, and his date, who wears a sparkly crown. About 50 of us climb a half-mile up a granite dome.

I can't believe I'm doing this. I didn't think there was one more step in me. But how can I not? It's a full moon in the High Sierra.

I meet a girl from Turlock who says she just got back from a stint in West Africa with the Peace Corps. She was trying to teach the locals not to burn the bush to hunt rodents. She did this by having school kids write rap songs about it being a bad idea to burn harvests and villages while flushing out varmints.

It is a party full of people with degrees in arts and history and sciences, but no "real" jobs. There's a poet who is a mule packer. An art historian who runs a camp. Biologists by the bucketful.

These are the wanderers. People are talking about what they'll do at the end of the season: Ecuador? Visit friends in Thailand?

There's conga drums and guitars and people are dancing.

I'm dancing.

I hiked from 9:30 to 6:30 with only the briefest of breaks to gulp some water, and now I'm dancing? I don't see how this can be. But sometimes it's a crazy, bonfire world. Especially in the High Sierra on a granite dome under a full moon.

This was written while on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.

Sunrise, the promised land

Diana Marcum

Darrell will tell me later that this is the climb where he started wondering how he was going to get out of this venture OK.

We're climbing to Sunrise.

We see alpine flowers. At first, my eye catches just one feathery white bloom. But then I see another flower and another color and another until I'm taking in a whole wave of hues.

It's like being on a sailboat and catching sight of one dolphin. Then you see two. Then you realize there are 200 dolphins racing you.

Seeing the whole almost always starts with spotting the one.

But near the top -- or at least what we hope is the top because we can see blue sky -- the flowers disappear. The trail turns to climbing over rocks.We've been hiking for six hours.

I'm so tired that I'm stepping up with my leg and using my hand on my thigh to push it back. Darrell is using trekking poles, but he's leaning on them so hard that he looks four-legged.

The trail is still beautiful. But in a different way. Now it's an open, spare beauty. White rock. Blue sky. Steep. Brutal.
I'll come to a stone five inches tall. And pause. Stare at it. Ponder how I will get over this obstacle.

Making myself pick up my foot is always harder than the actual step.

We trudge and climb in labored silence.

Then suddenly, I look up, and, wow, there it is, the promised land.

There's a vast green meadow below us, hugged by protective mountains, crossed by streams, and sat in by Emily, who is now waving to us.

She says there's a bathroom.

She says there's a spigot with drinkable water.

I think that it doesn't get any better than this.

But I don't know this very night will find me eating grilled halibut with a sauce by a cook who has been mentioned in Bon Apetit. And going to a once-a-year party on a granite dome under a full moon.

This was written while on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.

Sunrise and Cathedral Peak

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Hikers leave Sunrise Camp on Thursday morning. The camp is 13.7 miles up the JMT from Happy Isles and is popular with hikers who base camp in Tuolumne Meadows.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee
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The JMT passes below Cathedral Peak. Like most of the Sierra high country, the peak was carved by glaciers. There's actually two "peaks:" Cathedral dominates at 10,911 feet next to the smaller Eichorn Pinnacle. Cathedral Peak is a popular climbing target because it's so close to Tuolumne Meadows; John Muir made the first recorded ascent in 1869.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee
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Cathedral Lakes (upper and lower) are tucked below the peak.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee
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Hikers head toward Sunrise Camp on Thursday morning.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee

Lucy goes backpacking

Diana Marcum

Before I left, my co-worker Barbara Anderson said she'd never do anything like this because she would be like an "I Love Lucy" episode, getting into all sorts of scrapes. It must be a redhead thing, because I did the "I Love Lucy" big time.

The problem is, that in the wilderness pratfalls hurt. Darrell and I were climbing these really steep switchbacks on the way to Long's Meadow. I needed some food but there was just nowhere flat to stop. I told him that I just had to get something to eat, go ahead and I'd catch up.

I got my bear canister out and opened it, carefully laying the penny I'm now using as a tool to open it on top of it. I had a few dried apricots, drank some water, took off my boots and wiggled my toes. Within five minutes, I began to feel better. But when I reached for the lid to the bear canister to put it back on, I knocked it off somehow and it flew over the rock and hit the trail upright like a wheel. At first I don't move, because "how far can a bear canister lid travel?" But this thing was gathering speed. It was like the mountain bike of bear canister lids.

