June 19, 2016
0 day I’m up earlier than most of the other hikers, so I go out to the internet tent to check my email. Three tents are in the backyard that weren’t there last night; apparently some other hikers have arrived. I have a few emails, but nothing pressing. A dirty hiker named Snot arrives, and I overhear that he is attempting an FKT (Fastest Known Time). It’s 7am, and he’s just finished a 35-mile night hike. I suddenly feel like an amateur. I decide to grab my book and go down to the restaurant for breakfast. On my way, I run into Ezekiel, the Brazilian kid I hiked with a few days prior. He came in late last night, and one of the three tents is his. He gives me a friendly greeting and I invite him to join me for breakfast. It’s a Saturday morning, so the place is packed. We wait for an hour before they finally have a table for us, and another half hour before anyone takes our order. By the time food finally comes, we’re running out of conversation and I feel like my stomach is eating me from the inside out. When we return from breakfast, a few hikers are gone, but almost everyone is still around discussing plans for the heat wave. Looney Tunes, Pixie, Irish, and the Swede are all going to leave at sundown and hike through the night. Seth is giving Christine a ride up to Casa de Luna (another famous trail angel stop about 25 miles ahead). Uhaul asks if he can catch a ride up to Mojave with Lindsey and I, where he’ll meet a friend and figure out what he’s doing from there. We all move in slow motion in the heat. Several of us soak our feet in epson salt around a table outside. Looney Tunes tells us about a hiker whose hiking partner left him to go “pink blazing”—to chase after a girl he had a crush on. It’s not a term I’ve heard before, and they have to explain it. A little while later, Uhaul mentions that he thinks some girl is “yellow blazing”—hitchhiking from place to place instead of actually hiking the trail. They tell me the terms come from the Appalachian trail, where the path is marked with white blazes. Uhaul and Looney Tunes both hiked it two years ago, but they didn’t know each other until meeting here at Hiker Heaven. As conversation continues around me, I reflect on all the different ways we find to judge one another. I wonder if it’s innate in our human power structures—do we gossip and judge to reduce the status of people who aren’t around, thereby improving our own social status? Or is it something else? A guy in his fifties and his girlfriend show up with a six-pack of beer for us. He celebrating his son’s birthday. His son hiked the trail several years ago, and he thought he’d drop by to hear some trail stories. There’s an unspoken sadness to his request, and I get the feeling that his son may have passed away. We chat for a while, then Seth and Christine depart. Lindsey arrives quickly after, and Uhaul and I say goodbye to the others. They’ve been a fun group, especially after the isolation of the trail, and I’ll miss them all. When we stop for gas, I easily polish off a pint of ice cream, then we drop Uhaul off in Mojave and spend the night in Inyokern.
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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. June 17, 2016 Mile 430.5-444.3 I may have been overdoing the miles. I found it difficult to sleep last night because of aching in my hips, and my plantar fasciitis is acting up again. Not to mention my many blisters. The Acton KOA is only 15 miles away, and I badly need to do laundry and take a shower. I could wait until tomorrow, when I get to Hiker Heaven, but I can be in Acton by this afternoon, and I need the rest. The day starts with a downhill—actually, I’m pretty sure I’ll be heading downhill all day. I wind through oaky brush, some of which I recognize as poison oak. But the trail is better maintained here, and it’s easy to avoid. It’s incredibly hot by 9am. Around 10:30, I arrive at North Fork Ranger Station. Someone has put out a water dispenser with several 5-gallon bottles sitting nearby. The Ranger Station sometimes sells cokes and candy, but it seems to be closed today. I am the only person around. I refill my water and rest in the shade for a bit. I am split: I’m anxious to get to Acton, but I’m also loathe to go back into the sun. I can see much of the next section of trail from here. It looks like the next several miles will be shadeless and dry. Finally I muster the energy to move on. I’m rolling in sweat before I’ve gotten around the first turn. The foothills here are heavily eroded, and the trail is clearly visible below, winding endlessly in the white dirt. After I come around the first turn, I can see the Acton KOA, as well as a few other lonely businesses along the road. One looks like a warehouse of sorts, with a few tractor-trailers parked outside. It looks like there are trees in the KOA, and trees mean shade. They look so close, but I still have miles to hike to get down this mountain. All the way down, I guzzle water, but it never seems to do anything. My throat is parched from the moment the water passes through it. I can’t tell if my chrome-dome umbrella is blocking the sun or just trapping hot air. I can feel the heat of the trail through the soles of my shoes as I wind around foothills and ravines.
