Trail names are a tradition on America’s long trails. They are often humorous, have a great back story, and are a heck of a lot easier to remember than a hiker’s real name. Perhaps the funniest aspect is this name is usually given to you by fellow hikers and you never know what moniker you’ll receive. I earned mine on a cool July evening in Washington.
My journey south back to Hart’s Pass was both beautiful and brutal. I was caught in a powerful rain storm atop Woody Pass. I scrambled off the exposed saddle and sought refuge beneath a fir tree. Belly crawling under the evergreen boughs, I found shelter huddled with my back against the trunk. I shivered in my green cocoon while the mighty tree swayed violently overhead. I gazed in awe as clouds and sheets of rain crashed into the base of Powder Mountain. After the storm, I was kept awake for two nights by a persistent bear and a band of merry mice. To make matter’s worse, my SI joint flared up which resulted in days of referred knee pain as well as an agonizing pins and needles sensation in my right foot.
I finally reached Hart’s Pass at the end of my sixth day on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The exhaustion and pain had taken their toll and I was feeling really discouraged. I hobbled into the campground, collected my resupply cache, and retreated to a campsite to sort my food. I sat across a picnic table from two experienced thru-hikers Hopper and Mama Llama. These ladies were moms and could see right through me. They knew I was upset and convinced me it was best to stop for the night and talk it out.
The hour that followed was an honest to God counseling session. “Tell us what happened… How does that make you feel?” This cathartic release was just what I needed. Then, as friends do, Hopper started busting my balls about the ice axe strapped to my pack. Apparently, I was the only hiker who hadn’t checked the PCT SOBO Facebook page where news had spread quickly that the trail was clear of snow. I had been lugging the thing around for the better part of a week and it would be several days before I would reach a post office to mail it home. We were laughing and joking when it happened. Hopper’s eyes widened as she exclaimed, “That’s your name! Ice Axe!” The moniker stuck like glue. Within the week I was answering to calls of “Hey Ice Axe!”
Hopper, Mama Lama, and I lounged around the fire talking. We were soon joined by a Marine and his wife the secret agent lady. Well, she wasn’t James Bond but she worked in military intelligence and I have an overactive imagination. We were having a great conversation but twilight had enveloped us and sleep was calling. The Marine, secret agent lady, and I retired to another campsite. They generously insisted on paying the site fee and refused my offer to split the cost. As darkness set in we pitched our tents and promptly passed out.
A word of warning. Trail names are a tradition on trail not in the office. Upon returning home I had to bite my tongue a few times to avoid introducing myself as Ice Axe.
I hope to be back out there going by Ice Axe soon. Until then I will hold onto the trail names Hopper, Mama Llama, Siesta, Retriever, Play Dough, and many more. I’ll never forget their stories and the miles we hiked together.