I struggled into my boots and ran after it. When I finally got it, I then had to climb all the way back up the switchbacks.

Before I left town, my neighbor Slaten told me about hitting the wall and how to get through it. I wish I would have listened better. Because by the time I got back to my pack, I was banging into that wall. My muscles were depleted. I had one more lucky penny in my pocket, so I used that to put the dang lid back on. I got everything packed, and then I just couldn't lift my backpack.

I ended up pushing it up a rock, struggling to get in front of it. I put one arm through a shoulder strap and boom! Me and the backpack fell over backward. I'm pretty sure I did a cartwheel. I definitely hit my head.

Of course, even there, in the middle of the wilderness, the first thing I did was look around to make sure no one saw.

Meet Emily, who's joining the Bee hikers

Emily expresses her need for Gatorade's electrolytes
Emily Franciskovich loves walking in the high Sierra. She says hiking the John Muir Trail would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. But finding a partner to devote a month to the journey with her has been the only thing holding her back. Thanks to a fortunate coincidence with The Bee, she now has eight partners, albeit two at a time, broken up in four teams. Watch this video to meet Emily and learn what it takes to pack food and supplies for a full month away from civilization.

August 09, 2006

The first photos

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Jim Hurley and Emily Franciskovich plan their route from camp in Yosemite Valley on Aug. 7.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee
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Emily Franciskovich waits for a horse to pass on the JMT on the way to Vernal Falls on Aug. 8.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee
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Diana Marcum, a hiker for the first leg of the trail, and Marek Warszawski, who will take on the final leg of the journey, make their way up the JMT on Aug. 8.
Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee



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Nevada Falls guards the trail on Aug. 8. It's one of the first landmarks hikers who start in Yosemite will come across.

Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee



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Hikers Greg and Betty take a look at their map before hitting part of the JMT on Aug. 9. They're just two of the hundreds of hikers that will hike this portion of the trail this year.

Darrell Wong / The Fresno Bee

A single step

Marek Warszawski

Some wise traveler once said every difficult journey begins with a single step. For Bee reporter Diana Marcum and photographer Darrell Wong, hiking the first leg of the John Muir Trail, that step took place Tuesday morning in Yosemite Valley.

Following their first night sleeping on hard ground and some last-minute errands, the group of four backpackers, including 27-year-old Visalia natives Emily Franciskovich and Jim Hurley, who are hiking the
entire 211 miles, said goodbye to civilization by departing the Happy Isles Nature Center at 10 a.m.

After 2½ hours of climbing graded switchbacks above the majestic Merced River, we reached the top of Nevada Fall and ate lunch on a rock perched near the brink.

Tired but progressing well, the group decided to forgo the backpackers' camp at Little Yosemite Valley - it was only 1:30 -- for more isolated sites near where the JMT meets the trail to Cloud's Rest. While Emily
and Jim tackled nearby Half Dome, Diana and Darrell reached the designated campsite at about 4 p.m. I
congratulated both of them for making it this far and guzzling more than 2 liters of water apiece on a
sunny, cloudless day. Now go down to the creek and filter some more.

Barring any setbacks, the group should reach Tuolumne Meadows (and its store, café and flushing toilets) by Thursday afternoon.

On my own

Diana Marcum

I wasn't taking any chances. I was determined to escape the forced-march feeling. I had my backpack packed before Jim or anyone else was packed and around. I put some cheese and apricots in my pocket, and we all agreed to meet 2 miles down the trail at the first junction.

For the first hour or so I was alone and it was incredible. The trail wasn't as steep as it was the day before, and it was covered in what looked like pieces of soft red bark.

I went down to a little stream to fill up my water bottles for the day and almost immediately a deer came over and we looked at each other for a while.

A little bit later Darrell caught up. He said the best part of yesterday for him was sleeping.

