The People You Meet on Group Hikes

In general I avoid group hikes. whether in a group of friends (and friends of friends), or an organized group hike through Meetup, or a volunteer-led event on normally inaccessible lands. I will occasionally go with one friend, and even then it is only through careful selection of company that I can optimize the results. Otherwise I find the experience usually turns the outing into a nightmare. You're in the wide open outdoors with all its attendant discomforts, but ironically trapped with each other.

As therapy, herein I describe a taxonomy of the personalities that might rub up against you at such events. This is a first attempt at such a system and much like some bacteria, individuals may blur boundaries by taking up characteristics from multiple species.

• The hyperactive grown-up child - usually a male 30 or less, enthusiastic, bounding about sharing nature facts, but the charm wears thin after five minutes of his racing back and forth around the group to mingle with everyone. He often has questions for the leader; too many questions. There is a subtype where the behavior takes a dark and disgusting turn when it becomes clear he is there to Meet the Ladies, and once all his requests for numbers have been rebuffed he grants us the reprieve of his sullen silence, angrily driving off immediately on arriving back at the trailhead.
• The annoyed endurance athlete - usually male, 20s to 40s - sometimes appears quietly disgruntled that the hike is only five miles, other times making a string of under-the-breath comments about how overprepared some people are for such a weak and wimpy hike.
• People overprepared for such a weak and wimpy hike - it's one mile on flat ground and on a cloudy day in November the couple can't start before applying sunblock, then their camelbacks, then their hats and hiking poles. The gear is usually top-of-the-line. When you talk to them, you discover they’ve only ever hiked in the local parks.
• The friend who has never been outdoors in their lives - "So like, it's not paved? Oh my god was that a bug? There aren’t stores or anything? Guys, there’s zero phone service here! We're supposed to go up that?" A common reaction to this species is annoyance, evolving into concern that they will not survive, evolving further into hope that they will not survive. Frustratingly, often these people are actually in good shape, but the idea of sweating outside of a gym is apparently anathema to them.
• The clueless adolescent - In the same genus as the friend who has never been outdoors (thought by some in fact to be the larval stage), but their lack of experience with nature and indeed groups of unknown adult humans can declare itself in more varied forms. Initially they often seem to have trouble processing the reality that they are in fact outdoors, on a hike. In addition to complaints that nature is too hard, one may also observe constant questions about how soon before we're back to the car, constant laughing and shouting (if a peer is present), or eye-rolling boredom.
• The person who needs you to know how many places they've been - within ten minutes you know how many national parks they've been to (and which ones are frankly overrated) and how many stamps their passport has. They often try to hide their disdain for the current hike, though it's never far below the surface.
• The technophile - they call out GPS coordinates and distances (and might even argue about it with others), they just have to show everyone their infrared camera, and when someone asks them the time they might actually say "three sixteen and twelve seconds - mark!"
• The person who didn't read the instructions, and can't follow directions - They didn't know the hike was that long, or they were supposed to bring their own water, or during night hikes they keep turning their white flashlights on. When they are informed or reminded that YES we told you that you had to bring water, you kind of hope they react with anger (rather than puzzlement) because it makes them easier to dislike; otherwise you wonder if there's, you know, actually something wrong with them.
• The granola family - usually with kids along that are too young for the hike. Despite talking about how wonderful everything is, the best organic products at the local market, etc. at least one of the parents has a look on their face the entire time suggesting that they could, and really want to, murder the rest of their family in the next two minutes.
• The holy fool - they are happy to be there. They are glowing. They radiate a sincere and simple warmth that makes you want to be close to them and talk to them. But attempts at conversation are met with the same fixed smile and vapid pleasantries, and you realize they may not actually be conscious in the way the rest of us are. You wonder if this is an early attempt to test a humanoid robot in naturalistic conditions, or possibly someone who has had a near-death experience and sees the universe for what it truly is and takes every second as a gift, instead of cataloguing the flaws of the people around them, like a bad person would.
• The clumsy person - pleasant, happy to be on the hike if maybe not that experienced, but the world is clearly trying to kill them at every turn. Rocks seem to jump in front of them to trip them. A one degree slope is an occasion for a near-fatal slide. Branches reach out to smack and scratch their face. Gravity obviously warps itself around each of their footsteps. You wonder what their ancestor did to offend the spirits in this place. This person does not belong here, and should not return.
• The anxious but clearly trying very hard guide or host - if the hike is an informal friend group, they can seem like a focus group facilitator. "Wow! That's so interesting! Everyone, Emma says there might be poison oak near the bottom of the canyon. Mason, what do you think about that?" In a more formal (guided) hike setting, they are usually very earnest (grad student, docent - but not park rangers, they're over this shit) and when you ask a question the sense of relief is palpable as they are able to briefly get their mind off group-management and talk about nature facts. As these people are (in a sign of our civilization's misplaced priorities) often sacrificing income and prestige to protect nature and educate us, you may have to fight the urge to hug them and say "It's going to be okay. Thank you for your service."
• The older volunteer who knows nothing about this hike, this park, or indeed the outdoors and life on Earth - That's an oak tree? Mammals are warm-blooded? It's winter? All equally baffling propositions to this well-meaning lost soul, who you learn has been a docent or hiking in this park for thirty years.
• The approach-avoidant person - very friendly at the start of the hike. You make an innocuous comment to them partway through the hike and they react as if you just announced your favorite kitten torture methods. Reasonably concluding they'd rather not talk, you avoid them for the remainder of the hike, only for them to approach you near the end and try to make conversation in an almost pushy way; they are crestfallen or offended that you're not interested.
• Last but not least - the complaining older woman. The glittering empress of annoying group hike personalities. Asking irrelevant questions constantly, implying the inadequacy of the hike, telling uninteresting stories to nobody (as she doesn't notice her lack of an audience.) Goodness forbid there are snacks, because she feels obligated to tell you they have toxins, they're not really organic, that company is run by fascists, the last hike she went on was actually considerate of hikers with eating restrictions, etc. Of course, although she won't give the group a break from her interminable droning, she won't hesitate to tell you to be quiet the minute you speak in private to another hiker. She is, amazingly, always alone, and you find you can't even feel any guilt for the satisfaction you take in noticing this.