Finally, it seems like hours later, I reach the road. A billboard welcomes PCT hikers to the KOA, and I walk the road to the entrance. I pay for a site at a small convenience store. An ice-cold gatorade and a bag of Doritos hit the spot. I need to charge my phone and battery pack, so the lady at the counter shows me a lounge, where I sit alone and read my book for two hours while I wait for them to charge. Maintenance workers walk through and discuss maintenance problems with a glance at me as they go, but they quickly dismiss me. It’s likely that they’ve seen hikers all summer, and I’m just another one, but I start to wonder whether I look homeless. After my phone is charged I walk down to the backpackers’ sites. I pass the pool, which is crawling with families—it appears there are four kids to every parent—, and several large campsites which look like they are revving up for a party. When I get to the backpackers' area, it’s obviously the worst-kept area of the campground, but I’m glad that it’s so far away from the noise. There is only one other tent around, belonging to a hiker named Mark who comes up to tell me there’s a place to charge my phone next to the bathrooms. Conversation is stilted—I think we’ve both grown overly used to silence and our own thoughts. He retreats to his tent, and I set up mine and go to the laundry room and showers. I start with laundry. Thru-hiking means lightweight backpacking, and lightweight backpacking means I have no extra clothes. For an hour and a half, I sit in a plastic chair in my plastic rain pants, melting in the heat. When my laundry is done, I take a shower. Lightweight backpacking also means that I don’t bring a towel. Luckily, I have a handkerchief. It is saturated before I’ve dried my face, so I end up just smearing water from one part of my body to the next until I give up and get dressed. I quickly transition from wet to sweaty, but still, it’s nice to be clean for a bit. I read for a couple more hours before dinner and bed. As I drift off to sleep, I can hear reveling campers in the main campground above. June 16, 2016 Mile 404-430.5 Today is the first day that I feel truly optimistic about the trail. I slept well, without startling at noises in the night, and somehow the loneliness doesn’t seem to be affecting me as much. Perhaps it’s knowing that there are hikers behind me as well as in front of me. Or perhaps it’s just this beautiful weather. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it. It seems the trail has finally moved away from highway 2, and into true wilderness. The desert brush is colorful and varies enough to have an unkempt feel. A couple deer spring into the bushes, and I’m getting more cheerful by the moment. I begin to think again about potential careers. I circle back between a few different buckets that have sustained my interest over the years: Psychology, Philosophy, Writing. I’ll continue as a musician for the rest of my life, of course, but I’ve grown weary of the constant hustle and small rewards. Even the stability of teaching hasn’t kept me from a break-neck pace of life. Concerts, football games, basketball games, rallies, parades, and competitions—not to mention the after-school rehearsals, transportation and facilities paperwork, instrument repairs and inventory, and all the regular teaching duties—have kept me in a state of constant burnout. As the trail wanders through the brush and yucca, I settle on Psychology. Over the last two years I’ve spent a lot of my free time studying learning acquisition and practice principles, and I find it fascinating. I’m enthralled by the way the mind works, and how it processes and stores information. This could sustain a career, I think. Of course, I don’t entirely trust my own long-term judgment: I have a tendency to get excited about a particular path for a few days or weeks, until I latch on to something else and decide that this is my true calling. I’m consistent only in that I stick to those three buckets: Philosophy, Psychology, and Writing. Otherwise, I’m a career roller-coaster. But this morning, Psychology feels right, and I’m lost in reveries about what it will mean to be a psychologist. The research side sounds a little laborious, but I can easily see myself compiling swathes of research into compelling arguments about the nature of our thought processes. And it seems a natural fit that I would be teaching classes. So maybe not so much a researcher as a professor. I come to a campsite, and I can tell that it’s been recently vacated. The dirt is pressed flat and someone has poured water out recently enough that it hasn’t dried yet. I look up a hill and see a couple hiking away. Nice to see some other people out here. I catch up to them soon after my breakfast break and try to make conversation, but they avoid eye contact and respond curtly to my attempts. As I hike away, I can’t quite figure out if they are high or just incredibly anti-social. Something clicks, and I realize that they have must have been fighting. The brush disappears, and a sparse forest opens up. The trail is just a compressed line in a vast field of dirt dotted with trees. A piece of paper held to the trail by a rock tells me there’s a rattlesnake ahead, but I see no snake, and nowhere for it to hide. The paper might have been there for days or even weeks—it’s not dated. I pick it up and pack it away. I start downhill, and now the few trees drop