Greg and Bonnie caught up a after that, and we all stopped to look at a big hole dug by a tree with what looked to be big paw prints around it. Then we looked at the holes pecked in the tree. A bit farther on, we peeled a tiny bit of bark off a ponderosa pine and breathed in the butterscotch fragrance.

Tree ponderers. Big time.

Too early

Diana Marcum

I woke up at 4. This is getting ridiculous. I've moved from dawn to pre-light.

I did some yoga and ate a couple of dried apricots. My body feels good. Yesterday, Marek told me he thought I could push it harder because I wasn't sweating and gasping for breath. But I think it's a matter of taste.

I like things like dance and yoga, where the whole point is that even when they're hard, make it look effortless. There's this entirely different mindset of physical fitness that's all about grunting and pain. All the grunting-and-pain workout types told me to just expect pain my second day. They seemed to think I should look forward to it. Probably in their opinion, I'm not getting the full measure of the experience.

Marek told me that the No. 1 trait of a backpacker is to accept pain and suffer silently. Later when I complained that I wasn't getting a chance to look around with the pace that Jim was setting, Marek told me that if you stopped to ponder a tree every 20 feet, you won't get anywhere.

It's light now; I'm surprised at how quiet it is. I don't hear any birds. I can hear the stream. It's a nice sound.

We're sharing a campsite with Greg and Bonnie from Lancaster. I can hear them laughing; they must have just woke up. Greg accidentally got into backpacking because he was searching for golden trout, California's state fish.

I always thought California's state fish was the garibaldi, those orange ones, but it turns out that's our marine state fish. We also have a stream state fish. We're very well represented in the fish mascot world.

Anyway, he got into backpacking searching for golden trout. The only way he could get to golden trout was to backpack because they didn't live anywhere near civilization. Then he hooked Bonnie.

They strike me as happy tree ponderers.

The journey begins ...

If you've been following preparations for The Bee's John Muir Trail adventure, then you know that our first pair of backpackers is, ahem, inexperienced.

Perhaps that's why we haven't heard yet from Diana Marcum and Darrell Wong.

But we're happy to report that the first day was successful.

Bee outdoors writer Marek Warszawski joined Diana and Darrell for the start of the hike. Marek reports that they left the Happy Isles trailhead at 10 a.m. Tuesday and arrived at their campsite about 4 p.m. tired but in good spirits. Marek returned to Yosemite Valley on Tuesday evening.

The campsite was near the junction with the Clouds Rest Trail, 6.7 miles up the John Muir Trail.

Stay tuned for updates.

August 08, 2006

Meet Shane, the backpack guru

Diana feels the weight provided by Herb Bauer employee Shane Krogen
Diana Marcum and Darrell Wong are not professional backpackers. In fact, Darrell has never camped before. So they hit up backpack expert Shane Krogen, who works at Herb Bauer's in Fresno, for some advice. Watch this video to see just how much in over their heads Diana and Darrell may be.

The side trip

Diana Marcum

While Darrell and I set up camp, Emily and Jim climbed Half Dome. It is the first day of a 220-mile journey for them.

They hiked 7 miles and climbed 3,200 feet. And if you're not a numbers person, let me paint the picture: That's going from laying at the swimming pool in Curry Village and looking up at Yosemite Falls to being on a mountaintop looking across and down at Yosemite Falls.

Basically we climbed for 5 hours nonstop and then they threw in Half Dome because it was on the way.

They said it was pretty up there.

But ... but you said!

Diana Marcum

We are hiking with Emily. She is hiking the entire John Muir Trail. We found her in an outstanding, serendipitous fluke.

The very day we decided to do the John Muir Trail project, one of our editors, Matt, a guy who can handle five emergencies and still find time to search online for poker partners, came upon a Craigslist Fresno entry from someone saying they wanted to hike the whole John Muir Trail in August, and that they were looking for companions. He thought we posted it. But no, it was real. It was Emily.

The first time I met Emily, I told her that I've never been backpacking and I might slow her down.

"But don't we all always carry things on our backs?" she said, and assured me she was on no set schedule. She said we'd set a pace where I'd have time to write and send and hobble. A few weeks ago, Emily e-mailed to say her friend Jim was coming along. They'd known each other in high school, he'd just taken the bar. She didn't know him that well, but mutual friends said he was a seriously good guy, the exact person you wanted to have your back in the wilderness.