And that is why I avoid group hikes.


Addendum: The person who feels qualified to judge and write about all the other people on group hikes - this handsome, brilliant observer of humans in nature is perfect in every way, and no reasonable person can disagree regarding the sublime pleasure of his company. Also, he just bought an infrared camera to look for wildlife.

The Caribou Scramble; Plus Bonus Bodega Bay

Above: a section of the Trinity Alps, image credit Leor Pantilat (whose blog post I used in planning, among others.)
The Trinity Alps is, for my money, the most rugged, beautiful, punishing 800 square miles in California. The wild geology of these mountains doesn't admit of organization into neat rows or ridges or cones like they do in much of the rest of the state. The jagged granite of the Sierras, the pines and meadows and rushing rivers of the southern Cascades, and the blustery lush wildness of the north coast all meet in this place. In the Dungeons and Dragons game, as a kid I remember reading about the Twin Paradises, where certain characters from the Good alignments went after death, described as a rugged and beautiful plane of existence whose hot summers and cold winters challenged its inhabitants - and I hadn't thought about this in years until this trip. In the mid-2000s the Trinities were still a pretty well-kept secret even to outdoors types in the Bay Area; I only learned these mountains even existed when I was climbing Mt. Shasta, and happened to look over my shoulder as I was hitting around 11,000' and saw more snow-coated masses to the west and literally exclaimed, "What the hell are those?" Indeed, at that time new waterfalls were still being discovered there via satellite map.


For others with poor judgment - above, the Gmap for Stuarts Fork Trailhead, and below, the Caltopo map (red arrow is the Caribou Scramble).



Story time. This past weekend's adventure corrects a deficiency in my life from deep in the mists of time (i.e., 2007.) At that time I finally undertook to explore some corner of this massive paradise, and went with my girlfriend to the Stuarts Fork Trailhead, vaguely aware of some legendary difficult hike up a mountain - which today I know was the Caribou Scramble. In those days my fitness was such that I could be a little cavalier about an outing that consisted of a 12 mile hike in with 2300' of elevation gain, just to get to the main event - a 2 mile hike with 2500' of elevation gain. That's the Scramble. In those days, this is the sort of thing that seemed like a good idea to me.

