Backpacker

38 10.2017out alivesurvival``````PHOTO BY ANDYBATT.COM``````I was almost 1,000 miles into anorthbound thru-hike of the Pacific CrestTrail. I’d been hiking hard for two months,and I was eager to keep putting in longdays to finish by the time law schoolstarted in August. But, thanks to a big snowyear in the Sierra, I’d spent the whole daypostholing. It didn’t bother me too much—as you might expect of a PCT thru-hiker, allI could think about was dinner.So when I came upon Return Creek, Ididn’t think twice. The water was movingfast, but I’d forded plenty of other streams inthe same conditions. Just one last crossing.I stashed my glasses in my pack andunbuckled my hipbelt.I stepped in, feeling the water gusharound my ankles and into my shoes,already soaked from the snow. A fewsteps in, the river bottom fell away. Myconfidence faltered, but I was committed:I had a schedule to keep, and this was theonly thing standing between me and a hotbowl of chicken and rice.The water rose to my navel. Too deep.Just as I was thinking about turning back, aloose rock rolled beneath my foot.I went under for a split second beforemy pack bobbed to the surface, pushingme forward and shoving my head into thefreezing water. The current sucked mytrekking poles from my hands. I foughtgasping to the surface and tried to orientmyself in the chaos. It didn’t take long toremember the series of 5-foot waterfallsjust downstream.The distance between me and the brinkwas shrinking fast. If I get knocked out onthose rocks, I’m done for, I thought.I clawed at the rapids and stretchedmy legs toward the riverbed, but with thefloating pack, my feet wouldn’t stick. I``````squirmed out of the straps and struggled toshore just in time to see my pack dip overthe edge of the falls—taking my food, gear,and glasses with it.I sprinted downriver after mybelongings, turning a corner near thebase of the falls. My pack! With a burst ofhope, I saw it caught in a vortex, hoveringin the middle of the river. I dropped to mybelly, leaning out over the bank. Just as myfingers grazed a strap, the pack caught acurrent and was swept away, out of sight.I lay still. That was it.I was wet and gearless, and the sun wassinking fast. With Tioga Road still closedfor the winter, it could be days before I’dsee another human.In the snow, routefinding had been hardeven with a compass. I’d passed a shelter15 miles away in Tuolomne Meadows, butI knew I didn’t have enough time to makeit before dark, and navigating at night wasout of the question.I remembered a bare spot in the snowabout 8 miles back. That, I could get to.Suddenly, accomplishing that smallobjective was all that mattered. I startedrunning, eyes glued to my own footprints—without my glasses, those tracks wereabout as far as I could see.``````I can do this, I told myself. I’m not goingto die out here. I’m not that Into the Wildkid. No one’s going to write a book about mebecause I’m going to make it.The snow petered out just as the light did.Without a headlamp, my hiking day endedwith the last of the sun. Temps had nowdropped into the low 30s. I found a patch ofdry ground under a pine tree and lay downin my wet clothes to sleep.After 20 minutes, my hands and feetwere numb. If I fall asleep, I realized, I mightnot wake up. I shook off the growing fearand focused on my new objective: Make itthrough the night.I set my watch to go off every 20 minutes.When it did, I ran circles and did jumpingjacks and squats. Between sets, I’d conserveenergy, curling up on the ground until I lostfeeling again.During those nine hours, I lost track oftime—but not of my situation. What if I sleptthrough the alarm? Or got too exhausted tokeep moving? Even if I survived the night,I could get lost hiking out. If I did, wouldSearch and Rescue ever find me? Wouldthey even be looking?I thought about my family, who I hadn’tspoken to much since I’d started hiking.I thought about my late grandfather andhis garden. I almost smiled rememberingthe war stories about his battles with theperpetually hungry neighborhood deer. Ithought about having my own family oneday. The thought of missing out on that, onlife—that’s what kept me going.When light leaked into the sky betweenthe trees, I smiled. I did it. I told myself thehard part was over, but I’d forgotten aboutthe two river crossings I had ahead of me.I snapped off branches for makeshifttrekking poles as I waited for the sun to rise``````One last crossing. That’swhat I told myself. I’dford this one, the thirdor so that day, and set upcamp on the other side,right in the middle ofYo s e m i t e ’s b a c k c o u n t r y.I squirmed out of the straps andstruggled to shore just in time to seemy pack dip over the edge of the falls—taking my food, gear, and glasses with it.Mazzaferri holds a favoritephoto of his grandfatherworking with homegrown garlic.