I met Jim the night before we left. ... He strikes me as the kind of guy who would rescue the hapless and whatnot. But on this trip, I have a tormenter -- and it is Jim.

He looked at maps before we left that first morning and decided we would go to Cloud's Rest at 7,200 feet on our first day. Yosemite Valley is about 4,000 feet. Neither Darrell nor I have ever backpacked before. Jim insisted on [hiking] at the rear. A dedicated Boy Scout, intent on not letting any wayward journalists make a wrong turn.

I thought it was thoughtful, but the first hour of the first day of any hike is always the hardest, and I wanted to set my own pace, get my own rhythm, without holding anyone else up. Still he insisted that he had to be behind. He had these trekking poles and they were click-click-clicking and scraping granite right behind me. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. Every scrape made my muscles - that were already carrying 35 pounds of a quad-burning trajectory - clinch. I finally confessed my admitted neurosis and asked him to please let me go behind. He told me I better get used to it -- safety and all.

... Theresa, a backpacker who early on took me under her wing, said to make sure and enjoy each step. Don't always be thinking about getting to camp. A common refrain in yoga is to listen to your body and not your ego. And then there's my favorite general all-around advice: breathe. You can do most anything if you remember to take a deep breath. Or in this case, about five deep breaths every 10 minutes was what I needed. But I couldn't stop without holding everyone up.

Marek, The Bee's outdoors writer who came along for the first part of the hike, said that I just needed to get over the guilt trip of thinking the world stops because I did. I pointed out that although the world didn't stop, I couldn't take a breath without everyone in my sight stopping. But Marek and Jim continued behind, protecting me. I'd try to go faster and lose them, but they'd always catch up.

Finally, though, I managed to get away from them, walking under dripping water by Nevada Falls. It was steep, but I was in my own space, breathing to my own rhythm. I turned my face up, and let the water just drip down. To my left was a white plume of waterfall, bright blue sky. It was a perfect moment.

So I'm clinging to this one piece of wisdom that I went in with: I'm here for the little moments.

I knew it was going to hurt. I knew it was gonna be hard. But I was looking for the waterfall drops and I found them. And I will find a way to get away from Jim's trekking poles.

Setting off

Diana Marcum

Early on I swore I would not use the term "set off" in conjunction with the John Muir Trail.

I determined this after I read a series of "misfortune strikes" articles in the newspaper. Apparently it is only after "setting off" that people fall victim to freak storms, odd animals and spectacular plunges. Nevertheless, for lack of a better term, we set off on the JMT today.

We were sleeping in the backpacking camp near the trail. At first - note the first - the day started with delicious promise given an extra trickle of spice with just the right note of apprehension. I woke up to a soft, colorless dawn. Just a subtle lighting behind the tree branches above my tent skylight.

I'm a night owl. To say I woke up at first light is like saying Kevin Federline was named poet laureate.

In preparation for this trip, I took a flurry of yoga classes over the past two months. I went to Katie, owner of Coil Yoga downtown, and basically said, "Help." And she did. So yoga seemed like the right way to start the trek.

The only flat surface I could find was a picnic table. I did some salutations on a picnic table, facing an ever-goldening washed, golden glacier-cut mountain face. I had a peaceful, exuberant feeling. But then, I didn't know what was going to happen next.

August 07, 2006

Visitors in the night

Diana Marcum

There are four raccoons on my porch. One really, really big one and three not-so-small ones.

There was all this noise on the roof and I was thinking the people above me were being really loud and then I remember there is no room above me.

A little while after that there all these sliding-glass-door sounds and lights coming on so I got up to look out and see what was going on. The man on the balcony next door was saying "Get some water! Spray them! Spray them!" Right after that there's this loud thump and the raccoons jumped over to my porch -- where they still are.

I'm sitting here looking at this raccoon that's as close to the sliding glass door as he can be and looking back at me. His head is as big as mine. I knew raccoons could be big, but this is crazy.

I'd open the door and let them in, because they seem to want to come in, but I'm sure that that would have to be breaking some sort of key wildlife rule to let four raccoons into my hotel room.

