June 18, 2016 Mile 444.3-454.4 I wake up at 5am to get some miles in before the heat of the day. The trail is to the west, but it looks like private property between here and there, so I head back to the KOA entrance to the east. The sun hasn’t appeared yet, but it’s light out. The backpacker’s campground is still nearly empty, but the main campground is a crowded mess. Every campsite has several large tents, deflated bags of ice spill over the edges of coolers, and every picnic table is covered by an assortment of half-eaten plates of food, bags of potato chips, empty beer bottles, and red dixie cups filled with varying amounts of liquid in every color. Only a few people are awake. One father is making coffee for the family, a woman ushers her sick friend toward the bathroom. I exit the campground and pass the same scene again from the road. I don’t generally find myself at these sorts of large group gatherings. The truth is, I know I would hate them. But I also wonder if I’m missing something. The social bonding and friendships engendered by group camping (I’m not sure I consider a night at a KOA to be camping, but that’s a different discussion) seem to be mostly missing from my life. Not for the first time, I wish that I were more comfortable with groups, or even with people in general. I’m quickly back at the trail, winding through cottonwoods and crossing dirt roads on the canyon floor. I come to the “Golden Spike” of the PCT—this spot marks where the the construction of the PCT was completed. I begin to climb the trail up through sandstone and golden grasses, and think about the trail itself. I think about the physical construction, but also the process of creating the political will for such a project, the planning that went into it, and all of the obstacles that must have come up. It's amazing to me that such a large project was sustained over so many years, without any guarantee that people would even want to hike it. Could I even sustain one of my own projects for ten years without losing interest? Of course, the PCT itself holds part of the answer. I’ve wanted to hike it since I was 14, and here I am, 23 years later, actually hiking it. But I’m not done yet, and to be honest, I only moved from desire to decision about a year and a half ago. Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself. Perhaps organizations are equipped better than individuals for long-term goals. As the sun rises, the temperature spikes upward. My freshly laundered shirt is wet against my back. The yellow grass glows in the sunlight and swishes with the breeze. Sure, it’s hot and dry, but it’s also stunningly beautiful. I crest over the hills and catch my first view of Agua Dulce to the Northwest. It’s all downhill from here. It takes another couple hours to reach the bottom where I pass through a small runoff tunnel under a freeway. On the far side I emerge into a sculpted canyon. Wood signs identify different trees and plants, my first clue that I’m in some sort of nature park and am about to see day hikers. And indeed, they are quickly everywhere. I feel out of place, as if I were wearing my backpack in a grocery store or amusement park. I know it’s just a quirk of my mind, but that doesn’t make it easy to shut off. A large group of soccer moms and a few of their husbands come by with their dogs. There are probably close to thirty dogs and around fifty people. The PCT signs come more often now, but they never seem to be where I need them. Junctions are everywhere. I check my phone’s GPS several times to make sure I’m still on the right track. It’s about 9am, and I’m baking in the sun. There’s a dirt parking lot ahead, near a rock formation that looks like an ape’s head. Some people are climbing on the rock, and there’s a group of sixty standing together in the parking lot. As I get closer, I realize that every one of the group is a young woman in her early-to-mid twenties. The power of groups and a bit of distance makes it look like they are all quite attractive. My interest is piqued. I am well into the parking lot before I realize that I haven’t seen a PCT marker in a little while. I check my GPS and realize that I’ve left the trail. I can’t help but laugh at myself—leave it to attractive young women to make me lose my way. I lash myself to the mast and make my way back to the trail.
A few minutes later, the trail emerges onto a road and turns into the small town of Agua Dulce. The downtown area is only a few storefronts long, but one is a restaurant with a patio. I quickly demolish a breakfast burrito and guzzle coffee while I keep a nervous eye on my backpack by the front door. Agua Dulce is the home of Hiker Heaven, run by two trail angels—the Saufleys—and an army of their friends and volunteers. It’s a hot mile to their house. Since I just stopped in Acton yesterday, I plan to pick up my food drop, repackage it, and hang out until the heat drops in the evening. Maybe I’ll go back to the restaurant for dinner before I leave, and tonight I’ll do some night hiking. Hopefully, I can find another hiker or two who will join me for that. When I walk through the front gate, a volunteer introduces himself as “Country Gold” and gives me a tour of the property: A mesh bag for my laundry, bins with spare clothes while my clothes are being washed, an email tent with several old laptops (two hikers are glued to screens), a tent with cold soda and snacks for sale, packages (I see my last name in large black letters along the side of one), and the guest house (air conditioned!) with showers and a few more hikers. I introduce myself to Uhaul, Looney Tunes, Pixie, Irish, The Swede, and Christine (who doesn’t have a trail name yet), and go into the bathroom to change and shower. The shorts I picked from the bin are enormous floral swim trunks, but they have a drawstring. The t-shirt and flip-flops are similarly oversized, and I feel a bit like a child in adult’s clothing. I head back up to the garage, where the volunteers are, to pick up my food. Mr. Saufley asks me about my plans and I tell him. He cautions me that there is a major heatwave rolling in for the next four days and spells out his concerns. It will be at least 114, probably closer to 120 in the lower areas. The next section has a twelve-mile road-walk which will likely be even hotter on the asphalt. Several water sources are reported dry, and springs which have been reliable in the past are down to a trickle. Make your own decision, he says, but I just want to make sure you have the information. Lots of hikers have been skipping ahead. I think about it while I repack my food drop into my backpack, and decide to take his advice. I still plan to hike this section, I’ll just have to do it later in the season. I’ll hitch up to the Sierra and hike for a week or two, then head back down after the heat wave to get this section. I call Lindsey and tell her my plan, and she offers a different suggestion. She can drive out and pick me up tomorrow and drive me up to the Sierra so that we can see each other this weekend. That's much more appealing to me than hitchhiking. Much of the rest of the afternoon is spent inside, watching shitty old movies with the other hikers, getting to know them all, and discussing everyone’s plans. They’re a friendly group, and it only takes me a couple hours to start to feel relaxed around them. In the evening, we sit outside and soak our feet in epson salt footbaths while we talk. Christine’s boyfriend Seth comes by and the three of us resonate in conversation. We stay up way past hiker midnight (9pm), and I finally crash on one of the futon mattresses inside the guest house around eleven. Uhaul snores deeply on a nearby futon. I’m grateful to have found friends on the trail, and I’m already sad that I’ll have to leave them tomorrow.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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