Because the Alps were a much better-kept secret back then, it wasn't surprising that we encountered only one other human. As we entered Morris Meadow, said human was putting away his camera equipment, and told us with great satisfaction that he had never seen so many bears or gotten as many bear pictures as he had that day. "Great!" we thought, "camping exactly here is also the sort of thing that sounds like a good idea!" At sunset, there began a campaign of bear harassment the likes of which I have fortunately never experienced since - at one point with two bears circling the tent and one of them pushing its nose into the tent fabric against one of our arms. Needless to say there was no sleeping that night, and when at sunrise we realized we had survived, no one was in a mood for anything except hiking right back out and going home. (At one point, to nobly defend my girlfriend, I unzipped the tent with my three-inch Swiss army knife in hand and burst from the tent with my headlamp on hoping to blind the bear, I guess to see if he would notice being stabbed. Fortunately Mr. Bear was on a break at that point.)


Above: bear scat on Caribou Scramble, 2024. One of four places we saw it.

Over the years, not having bagged the Scramble began to actually bother me. In 2022 I contacted my friend Jeff, a college friend and avid hiker. We were about to do it in August that year but I had to bail on him due to unforeseen circumstances in my work schedule. By the time I was free again, Norcal was on fire as usual, and the smoke would have made the hike impossible and pointless. And once the fires were out, it was snowing. The Scramble would have to wait.

We decided to try again in 2024, which of course was shaping up the same way. A big part of the fire- and snow-free season was taken away by my UK trip, so we chose a three-day weekend in late summer, Friday August 24th through Monday the 26th. Friday drive up after work, Saturday a 13.5 mile hike from the trailhead to Emerald Lake, Sunday do the Scramble (1.5 miles back down to do 2 miles up and 2 miles down) then relax, with a leisurely 13.5 mile hike out and drive home Monday. Like clockwork I got COVID at the end of my UK trip and was sick in bed 10 days before. Then I realized, my work schedule had changed since we had selected this weekend, and I had to be at work on Monday morning. So now we were looking at ten thousand feet of up and down hiking and 33 miles (29 of which with all our gear) in 2 days. Maybe I could have done it without pushing my limits in my 30s, but in my 50s? I guess we'll see. And then two days before we leave, Jeff sends me the forecast: heavy rain (in August!) and possible snow (!?!) at the higher elevations. At times, the universe sends us messages that whatever it is we're trying to do, we shouldn't do it. And at this point in my life, I've gained the perspective to understand that when that happens, the correct response is EFF YOU UNIVERSE, EFF YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE.

So it was that Friday night we departed the ranch, heading up and over Mt. St. Helena, and stopped for a last meal at Jack-in-the-Box on I-5, stopped again at the National Forest station in Weaverville for our permit - where it was by this point raining heavily and pretty chilly - and then drove to the trailhead and parked. Jeff has enough of an outdoor problem that he has modified an F-150 into a mini-camper, complete with platforms for beds in the back. Yes we slept in the back of the truck, and he only tried to spoon once. A true gentleman.

The rain was loud but by Saturday morning it was cold and now merely damp, with patches of blue blowing past the open patches of sky between the pines, and we started off. Not a lot of pictures because we just wanted to get there, although this one near the trailhead was nice.







Two above: Morris Meadow (Jeff's photos.) The point of my ignominious retreat before. I have not thusfar mentioned but Jeff was kind enough to loan me bear spray, which remained unused. Below: our first sight of the Scramble on the way to camp the first day (also Jeff's photo.) The big feature you likely are first noticing is a rock fall/waterfall track rather than the actual switchbacks, which are pretty hard to make out.