August 06, 2006

Meet the hikers

Darrell tries on a backpack
Four teams of reporters and photographers are getting ready to split up hiking the complete John Muir Trail. Watch this video to find out why we're taking on the task and meet the adventurers.

Color PDF map of JMT

jmtmap.jpg
A full-page topographic map of the John Muir Trail. Was originally published in the Aug. 6 Bee.

The quest begins: Following John Muir: One trail. Four journeys.

Diana Marcum

There are days and weeks, especially in August, when the heat and the haze and the smog hang heavy over the Central Valley and you can't see the mountains.

But they are there, filtering the air and water of the Valley below, creating weather with their very vastness.

Somewhere up there in the High Sierra, snows are just melting and spring flowers are only now beginning to bloom.

There's a trail up there - named for famed preservationist John Muir - that goes from Yosemite Valley to the top of Mount Whitney, passing through canyons and meadows, 13,000-foot crests and granite cliffs.

It's a 211-mile walk on the West Coast's rooftop.

But it's more than a footpath. There are routes in this world that connect more than places. The Orient Express, Route 66, the Appalachian Trail - all hold the stories of those who went before and the daydreams of those who want to follow.

They hold, in short, the promise of a quest.

"The John Muir Trail has marquee value. People do it at major junctions in their life or at times when they feel the need for a major change," says Angela Ballard, editor of the Pacific Crest Trail Association's magazine.

Greg High, 55, an Escondido artist who hiked the trail in 2000, approached his trip with apprehension.

"It's a lot to take. The heat, the cold, the exhaustion, no modern conveniences," he says. "People say to you, 'Gee, why would you want to do that?' And you don't have a good answer until you get back."

Five years after his return, High is still painting what he saw on the trail.

"It's because of the nature of those mountains. I've been to the Alps. I've seen the Pyrenees. But the Sierra Nevada is very special. Muir called them the Range of Light, and they are," he says.

"Those mountains are something that happens to you. The trail goes over 11 passes, and when you go up and over a pass, you have a really good view of where you're going and where you've been. You see where you'll be in three days and you think, 'How will we ever get over there?' Then you just get back on the trail and one step at a time, you get there.

"To me, that's very metaphoric. If you have a peak, a dream in your future, you need to get going, and keep going, and you'll get there."

The trail, a north-south footpath completed in 1938, opened the High Sierra to the public.

Now the high country faces issues of crowding. The trail has been rerouted several times because portions were worn out by thousands of hiking boots and hooves. The trashing of Mount Whitney, at 14,494 feet the highest peak in the contiguous United States, led to strict permit limits for parts of the trail.

There's a lottery system for Whitney and the Yosemite portion, where most people begin their hike.

When going into the wilderness involves getting in line, how wild can it be?

Larry Fahn, immediate past president of the Sierra Club, says it's important to consider the issue of crowds on the John Muir Trail — where you might run across four or five people a day — in the larger context.

"The John Muir Trail has become America's wilderness icon. John Muir frequented the area, and people want to follow his footsteps. It's a very popular trail. But the number of people who will ever see it compared to the general population is infinitesimal," he says.

Indeed, the number of people who go backpacking is dropping. A 2005 study by the Outdoor Industry Foundation found that overnight backpacking was the one outdoor activity that declined in the previous eight years. Backpacking saw a 22.5% drop that the foundation attributed to people preferring activities that could be done in one day.

"The people who got into backpacking before are getting older, and they don't have the time or their knees can't take it anymore. There's some discouraging trends with young people getting so caught up in their electronic world," Fahn says.

"But if everyone spent one week in the wilderness, we would have a better country. It rejuvenates and brings about a sense of wonder and possibility and responsibility."

For those who do backpack, and even to some who never have tried it before, the John Muir Trail has taken on the reputation of a modern-day rite of passage.

This summer, the people on the trail will include a group of British soldiers on leave from the war in Iraq, a family moving away from Israel and young couples from Japan. There will be people trying to complete the trail by hiking a one-week section each summer, and Pacific Crest Trail "thru-hikers," whose longer journey from Canada to Mexico includes all of the John Muir.

