Judge John Waldo’s Great Ride

David Foscue, himself a retired superior court judge in the State of Washington, is the former president of the PCTA.  He rode the PCT on his horse, Stub, from 1991 to 1998 and has written a number of stories about the historical people and personalities associated with the PCT.  His story, “Triumph and Tragedy at Stevens Pass”, is included in the Oregon/Washington volume of The Reader.

Those who have hiked the Oregon PCT will immediately recognize the name ‘Waldo’ from Waldo Lake, just north of Willamette Pass and downhill from Charlton Butte. Foscue’s account of Waldo’s journey follows many of the PCT landmarks of southern Oregon … Odell Lake, Thielsen, Cowhorn Mtn., Summit Lake, Crater Lake, Devil’s Peak and more.

By David Foscue

Judge John Breckinridge Waldo hiked and rode the PCT through Oregon a half century before anyone even thought of a Pacific Crest Trail.  However, in a lifetime of exploring the Cascades, he blazed the way.  On July 10, 1888, Waldo left his home in the Waldo Hills near Salem with several companions for a major trek to Mt. Shasta to acquire more knowledge for his proposal to create a preserve of the Cascade wilderness.  It took nearly three weeks just to reach the crest from his home by wagon and horseback.  

Waldo Lake

Waldo and his companions first “crossed” the PCT to the north of Summit Lake in today’s Diamond Peak Wilderness area at Emigrant Pass (which was known as Willamette Pass until 1960).  From the pass they rode six miles east of the crest to Crescent Lake then north to Davis Lake, a shallow lake east of O’Dell lake and frequented by Waldo.  Waldo and two others rode north west to Waldo Lake — again crossing the future PCT just northwest of Maiden Peak.  They camped at the north end of Waldo Lake, just west of Charlton Lake and an easy amble from our PCT.  From Waldo Lake  they spent six days exploring parts of the area now known as the Waldo Lake Wilderness. In an era before enforced game laws, they imposed voluntary limits on their hunting:  

“We had agreed not to shoot does or fawns but fat bucks only were to be our game.  Of these we saw but two in the afternoon, while eleven does and fawns had to be scared out of our way.”

On August 6 they returned to Davis Lake to rejoin the other two membrs of their group.  They stayed at Davis Lake another week enjoying their time at the lake, except for the sheep:

“We have fared well at Davis Lake but a band of sheep have been about the lake since before we came, and have taken much of the charm from the place.  For taking the aroma out of the wilderness this animal can hardly be excelled … .”

Leaving  Davis Lake they passed  O’Dell Lake, a PCT favorite spot and one Waldo often visited, and returned to Summit Lake.  There they turned south along the route of the Pacific Crest Trail, three-quarters of a century before the PCT was established.  

Cowhorn Mountain

After several camps they reached Mt. Thielsen (Waldo preferred the more descriptive name Cowhorn to Thielsen) and Diamond Lake.  Incredibly the men had packed a boat.  They yarded the boat a few miles further south to Crater Lake where they rowed to the “Island” (named “Wizard Island” three years earlier).  

Following closely the same route as the PCT, Waldo and his companions headed south from Crater Lake to today’s Sky Lakes Wilderness area.  “The summit of the Cascades became our highway,” wrote Waldo. They then strayed off west into Valley of the Middle Fork of the Rogue River.  “A wilder spot or more inaccessible have I not seen in the mountains.”  “Our camp is safe from human intrusion, we are alone with the deer and the bear, signs of which are numerous”  They returned to the PCT domain at Seven Lakes Basin.   Going up the Devil’s Peak - Lee’s Peak slopes, they experienced a dreaded pack horse wreck:  “Old Sampson got off the trail we had blazed … and rolled down the mountain, by actual measurement, two hundred and fifty-five feet, fifty feet of which were over a ledge of rock nearly perpendicular, and finally came to a stop in a pile of sharp volcanic Rocks.”  Rugged Old Sampson survived. 

At Island Lake, along the PCT route,  a companion carved the names of the group into a tree near the lake’s southeast shore.  The tree was known to generations of hikers as the “Waldo Tree.”  Their next camp, on September 15, was at Fourmile Lake from there they climbed Mt. Pitt - now known as Mt. McLoughlin.  Clouds obscured the view south to their goal, Mt. Shasta (curiously, Shasta was once known as Mt. Pitt).

