During our first trip to Sykes Hot Springs in the summer of 2001, our good friend Sam D. struggled to finish having re-sprained his knees pretty badly. It was the last time he would backpack with us. We were all a little insensitive about the pain he must've endured during those 5+ hours of hiking two years ago. This time, I would know intimately how he felt. Something Dr. Suess once wrote rang through my head over and over as I hobbled down the steep trail to return to Big Sur Station, "Sam I am." We arrived at Big Sur Station at just about 9 am. We intended to beat the heat of the day by hiking out early, and so far it looked good. The weather was gorgeous, and we planned on it being around 80-ish all weekend. Dana, Amy, Chad, Odog and I started off under the cool canopy of the Big Sur redwoods. We hiked confidently. The hardest part would be the first couple miles, where we would have to ascend under the full exposure to the sun had we waited an hour or two. Luckily, the sun wasn't that intense yet, and we managed to get past it relatively easily. Relatively is the key word here. I felt pretty good after mile 3, but I was sweating like a stuck pig, and my knee began its downward spiral about here. I wasn't worried. It always bothered me, but had never been much more than a slight nuisance in the past. That would change in 24 hours. By mile 5 our confidence was up. We had been making great time, and getting this far this fast was a surprise to all of us. We ate a small lunch in the redwood grove while flies buzzed around us. We also noticed a creature we haven't seen since Arroyo Seco years ago: biting flys, orange and yellow, with viscious dispositions, and a deeply painful bite. "My nemesis!" I exclaimed. We had been absolutely swarmed on by these little menaces in the past. Until this day, I hadn't seen them again. A group arrived behind us and stopped to take their lunch. We decided that if we were to get a decent campsite by the hot springs, we would defintiely need to get a move on. We packed up quickly and headed back onto the trail. The trail seemed a bit smaller than I had remembered. It was a little more worn down, and there was something else that bothered me a little bit. The dreaded P.O. (aka poison oak) was abundant. With Odog on the trail with us, the PO would be more of a problem. He enjoys running through the bushes, and with PO everywhere, he'd undoubtedly get it on him, and on us. By the time we reached the Barlow Flats trail junction we were tiring. The last few miles were knee achingly laborious, and difficult. Several times we were psyched out thinking that the downhill we were hiking on was the final downhill. After a couple false declarations of, "last one," we finally began the long descent down to Sykes. As I listened to the refreshing sound of rushing river below, I accutely noticed my right knee's sharp jab of pain with each step. Thank goodness we are almost there. I arrived quickly, and fearing the imminent influx of campers, I headed downstream ahead of everyone else to secure the best possible spot to camp. I found one, but was unsure on whether it was the "best" spot (due to its short distance to the pit toilets). We decided to stay, and with a call on the 2-way radio, our gang reconvened. After the girls changed, we headed toward the hot springs. It was crowded. A summer camp group with a dozen Jr. High School aged kids splashed loudly around the springs. We were a little dissapointed. Somehow we all expected the impossible: that the super popular spot would be empty for us to enjoy alone,... fat chance. The sulphury stench of hot springs soon drained all of our remaining energy and we tip toed back to the campsite an hour after arriving. Feeling refreshed and finally some semblance of cleanliness, we placed our sleeping pads on the ground for some leisurely reading and a nap,... and bug swatting. The flys were out in force. As we read, we slapped at our legs, faces, and shoulders. I reaffirmed my alligiance to the righteous "anti-bug" cause. I vowed to never give up the fight against the blood-sucking flying insects. I drifted away momentarily, awakened by the sudden sting of a biting fly on my ankle. I cursed. We were all nearly exhausted. I could barely summon the energy to cook myself dinner. I managed to cook up my sausage and rice dinner and bag the rest for my lunch the next day. I roused slowly and motivated on a mission to find fuel for the firepit. Without the wood conjuring skills that Butz has, I was unable to produce the copious amounts of wood that we were used to having, but it sufficed as it turned out. Just as the sun fell below the mountains, I lit the flame that would take us throught the rest of the night. Dana and I shared the vodka as Chad slurped his Schnapps around the fire. The next thing I know we are playing a neo-Charades/karaoke type game. We laughed loudly and inconsiderately as usual, making silly impersonations, singing our battered versions of popular songs