Many of the thru-hikers say the John Muir Trail is the highlight of the larger journey.

"It really is the place on the whole Pacific Crest that people most look forward to reaching," says Ballard, the magazine editor, who made a Pacific Crest Trail journey five years ago.

"When we first hit an elevation of 9,000 feet and I saw my first alpine lake, I was awestruck and I stayed that way for the next two weeks. The granite boulders really do glisten and glow on that mountain, and the sky seems so blue and close."

Ballard says she took the arduous backpacking trip to test herself and her relationship with her boyfriend.

She didn't find out until years later that he carried a ring the whole trip waiting for the time when they weren't too tired or dirty for his proposal.

He had to wait until they got home.

Now they're married and young parents, and sometimes life gets harried.

"We'll just look at each other and say, 'Remember when we lived out of our backpack?' Ballard says. "It brings us back and gives us perspective."

On weekend backpacking trips, Emily Franciskovich, 27, of Visalia, has run into people who were attempting the entirety of the John Muir Trail after losing someone they loved, graduating or getting ready to move.

"It seemed like a lot of people I talked to were doing it after they were coming off of, or going into, something big," she says.

Last April, Franciskovich — in the thick of finishing a graduate thesis and working full time — saw a beautiful backpack on sale. Spur of the moment, she bought it, knowing at that moment that it would mean she would quit her job and this summer finally hike the whole John Muir Trail.

"I've heard about it and dreamed about it for years. But there's so many factors and variables: physical, mental, emotional. Now I just feel prepared for it in so many ways. I've been working full time, going to school. I'm affording myself this luxury, this gift," she says.

"I'm giving myself the opportunity to just walk."

Hiking isn't that bad -- if you can buy soda

Diana Marcum

I thought I liked hiking. I thought I loved the outdoors. I thought I believed in protecting wild and sacred places.

But now ... Now I am a person who wants to install soda machines in the backcountry.

It's Mark Grossi's fault.

It all started when I didn't (to my great shock) manage to move to some islands 900 miles off the coast of Portugal and write a book and become a famous writer. I was crestfallen and suddenly questless.

Mark Grossi, who sits next to me in the newsroom, tried to offer comfort by sharing his own unfulfilled writing dream: a project on the John Muir Trail.

"What, are you kidding me? That's just up the road. What do you mean you can't make it happen?" I said with the scorn of someone who was shooting for the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and needing to learn Portuguese.

Because I was fresh out of my own dreams, I horned in on his.

Once we teamed up, I got excited about the mythology and lore and international pull of the trail. Together we concocted an idea about different reporters writing about different segments of a JMT quest.

The day we realized that the The Bee would go for the project was the day I remembered that I don't backpack. Don't really want to go backpacking. I remembered that I really like hot showers and cold gin and tonics, and that I'm afraid of matches, and that mosquitoes pick on me.

My definitive unsuitability hit Grossi about that time, too.

Every day he looked at me with grave eyes, shaking his head and saying, "Marcum, I'm really worried you don't understand what you're getting into."

I'd readily agreed and suggested we find someone else.

He grew genuinely alarmed.

"Oh, no. You have to do this," he'd say. "If you don't, you'll HATE YOURSELF FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE."

So, OK, I'm in.

Because maybe he's right. Maybe, if you don't climb mountains when you have the chance -- even if you find the concept a little nutty -- you risk regret. It comes down to that time-honed, classical life philosophy summed up as "Oh, why not?"

I began to spend all my free time hiking in preparation. Soon I began to doubt that I like hiking. Or trees. Or physical activity.

Still, I go to Mount Tamalpais in the Bay Area, hiking with my friends when I would rather be lounging on the beach. After 11/2 miles we come to a road junction. And there, in majestic glory, is a glowing soda machine promising Diet Coke. I love Diet Coke. Yes, it's a vice. But, it's not like I'm shooting heroin, so let me have my icy, bubbly, wicked potion.

The next morning, a dollar in my pocket, I -- who am about to go on an eight-day trek that requires filtering my own water -- hike three miles round-trip to have a Diet Coke with breakfast.