away. I’m in another recent burn zone. So far, it seems like nearly half of the areas I’ve passed through have been burnt in the last few years. The miles fly by as I dodge poodle-dog bushes on the way down to the summit fire station, and a hot day gets hotter. Around lunch time, I arrive at the station, grateful to be on a road away from the poodle-dog bush. I walk through the parking area, defenses down, and almost walk face-first into an overhanging branch of poodle-dog flowers. I make it to a picnic table—two men in dirty uniforms are eating their lunch next to a red cooler and a large backpack. They tell me the cooler is for hikers, and it is! Trail magic! I grab an apple and an ice-cold coke and chat with them for a few minutes. They’re biologists working for Pacific Gas and Electric, out here to study how the native plants are repopulating the areas that were cleared out when new power-lines were put in. It sounds like an interesting, outdoorsy job, and I find myself wishing I had gone into the sciences. A hiker with a big blonde beard returns with water, and introduces himself as Achilles. He makes instant mashed potatoes with spam for lunch, and we chat for a bit after the biologists leave. The heat is oppressive now, but I continue on, heartened by the fact that there seem to be more hikers around now. Almost immediately, the poodle-dog bush starts up again, overgrowing the trail and slowing my pace as I dodge and weave. It smells like pot, which seems funny when I pass mile 420. There is an alternate here, to avoid the miles of poodle-dog bush, but the PCT Facebook group says that it’s passable, and I don’t really want to do another road-walk. A couple miles later, I’m wishing I had done the road-walk. I don’t think I’ve touched any of the horrible purple flowers yet, but there are four more miles of this noxious weed to go when I see a short side path leading up to the road-walk alternate. I take it and breathe a sigh of relief. I take a few minutes for a snack break—it seems I’m hungry nearly all the time, now—and then start to walk up the road. It’s steep, with cracked and crumbling asphalt, with no cover at all. The maps tell me this road was closed to traffic after the fire a few years back, and needs to be repaired before they will reopen it. I look for rattlesnakes and walk near the center of the road. Sweat rolls down and my shirt clings to my skin. I check my phone several times for service, but there is none. I want to talk to Lindsey. I miss her, and I miss Deuce, our dog.
I get to the top of the mountain and start a small descent to a closed campground. I stop a little earlier than normal and read my book at a picnic table after I set up my tent. The sun sets over layers of mountains and sets the wildflowers aglow. June 15, 2016 Mile 377-404 A cold wind greets me with the sun. I hoof my way up the last mile of Mt. Baden-Powell and find a large bare tree with roots above-ground and a cement monument to the founder of the boy scouts erected almost sixty years ago. It’s cold, but looks like a beautiful day. Up here, at least. I’m looking down on a great field of clouds that covers all of LA and Orange County below me. I take a video and post it to facebook—I feel a little funny about using Facebook on this great adventure, but human interaction is rare out here, and I need a little connection with my friends and family. I hike down the ridge and reach Little Jimmy Springs a little while later. There is a campground, and a man named Thomas comes up to greet me and proceeds to talk me to death. He’s a real know-it-all, and is the first hiker to tell me that I really don’t need to filter my water because it’s all safe along the trail. I choose not to argue the point, but I plan to continue filtering. A few other hikers are packing up nearby, and a vibrant bluebird distracts me as Thomas continues to talk. He walks me over and introduces Ezekiel, who is strapping his tent to the top of his backpack. The pack is near-to-bursting, and the tent looks thick and heavy, like it was built for car-camping. He has a thick accent, Argentinian as it turns out. He’s the first thru-hiker I’ve met since I rejoined the trail. Thomas pressures us into hiking together, and despite the presumption, I’m actually grateful for some company. Ezekiel has a quick pace, and I struggle to keep up in the flat mile following the campground. We cross a road and start a steep uphill climb, and after fifty yards he stops to let me pass while he takes a quick break. I climb at a more relaxed pace, and look back occasionally, but he never catches up. The trail crosses and recrosses highway 2, and eventually I’m forced to follow it for about two miles around an endangered species closure for the yellow-legged frog. There’s another alternate that stays off the road, but it adds eighteen miles and I’m already behind. The road walk is quiet and hard on my feet. Only about three cars come by in the hour or so that I’m on the road. I decide that I hate road walking. Mostly it’s because roads are so much less interesting than trails, but right now it’s also because the asphalt is jarring my tired joints and grating my many blisters. The walk-around turns down into a pretty campground with several occupied sites but which is mostly empty. I fill up at a faucet and eat lunch nearby. No one comes by to talk to me, but it's still comforting to have other humans nearby. I start