The PCT snakes through the lava beds of Brown Mountain.  Waldo avoided that jumble and camped at Lake of the Woods, just east of Brown Mountain.  There they were surprised to find a wagon road, “Deadington Road” wrote Waldo.  Actually the road was known as “Dead Indian Road.”  They rode westerly on the road.  The PCT crosses Dead Indian Road just south of Brown Mountain and proceeds to go over  Mt. Baldy.  At some point near this area Waldo and his men left the road and headed south to Mt. Baldy.  Of the view south from the top of Baldy, Waldo wrote:

On the South in California, lay Shasta Valley … with several sharp conical buttes … rising out of the level plain, while on the left, solitary and grand, above blue mountains, lay Shasta with its fields of snow.

At Mt. Baldy, where the PCT swings west toward the Siskiyous, the Waldo party continued south down the Cascades — following what would become, according to an early guidebook,  the ad hoc alignment of the Oregon Skyline/PCT before it was reoriented to the west.  

Mt. Shasta from the north

With the goal of Shasta in sight, they wasted no time getting there, straight south.  On September 27, Waldo wrote: “Yesterday we ascended Mt. Shasta.”  Then they began their return trek.  “There is nothing in these mountains to interest us outside of Mt. Shasta”  which helps to explain why the PCT avoids this stretch and arcs through the spectacular mountains to the west.  

The trip north took the party east of the PCT and along the banks of Klamath Lake rejoining the general track of the PCT just south of Crater Lake.  The return trip is largely undescribed by Waldo but apparently retraced his route.  The group returned home nearly four months after their departure.  

The following year as a legislator, Waldo introduced his bill petitioning Congress to “set aside and forever reserve” a strip of land twelve miles wide on each side of the crest of the Oregon Cascades.  The bill failed but in 1893 President Cleveland acted on a petition submitted by Waldo by placing much of the Oregon Cascades under the protection of the Forest Reserve Act of 1893, the predecessor of our National Forest legislation.  Much of the area explored by Waldo is now protected by Wilderness designation.   

Judge John Breckinridge Waldo hiked, rode and explored much of what was to become the Oregon portion of the Pacific Crest Trail decades before a border to border mountain crest trail was ever proposed.  To learn more about this PCT pioneer and his 1888 explorations read A Wilderness Journey with Judge John B. Waldo, Oregon’s First “Preservationist” by Jeff LaLande, Oregon Historical Quarterly, Summer 1989.

Campers’ Remorse

Team Tyler is hiking north on the PCT this year.  As they note, “We are a couple who loves to hike.”  They hiked the PCT in 2006, a journey they found so challenging and difficult that they said they would never do it again.  However, here they are … back on the trail, brought back by the stunning beauty of the PCT. “Now it’s in our blood. It’s unusual for a day to pass without us making reference to our hike. The trail calls. We’re ready for another epic adventure.”

Sweet Return to the Trail

By Team Tyler (Sandra and Larry aka Annie and Will)

Have you ever noticed how you can shop and compare and look around and price things out. Finally when you think you’ve gotten the very best deal and you buy it, the very next day you see a sale ad for the same item you brought, only it’s cheaper?

That’s sort of how it is for us some days when we are looking for the perfect place to camp for the night. As we near the end of our hiking day, we begin looking for that ideal spot. Too exposed. We keep walking. Not close enough to water. We keep walking. Rocky terrain.  We keep walking. And, there are those times, when the perfect place just does not appear and we finally settle, concerned that what lies ahead may even have less to offer.  

Then shortly after we begin our walk the very next day, not far at all from where we camped, we pass five or six spots that were just perfect. The ground is smooth, the view is lovely, serene and peaceful.

It’s a little frustrating, but kind of funny too. It’s sort of like life. You look, you do your research, you are prepared. But ultimately you never know what’s around the corner, even though you’ve made a choice, there could be a better choice to make.

We got a little bit of a later start than we wanted to out of Big Bear this morning. We had contacted a local trail angel who promised to pick us up at 7:30 this morning. However he was a no show and we made different arrangements. We were still on the trail just an hour later.