As I drink that Diet Coke, I realize what they need on the John Muir Trail are soda machines. Not a lot. It would still be a semiwilderness experience. But if there was just some way to put a Coke machine every 20 miles, I'd be all for it.

Eavesdropping can lead to lugging an espresso maker around

Christina Vance

Eavesdropping isn't the noblest trait of reporters -- but it paid off for me with a wallop.

One morning while slouched in my newsroom chair, I overheard my colleague Mark Grossi ask another colleague whether she backpacks.

"No," she said in a firm, "I'm-not-crazy" voice.

"I backpack," I piped up from behind a gigantic pillar that blocks my cubicle off from most of my colleagues. "Why you asking?"

After maneuvering around the pillar, Mark described the wacky John Muir Trail scheme to me. I heard a few key things: Hike. Write. Get paid.

Suddenly, I found myself grappling with a visceral desire to crash their hiking party. Trying to keep desperation out of my voice, I said, "Well, I'd be happy to help you guys with that. You know, if you need help."

I should explain something here. Moderation doesn't come naturally to me. That includes hiking.

A few years ago, I signed up to climb Mount Whitney via a segment of the John Muir Trail. I volunteered in a moment of bravado, partly to avoid being outdone by a friend who'd signed up.

Underlying motivations also pushed me into the climb. As a barely sober alcoholic, I was desperate for distractions from the cravings keeping me up at night. Fear and shame dogged me. Peace seemed unreachable.

Forests and faith stood as cornerstones of my childhood in Appalachian Ohio, and I never shook the thrill of climbing trees or the awe of speaking to God in cathedrals of living wood.

And frankly? I wanted to be able to brag that I'd climbed the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states.

The trip I embarked on that September wasn't the ego trip I'd expected. The JMT took me to Whitney's crest, but it also ripped away pretention and arrogance I didn't know I was carrying.

My steps got a little lighter after that.

But I'm no saint. I'm not above eavesdropping.

I managed to weasel my way onto the Bee's JMT hiking team, and I quickly turned my attention to the one addiction I allow myself these days: coffee.

Backpacking trips bring out the clipboard-carrying side of me. Before other hikes, I worked to reduce my pack weight, stay warmer at night and upgrade my water bottles. This time, I vowed to improve my caffeine-imbibing experience.

I've tried a few things. Tea. Coffee in a tea bag. Instant coffee. Those caffeine-delivery methods may work for normal people. They do not work for coffee fiends.

I decided to bring a device billed as a "camp espresso maker," which is a bit of an exaggeration. The metal gadget weights way too much, is pesky to clean and barely fits on top of my tiny camp stove.

I may be cursing myself for lugging the thing around for 67 miles of my trek along the JMT. I keep wondering whether this is just a manifestation of addictive thinking.

Maybe. But that gadget makes a darn good cup of coffee.

Thoughts of revisiting an old dream at midlife

Mark Grossi

I should know better. I'm a 50-something guy whose life is just starting to ease up -- my kids are leaving almost as fast as my hair.

Why in the world would I backpack 77 miles in the Sierra Nevada and sleep on the ground every night for more than a week? I don't know, but I'm hoping to find clarity when the Motrin kicks in.

Truth is, I had given up on the dream of walking and writing about a massive chunk of the John Muir Trail. I had been hankering to do it since 1995 when I walked up to the top of Mount Whitney.

That hike somehow distilled my thinking. Moving to the rhythm of nature, I wound up in a place I hadn't been since a season much earlier in my life: the depth of my own soul.

The idea of writing more about that experience had been buried a long time. Then cohort Diana Marcum somehow hot-wired my undead dream this year.

Now I can't wipe the smile off my face. Photographer Mark Crosse and I will be backpacking mostly in northern Kings Canyon National Park. We'll pass right by the glacier where the frozen World War II airman was found last fall. Cool.

But let's get real here. I will not carry 45 pounds on my back. Anytime you backpack for more than a week, you have to carry a lot of food and stuff. Food and stuff equal weight. I sweat weight.

Thus began a quest within the Muir Trail quest: to lighten up.

I filled my backpack at home with my camping stuff, tossed it in my Honda, drove to work and lugged it across the parking lot, nodding to curious colleagues.