to wonder if Ezekiel will catch up. A trail from the campground descends into a shady canyon, and I hike down for a while but my feet are in pain and I need to do something about it. I stop on a large rock next to the trail and pull out my sewing kit and some moleskin. The blisters on my heels are tough to puncture. My toes are easier and drain quickly. While I’m sitting, a couple stops and chats about the trail with me. The lady gives me an unopened bottle of cold gatorade. It’s wonderful, but I’m even more grateful for the company. The lush canyon lasts for about an hour. I begin a long descent along a dirt road, close to the highway again. I’ve once again hit the point where my energy is gone but I keep hiking. I’m lonely, too, and I'm starting to let my fears get the best of me. Isn’t this the area where that woman got stalked by a mountain lion last year? This isn’t fun for me. Do I really want to continue doing this all summer and even into the fall? When I hit the 400-mile marker, it’s not an achievement, it’s a reminder of how far I still have to go. I look for a site, but there are none forthcoming. After another road crossing, I find myself in an area that’s been recently burned, and I see my first poodle-dog bush. It’s everywhere here—purple flowers on long stems above fronds shaped like wrinkled aloe. I’ve read several warnings about the rashes this stuff can cause. Apparently it’s much worse than poison oak, and no one has immunity. It’s everywhere, even hanging over the trail in places, and I have to get creative in order to avoid it. Finally, after another mile of slow, exhausting hiking, I find an opening to the side of the trail. There are three or four sandy campsites here, looking out into a basin with yucca and other desert shrubs. It seems like a particularly welcoming site, and I’m glad to end the day.
June 14, 2016 Mile 357-377 Living outside seems like it should be harder than living in civilization—sleeping on hard ground, carrying your gear all day, hot days and cold nights—but those difficulties don’t take long to get used to, and you exchange them for a number of benefits that far exceed the difficulties. For example, to watch a sunrise seems enjoyable in theory, but few people can be bothered to wake up that early more than once or twice a year. You’re tired and your mind is adapted to the harried pace of modern living, so while the slowly changing colors might help your mind to relax and slow down, it’s generally a fairly boring affair. Most people, when they go out of their way to experience a sunrise, dip into the experience like they’re sampling it between other, more exciting parts of their life. It’s almost like they’re just checking an item off a list. A sunrise while you’re living outside is different. With only a few repetitious tasks to complete each day, you stop managing a to-do list in your head, and your stress levels drop significantly. Your mind slows down, and you seek out subtlety and depth of experience rather than ever-increasing novelty for entertainment. After dinner in the evenings, you go to bed early. Because you’ve been hiking all day, you fall asleep quickly. After a few days of practice it becomes easier to get comfortable on the ground, so you stay asleep longer and get back to sleep faster. When you wake from the ambient dawn it is well before the sun and you are well-rested and free of the small pains of fatigue. Your dopamine cravings have subsided over time, so you aren’t waiting impatiently for the moment when the sun appears, you’re experiencing every subtle shift in the colors of the sky. You don’t even need pinks and purples—the endless gradations of blue-gray sky and the dark mountain silhouettes hold infinite subtlety and fascination. Such is my morning, and though I feel a light pressure on my psyche—from the continued solitude, no doubt—I am otherwise fully converted and at home in the wilderness. The morning begins with a cool climb. I am following a wooded ridge above the town of Wrightwood, deep in a valley off to my right side. I have to decide whether to add a steep three mile downhill to my hike (and another three back up), or to continue past Wrightwood to highway 2 and wait for a hitch. I haven’t yet made my decision when I realize that the junction I just passed a half mile ago was the three-mile hike I needed. It looks like I’ll be hitching from highway 2. I come to a campground with about twenty sites. Only one is occupied, by a guy with an old pickup truck and a blazing campfire. My Guthooks app tells me that this campground has had recent bear activity. The trail traces a road again, and I decide to pop over to the west side for a break with a view. I pull off my shoes and lean against a tree. I feel light and free: barefoot in the wilderness is a special kind of heaven. Far in the distance, I can make out parts of Los Angeles spreading out like a carpet below a layer of clouds. I continue on, out of the woods and alongside small reservoirs designed to capture rainfall and some small snowmelt, long since gone. I reach the highway around 11am and sit against a road sign while I wait for a car to come by. Three or four pass over the next half hour before one stops and opens the back door. A young man and woman in their early twenties are shoveling dirty clothes and snack food wrappers to one side to make space for me. I crawl in with my pack and we are off down the hill.