and generally making damn fools out of ourselves. The bugs were gone, my knees were feeling good, I was having a laugh around a fire; this is why we suffer. My happiness would prove to be short lived. We slept under the stars and the temperature was ideal all night. I roused once perhaps during the night. With the bog of sleep in my eyes, I peaked beyond my eyelids to see the radiant stars glowing on a dark blue sky. In my semi-sleep I vaguely recall that they looked like a fuzzy computer screen. I tried to make a note of the image in my mind before my eyelids snapped shut and I disintegrated back into sleepytime. I woke feeling like I was in my bed at home. Dehydrated, tongue feeling like leather, I groped for the Camelbak and gulped it. This morning moved quickly. Dana was up already pumping water, Amy and Chad woke quickly too, ate and began the packing up. I was slow to get up, feeling extra lazy today. But after a short time of lagging, I was up too, packed and ready to go. We set off to tackle the 10 miles back to Big Sur Station. It started off great. My legs were feeling strong up the first big climb back up the trail. I felt like I was hauling ass. My knee felt a bit sore, but overall it was good. I felt we were making great time. Then while descending I noticed something unusual. It hurt. Not just sore. But it really hurt more and more with each step. Things were about to get worse for me. At mile 5 we stopped for lunch at the little redwood grove camp/lunch spot. We ate and dodged mosquitos, lathered up with DEET and headed off. The trail climbs and then descends and climbs and descends some more and suddenly my knee shot a pain through me that I wasn't expecting. One particularly awkward step, a jolt of agony zapped me, and from there forward, every step was something I needed to be aware of. I limped along using my trekking poles. I felt pathetic and weak. Dana Amy and Chad walked slowly behind me refusing to go ahead. I could feel them behind me shaking their head in shame and embarassment for me. I don't need their pity,.. I'll make it back without them! Damn you knee! Damn you to hell!!!! ... I digress. I insisted they pass me and go ahead. Dana and Chad agreed and went ahead of me. Amy stayed behind me determined to ensure my safety. Bitterly I submitted and let her stay behind. I struggled. Occasionally the snag of agony would bite me again. It was an utterly dissappointing time for me. As I hobbled, grunted, winced, mile after mile, my thoughts drifted to Sam D. I imagined him hiking in agony, alone. All his friends have gone ahead and fending for themselves, they ditched him on the trail. He didn't have high tech trekking poles; but rather two wooded sticks that kept breaking. He stabbed painfully rubbing, blister-causing branches into the ground to help him make it home. I was lucky to have Amy and Odog, 2 way-radios, trekking poles, and the luxury of a light pack. I felt a deep sense of regret for not having been more helpful to Sam D. At one point, while Sam hiked, one of the views to the ocean opened up ahead of him. He recalled being nearly to the point of tears as his hope of reaching home felt real. Unknowingly, he still had several long painful miles to go. Amy suddenly noticed, "Hey, this is the point where Sam almost cried." It was a beautiful spot. I was almost crying too. My knee was feeling bad, and I still had several miles to go. Downhills were terrible. I looked like a 190 year old Verbal Kihnt (from Usual Suspects) after a massive stroke, hobbling around like that. I anticipated the dreaded downhill and we approached it I thought to myself, "Come on knee, I know you can do it!" My knee and I achingly, and clumsily fumbled down the final descent. With 3/4 mile left to hike, a call over the radio said, "We're coming back to help you guys." "Whatever,..." I replied. A little later, while hiking the last leg of the trail under the redwood forest, Dana and Chad appeared. With little resistance, I took off my pack and unceremoniously relinquished my pack to Dana. Instantly my knee felt alleviated. I sighed loudly, my knee sighed too in relief. Walking packless was one of the brightest, most wonderful moments ever. It was better than the first shower after camping, better than the first beer, better than the first steak, and almost better than my down comforter. We finally arrived at the parking lot, popped the cooler and each of us sipped on our Icy Michelobs. Amy and I didn't yet know about the poison oak we'd both get on our faces, and that my knee would still be hurting a week and a half later; but I savored the moment for what it was: a beer on a hot day, after a long hike. It was quite a moment for me. Our future with Sykes was not clear with me, but I did know one thing: Sykes was not worth the pain it finally amounted to. The bottom line, too much PO, too many people, not enough view. It'll take a special occasion to bring me back.
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