We had some good views of Big Bear Lake as we climbed up out of Big Bear. And I especially enjoyed the scenery around Holcomb Creek with deep, gorgeous and beautiful rock formations.

We are starting to see a whole new group of hikers as we move up the trail. This is always interesting and one of the parts of the journey that I enjoy. Making new friends with people who are just as crazy about being out in nature and hiking as we are. There is always lots to talk about.

We ended up on a small bluff overlooking Holcomb Creek for the night. Seems like a good campsite to me. But will it be the best?  We’ll know shortly after we begin tomorrow morning.

Lloyd Gust - Portrait of an Angel

Alandra Johnson recently wrote a profile of 89-year old Lloyd Gust for the Bend Bulletin. Lloyd is retiring this year after a long history of supporting PCT hikers in the Central Oregon Cascades.

http://www.bendbulletin.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130330/FREE/303309998/0/SEARCH

Lloyd Gust fell in love with the Cascade Range the first time he saw it.

He was a teenager driving a beat-up truck full of tomatoes from Eugene to Bend in the 1930s. Gust got to McKenzie Pass and was so struck by the beauty of the mountains that he decided to explore and never made it all the way to Bend. “I really fell in love with The Sisters,” said Gust.

That passion for nature — and the Three Sisters in particular — has never wavered in Gust. He and his late wife, Barbara, hiked the entire Pacific Crest Trail, from the Mexican border to the Canadian border.

When he could no longer backpack and hike, Gust started volunteering to help other hikers who were passing through the area along the PCT.

Read the full story by following the link above.

Beauty and Misery on the PCT

I have often included PCT stories on both this website and in the two Reader books about hardship along the PCT - getting lost, encountering torrential rains, breaking a leg, trudging through miles of snow, overcoming dehydration, falling, snakes, blisters the size of Missouri, and more.  Russell Mease’s story, “Beauty and Misery on the PCT”, introduces another trail reality … diarrhea and nausea.  Most frequently this is attributed to giardia or bad water consumed along the trail.  However, in this case, Russ credits fast food with his undoing.

Be forewarned. Although Russ softens the reader’s experience of his misery with a few euphemisms, the tale remains sufficiently graphic that you should know that before reading on.  That being said, even in the midst of his darkest hours, Russ was able to appreciate the beauty and magic of the landscape west of I-15 as the trail crosses Swarthout Canyon and climbs into the San Gabriels.

By Russell Mease

In the ‘real’ world I avoid fast food like the plague. I am a health nut and as a person deeply troubled with the sorry state of the Western diet, I prefer almost anything to patronizing America’s fast food industry where concentrations of salt, sugar and fat have been “optimized” to maximize cravings, and profits, to the detriment of our health. However, on the trail and confronted by an incessant and driving hiker-hunger, these sanative considerations are quickly set aside.

After 350 trail miles, the McDonalds at the I-15 crossing of the Pacific Crest Trail is a beacon for most thru-hikers, whether omnivorous or discriminating, for a hiker’s cravings after so many days on the trail cannot be ignored and are never completely satisfied. While hiking, The body is stripped of calories at a faster rate then they can be replenished, so that every opportunity must be taken to ‘top off’, ‘fuel up’ or ‘front-load’ calories when they are available. For this hiker, the mere anticipation of a sausage and cheese egg mc-muffin drove me to considerable lengths.

The big miles had come a day earlier - at twenty-eight miles my biggest day so far. I was left with a six mile morning ramble among the rolling southern California hills to reach McDonalds for breakfast. First on the menu was the Double Sausage McMuffin w/ Egg meal - including a large coffee and hash-browns. Two hours later; lunch: a grilled chicken salad and large strawberry milkshake. Two hours later; indigestion, ill-feelings and a general desire to lock myself in a dark quiet air-conditioned room and pass out! The food had not settled but I had already spent three hours too long under the golden arches. “This should pass soon.” I tell myself, and hike on, determined to make miles.