They tell me that the car is a rental and they are taking a break from biking down the Pacific coast in order to go visit Joshua Tree. The girl has a European accent and the boy tells me that they just met a week ago while they were biking. I’m grateful for two people that understand adventure and are willing to give a smelly hiker a ride. They drop me off at a grocery store in Wrightwood where I stock up on food, and then I walk over to a nearby restaurant where I get a veggie burger and a beer. There don’t seem to be any other hikers in town and I'm starting to worry that I’m the last hiker out here. After lunch I head over to the hardware store, which seems to be the town’s main hub. There is a hiker register that shows four hikers have come through today—one of them just fifteen minutes ago! My trail guide tells me that the hardware store will contact a trail angel to give me a ride back to the trail if I ask, but I feel bad causing anyone an inconvenience, so I walk the quarter mile to the end of town and try to catch a hitch. An hour later, I still haven’t caught a ride, so I walk back to the hardware store and ask at the counter. The cashier looks around and sees an old man with a white beard. “Hey Jim,” she calls out, “what are you doing right now? This hiker needs a ride back to the trail.” Jim is happy to oblige, but he tells me he needs to stop at the post office first. His 1980s-era stick-shift pickup looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the day it was created, which is good, since that’s probably the way I look too. Jim speaks loudly over the noisy engine and tells me about meeting the founder of Kelty backpacks, trout fishing in the Sierra, and the history of Wrightwood. He’s a retired firefighter who now writes a column for the local newspaper. He thinks there are too many PCT hikers now, as evidenced by all the toilet paper that he sees scattered along the trail, and he warns me to look out for the southern pacific rattlesnake. It’s only a seven mile ride, but he packs in enough conversation for three days and I’m happy to hear him talk. When he drops me off at the trail around 3pm, I’m refreshed and rejuvenated. I check my maps, and it looks like I might be able to make it to Mt. Baden-Powell tonight. It looks like a big climb, and there’s a big drop between here and there. I better get to it. The trail climbs a short ways, then drops into the gap. Switchbacks cut down through thick vegetation and I cross the highway a couple more times. By the time I reach the parking lot at the bottom of the gap, my newfound energy is completely sapped. This is going to be a rough climb. Dayhikers spill out from the trailhead in groups of two and four and I have to dodge them to start the switchbacks. As I hike slash by slash up the mountain, it feels like my body is eating itself from the inside. I’m grateful for the downhill hikers—it’s an excuse to rest on the side of the trail. Soon, though, they peter off as the day gets longer. Eventually I am taking breaks without excuses and every step is a force of will. Near a campsite a mile from the top of the mountain, I notice that the wind has picked up. Perhaps camping on top of the mountain will be a bad idea. I decide it’s time to stop for the day. No blogs for the next week and a half—Lindsey and I will be crossing the High Sierra Trail off of our bucket list. I promise to keep a journal. June 12, 2016 Mile 311-335.6 I decide to skip breakfast. It’s only about 6 miles to Cajon Pass and interstate 15, and there will be a few options for fast food and gas station snacks that seem more attractive than my oatmeal. The morning begins with a beautiful sunrise over the clouds, but within an hour I’ve descended into the fog, and it is thick. I can only see twenty to thirty feet around me. My inner world reflects the outer world: my mind sits comfortably in a monochrome grey. There is nothing to think about, no goals to strive for, no outer world impinging on my consciousness. Just walking, step by step, the edges of my grey bubble morphing distantly around me. The vegetation around me disperses and the landscape melts into an alien planet. The trail wanders aimlessly among eroded cliffs and there seems to be no intended destination, just an endless tangle of loops. I peer into misty depths and wonder how far down they go. Occasionally I glimpse the other side of a collapsed chasm through the fog. Slowly, the fog lifts, or I descend below it, and the landscape opens into a dense network of jeep trails, power lines, and service roads. My gps and the sounds of eighteen-wheelers tell me I am getting close to food, and I pick up the pace. I reach a paved road, which my map tells me is a remnant of historic route 66. It runs from Los Angeles to