By the time we got to Emerald Lake I was pretty beat, and quite disinterested in trying to push on to Sapphire Lake. And also quite cold. The very tops of the peaks were dusted with new snow from the night before. We met a few people on trail who'd survived the rain the previous night, which seemed as if it had been worse at altitude. Iron-gray clouds threatened a final burst of precipitation, but just at sunset the last of them disappeared. Looking back down the valley (first shot is Jeff's):








Above you can just make out the waterfall. For the next few below you can see I didn't much care about shelter, I just wanted a view.








The bigger coherent patches of snow are probably still left over from last winter. Then you can make out the dusting from the night before, and the waterfall again.






That jagged ridge that keeps reappearing in these photos is the one we'll be going up tomorrow. The turnoff for the Scramble is about a mile and a half hike back down to the base of those.





Next seven are all from Jeff:
















Shortly thereafter I passed out. I woke up at 1am and wondered why I could see inside my tent without my headlamp. Here's why.








The next morning we woke to a clear blue sky, promising a much warmer day. Here's my view back down the valley as I crawled from my tent, and then the morning alpenglow on the far end of the lake as we packed up.










































Triumphant, just before the top of the ridge.


Jeff is wearing North Face's fall periwinkle line. WE HAVE ACHIEVED THE RIDGE. We were joined by Derek Wildstar aka Kodama. Caribou Lake is visible over the ridge.






Above and below: succulents seen along the trail and at the very top of the ridge, I believe Eriogonum alpinum, Trinity buckwheat, which only grows on a few mountains in Norcal.












This sign hadn't been broken on the way to Emerald Lake the day before. After completing the Scramble I offered my sentiments.






Above is the last picture I took, at lunchtime when hiking out, because I was just too dead. Below, that's me, dying; also, Jeff is a sweetheart[1] and likes to take pictures of people when they're at their best.



The hike out was not fun - I haven't been murdered in quite this way by a run or hike in a long time. Fifteen minutes of laying on the ground and reinflating with Diet Mountain Dew brought me back, and within another fifteen mintues I thought I might even survive. Jeff was kind enough to drive us back. Monday was a difficult day.

Special thanks to two parties: first, to the men and women of the National Forest Service who maintain the trail to make this possible. I'd always read that the trail was brushy and overgrown but it looked great. Second, to Jeff, whose altruism and character I've always noticed; but this has risen to admiration after this trip.

Finally: Much like med school, while I'm happy and proud I did it, and it had beautiful moments, this whole enterprise, and the hike out in particular, was painful, exhausting, and likely did not improve my health over the long run. Two days later as I write this I'm still sore and tired and my knee is bothering me (prepatellar bursitis I think, not that it matters.) I've been really lucky not to have ever had a significant injury on one of these self-slaughters or a health condition resulting from repeatedly beating myself up like this - which when I was younger, always seemed hilarious, or proving some point. In the mature light of middle age, not so much. Ergo, witnesseth: I hereby declare in public I AM OFFICIALLY RETIRED FROM STUPID ENDURANCE-TESTING POINT-PROVING HIKING/RUNNING PROJECTS.[2] THIS INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO:

• Topatopa Bluffs, Ventura County
• Chorro Grande, Santa Barbara County
• The Mason Truck Trail, San Diego County
• Cactus to Clouds (again)
• Climbing any peak in the Himalayas
• Climbing any peak in the Andes, especially Aconcagua
• Climbing in Antarctica, especially including but not limited to Vinson Massif or Fenriskjeften, because that would be bullshit
• Mt. Rainier
• Denali
• The PCT (substantial portions thereof, or certainly the whole thing)
• The AT ("")
• Any further marathons or ultramarathons
• Crossing Algodones Dunes on foot

The Great Redwood Trail (if they ever actually build it), the California Coast, and remaining parts of the Tahoe Rim Trail, in segments, are acceptable.



BONUS: BODEGA BAY

The following weekend was a much more civilized affair, namely car camping at Doran Beach in Bodega Bay with the family. A good time was had by all, not least because I made my usual Pittsburgh-rare s'mores. No need for Annadel pics to end the post - Bodega Bay is also in Sonoma County so that counts.













Akana mukav tut le Devlesa


FOOTNOTES

[1] In this usage, sweetheart is best understood as "asshole."

[2] My wife doesn't believe me.