It turns out that the ill-feelings were not just a case of greasy- food-shock to the system. Two miles out from the Interstate, with alarming abruptness and against my best efforts to resist, the damn burst on what would become a two day long nightmare. “Shit shit shit!” I cried out as I rushed toward the cover of a bush to shield me from unwitting eyes, swinging my pack off one arm into the dirt, finding my target and scratching frantically with the tip of my hiking pole. There is no exertion, only release, and the noxious substance sprayed out as if a pressurized pipe had burst. A passer-by listening from a distance would have expected to see a man standing upright in a normal fashion releasing his full bladder, but would instead be surprised to see me squatting low to the ground cringing and cursing and sweating. Thus, having avoided catastrophe, I checked my shoes and ankles carefully, donned my pack and continued down the trail wiping a film of sweat from my brow. What I should have done next was turn around, walk back to the Interstate and check-in at the Best Western, but I convinced myself that this episode was the worst of it. And after all…I needed to make miles!

As it turned out, this was just the beginning, for after another mile my body betrayed me again. The hot sun was beginning to sap my strength and feeling dizzy and lightheaded, I gave in to the urge to lay down to take a nap, where in the midst of this misery, a solitary humming bird floated above me and with perfect artful and coordinated movements streaked this way and that across my field of vision. At one point the curious creature danced within a foot of my nose, the soft humming of its wings serenading me, seeming almost concerned for my condition. In this moment I forgot my suffering and delighted in the presence of this other sentient being observing me and urging me, almost, to arise and continue on.

With renewed energy, I hiked two or three miles to the wonderful Swarthout Canyon water cache - complete with lounge chairs and bottles of sparkling water supplied by a generous trail angel. Here in the fading twilight I quickly made camp and after a few words with some other hikers I turned in early determined to sleep it out. Little did I know that this night would begin the most miserable twenty-four hours of my hike.

3 AM - I suffered diarrhea in the middle of the night while sleeping. Let me be clear, I shat myself in my sleeping bag, and then proceeded to wander into the dark thorny cold desert to find a spot to relieve what remained. I had awoken responsively from the rank odor and the warm wet feeling inside my nylon/spandex last- forever boxer/briefs, as a child awakes with a sudden awareness that he has soaked his sheets and disappointed his parents.

At this point, possessing dirty underwear and a dirty sleeping bag, I was unsure that I could trust myself to control the grisly onslaught. I decided on a plan of action - to pack up and hike through the dark and get to Wrightwood by lunch so I can check into a room and take care of myself. And to hike alone. So, carefully removing my only pair of boxer-briefs and rolling them up into a tight ball and stuffing them into a ziplock bag, pulling on my Patagonia Base Layer and zip-off pants to keep me warm in the chilly morning air, and after stuffing the soiled sleeping bag and my tent into my pack, I snuck off quietly into the night.

4 AM - As the trail began to ascend, I was putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation, maybe more than I realized. Not only was I sick and nauseated but I was about to under-take a grueling 5000 foot climb while attempting to cover seventeen miles before connecting with the Acorn Trail that leads down to the town of Wrightwood, about 17 trail miles away.

“I hope I have enough water. Four liters ought to be more than enough. It’s nice and cool now, almost cold, and I’ll make good miles before the sun rises,” I consoled myself.

My last meal was yesterday’s tainted lunch at McDonalds, for in my misery and exhaustion I had skipped dinner last night. I had a few bars and some dried meals but no appetite for any of it.

5 AM - Hiking into the San Gabriels in the darkness, I constantly scanned the terrain with my headlamp anticipating the need to find a suitable place to jump off trail. When switch-backing up a mountain this can be particularly challenging as more often than not the trail traverses a steep hillside; one side of the trail angling steeply above me and the other side dropping off below so that there is no level place to hide when the need arises. Such was the case here.

I did once manage to make the climb up to a scratchy, thorny bush for cover but by the time I reached it, the exertion required was so great that the reaction of my body was to speed up the diarrheal urge. I barely had time to scratch out a shallow divet in the dirt with my pole before pulling down my pants, my chest heaving from the effort, sweat dripping off my brow, my legs bent and trembling in a squatted position…and completely missing my target. I loosely covered up what I could with sticks and other plant debris and then awkwardly slide down the hill back to the trail.