"You headed to the lake to go fishing?" one asked.

"Nope, I'm going to the postal scales in our mail room to go weighing," I answered.

I went postal.

I trimmed 48 ounces -- three pounds -- just by replacing my old Boy Scout-era external frame backpack with one of those modern, lightweight marvels.

Next was my fleece jacket. It weighed 14.9 ounces. Gone. I'll stick with my down jacket (20 ounces, but wonderfully toasty on cool evenings). I used to carry both jackets, but now I'll go for warmth all the way.

I was down almost four pounds.

My old one-person tent is 3 pounds, 3.1 ounces. Lighter than many premature babies. It weighs almost a half-pound less than advertised. Sweet. Sometimes old equipment still works well.

But out with the clunky cooking gear and another 30 ounces. In with a 3.25-ounce stove, an 11-ounce water filter and a 4.8-ounce titanium pot/cup.

As the ounces melted away, I felt some of the same load shifting in my own life. My daughter was married in April. My older son is studying in China. I might lose my father to cancer.

Now, more than ever, the John Muir Trail beckons as a season in life gradually changes for me.

All I need now are freeze-dried dinners and plastic sacks. Boil water, pour in the freeze-dried whatever and ta-da! A feast.

Who am I kidding? I'll be comatose in four days on that diet. I'll be talking to animals that no one else sees.

Better throw in a fresh, light pair of synthetic hiking shorts. I'm hoping I look presentable when the rescue helicopter arrives.

Hike serves as wake-up call for this body

Marek Warszawski

I hate gyms. Absolutely despise them. I hate pushy trainers, the moldy aroma of the locker room, the blandly upbeat music and the testosterone-charged flex parade in front of wall mirrors.

Give me fresh air, or give me flab.

Unfortunately in the past couple of years, the flab side has been winning. Call it a mixture of aging, laziness and too many chimichangas.

My hiking habits also changed. During my first few summers in Fresno, I would spend almost every nonworking moment in the mountains, driving to Tuolumne Meadows as soon as I got off work and hitting the trail in the middle of the night. Many times, I'd awaken at an alpine lake miles from any road knowing that afternoon I'd be covering a Bulldogs football practice.

These days, the itinerary included far too many day trips and (shudder) car camping. I even stayed a few times in the tent cabins at Curry Village, for goodness sake.

So a couple of months ago, when this John Muir Trail project started gaining momentum around the newsroom, I was equal parts excited and apprehensive. Excited, because I hadn't been on an extended backpacking trip in four years -- the longest drought since I was 14. Apprehensive, because I knew I was in for a world of hurt.

That's when I found myself at Bally's Total Fitness on West Shaw Avenue talking with Russell Spafford, the gym's fitness director. He listened to my sob story and promised he'd assign me the toughest, meanest personal trainer on his staff.

"My drill sergeant," Russell called him.

I swallowed hard and paid for 16 hourlong sessions.

The following morning, I met with a young trainer in his mid-20s named Duke Castro, who seemed miscast in the motivational role I needed him to play. A friendly guy with a calm voice and relaxed demeanor, Duke didn't comport himself like the "drill sergeant" who would whip this doughboy into shape.

"Don't worry," Russell said. "His workouts are incredibly creative."

From our first session together, Duke found creative ways to inflict pain. He had me doing everything from "bear claws" (crawling across the gym floor on my hands and feet) to "lunges" (walking while alternatively dipping each knee toward the ground, sometimes while carrying dumbbells) to "self-destructions" (dropping from standing to prone position with knees bent, extending legs out and back in before standing up and leaping in place). On days when I didn't work out in the gym, I went for brisk evening walks through the neighborhood, sometimes carrying a backpack with 40 pounds of rocks.

And you know what? The punishment paid off. In six weeks, I dropped 15 pounds (there are about 15 more to go) and added muscle. I cut out all junk food and soda pop. I slept better and woke up earlier with more energy. In a road test of sorts, I made it to the top of Kaiser Peak in 2 hours, 10 minutes without stopping.

Yes, I still hate gyms -- even though I'm going four or five times a week. I just hate the idea of heading out for a week on the John Muir Trail fat and out of shape even more.