6 AM - I experienced one of the most beautiful sunrises as a cold misty fog, covering the valley and my hiking comrades a thousand feet below me, diffused the light into a soft vermilion glow. I was above it all now and gratefully allowed the rising sun to wash over me as it streamed out from behind the hills and mountains to the east. The magical vistas inspired me to pull out my camera which I then turned on myself to commemorate this brief turn in luck. The camera captured me looking weak and dirty with a tired hallowed expression on my face, but it failed to reveal the utter desperation I felt. As in life, misery on a hike often accompanies moments of beauty and clarity.

7 AM - Soon after the sun came up I realized that along with these episodes of explosive diarrhea, there was a more insidious and cunning process at work. Slowly and as I hiked, the toxic excretion dripped out capriciously, mixing with my sweat so as to mask its true identity. In this way, my only layer of protection, my patagonia base layer, became soiled and soaked. I had no choice but to remove it and carefully roll it and stuff it into my Sea-To-Summit dry bag alongside my dirty underwear. I continued hiking commando style, aware of the predicament I was in. My new fast pace reflected how serious I believed this was becoming.

8 AM - Things continued to deteriorate quickly as I went through great efforts to keep clean. My precious TP was now depleted. The water that I had been careful to conserve up until now had to be used to rinse my backside after every nasty episode, and it was running dangerously low. This was doubly disheartening as I was also becoming more and more dehydrated under the now blazing sun. The rising heat made me acutely aware of another issue; that I smelled really bad despite my best efforts! Furthermore, my sleeping bag was not contained in a dry bag but merely rolled up and stuffed into my backpack and each time I entered my pack, I got a whiff of the awfulness inside.

11 AM - The air about me was rank as I approached a couple of hikers a few miles from the Acorn Trail. I maintained a safe distance from Rapunzel and Gretel as I described my situation, putting on my game face and down-playing my condition, and then quickly passed. I must have looked grim because a mile later they found me on my back beneath a big pine tree, dizzy and lightheaded, and offered to carry my pack down to Wrightwood, “or anything in your pack.” “Can we carry your tent and your sleeping bag to lighten your load?”

“Nah, you don’t want to do that, I’ll be fine. I just need to take a break here and then just a few more miles. I’ll be ok.” I told them earnestly and encouraged them to move on. I knew the rest of the way was flat or downhill. I was almost there.

1 PM - I managed the last stretch to the Acorn trail and stumbled my way down two and half more miles, descending 2,500 feet, to the town of Wrightwood. A last humiliation almost befell me in Wrightwood as I searched desperately for a hotel with an available room. Checking on the Pines Motel, one of the few motels in this small town, I found they are booked! I started to panic as it was Friday and hotels fill up quickly. Across the street from the Pines I noticed the small four room Canyon Creek Inn and prayed desperately to the trail gods as I called the number posted on the door to the office.

“YES, there is a room available and the price is $79 per night”. I would gladly have paid three times this price! “YES it has a private bathroom with shower and tub.”

“I’ll take it.” I said calmly trying to disguise the simultaneous desperation and relief in my voice.

“Use this code to access the key inside the lockbox and go ahead and check yourself in” she told me as I impatiently relayed to her the details of my Visa Credit Card.

After several frustrating minutes listening to her run through her canned check-in speech, I retrieved the key from the lockbox and locked the door behind me. After shading the curtains I walked straight to the bathroom where I dropped my dirty pack, turned on the water, kicked off my shoes and entered the shower fully clothed. Hallelujah! Brown water drained and some collected around the shower walls building up into small piles of dirt and grime as the unmentionables of the past five days began to rinse off. Closing my eyes I let the hot water stream over me for several minutes, never before so relieved to take a shower, and then slowly began to peel off the wet articles, slopping them into the corner. I took the most glorious, long shower in my Canyon Creek Inn Motel room. I then slept nude in a comfortable cool bed until my hunger pangs woke me up.

I managed to get out of bed that evening long enough to meet with other hikers at the Mexico Lindo Restaurant but despite my hunger, I could only stomach a few bites of my carne-asada dinner. Back in my room, I was happy to shower again and then I passed out for a long night of sleep, content to have a private toilet a few feet away.