Chicago, and—unbelievably—is shorter than the length of the Pacific Crest Trail. Stupid switchbacks. Route 66 parallels the interstate here, and I walk the quarter mile uphill to the now-visible McDonalds. I have been in a McDonalds exactly two times in the past twenty-three years. I became a vegetarian when I was fourteen, and the only reason I ever had to go into a McDonalds was to use the restroom. But the idea of pancakes and eggs is enticing, even if I expect them to be bad. The restaurant is crowded, and I am self-conscious of my body odor as I wait in one of several lines. I am mistrustful of the crowd, and I try to keep one eye on my pack, which leans against an open seat near an exit, and my cell phone, which is charging atop a garbage can. I order two combos that net me pancakes, eggs, an egg mcmuffin (no meat), two hashbrowns, coffee, and an orange juice. It’s heavy and greasy, and I feel a little disgusted, but I easily finish it all and consider going back for more. A woman asks if I’m hiking the PCT. She tells me she’s from Wrightwood, a small town where I plan to resupply tomorrow. She asks whether it isn’t a little late in the season for me to be so far south. It is. She wishes me good luck, and I make my way to the nearby gas station. I buy a quart of milk, an orange juice, and a pack of mini donuts, finish them all at a picnic table. I finally feel full. Another woman asks me whether I’m hiking the PCT, and she tells me that she just hiked the Camino de Santiago in Spain, and she plans on doing the PCT next year. I’m grateful for the short human interaction. I walk back downhill to the trail, and follow it through a long curving tunnel under the interstate. I cross railroad tracks and hike uphill through a narrow passage between two fences that both sport private property signs. The fog is gone now, and the day is rapidly heating up. I climb for miles among massive sandstone sculpted by the elements. Several trains wind their way among the tracks below. The trail climbs endlessly along an isolated ridge line, and I can see where it descends into a long valley on the other side. It seems like the trail could have been constructed to go around this ridge line instead of over it, but I’m sure there were reasons for the route choice. I travel miles back down, and plunge into the wash at the bottom of the valley. A wooden cabinet sits among the bushes, and I open it to find several bottles of water and a trail log. I look at the last few names, and it looks like three or four people have been through here today. Perhaps I’ll be able to catch up to someone. By the afternoon, I am feeling a little ill from the heat. It’s a long, exposed climb out of the valley, and I can’t seem to drink enough water. Three times I come across snakes sunning themselves in the trail. None are poisonous, but I’d still rather avoid a bite, so I try to startle the first two away by throwing rocks near them. They don’t react, and the brush is too thick to walk around, so I nervously step over. By the third time, I barely even break my stride. It’s strange how quickly we can become comfortable with the unusual. Hours later I break away from the endless switchbacks and cut around the side of the mountain. The trail braids itself with a dirt road, still heading uphill, and finally comes to another water cache. The first pine trees of the day are in a clump here. I rest and look back over the valley. It’s really an incredible view. It’s been a hard day, but I feel lucky to be out here. I decide to make dinner here; there’s a campsite about a quarter mile ahead, and I’m now in bear country, so I’d rather not cook where I’m going to sleep. After dinner, it’s a short walk to the campsite, which is on the other side of this ridge. I have another fantastic view down a more verdant valley. As I set up my tent, I realize that something feels different. Every day so far, I’ve felt like this trip was a step out of my normal life, and each encounter with civilization was a return. Today, it feels like this is my normal life, and my stop in Cajon pass was the aberration. Something about my identity has shifted.
June 12, 2016 Mile 311-335.6 The climb back out of the canyon is brutal, in part because I am so tired, and in part because of a couple blisters on my feet. My body was not ready for yesterday’s 27-mile hike, and the sand made it difficult to sleep. When I get back up to the trail it’s a relief. I can see where the canyon finally spills out into the open a few miles away, and I’m eager for some views that aren’t these canyon walls. Cement and stone form the ruins of an aqueduct, and I wonder how long ago it was built and abandoned. At times, the trail walks right along the top of its wall, the dry water channel on the right, the steep drop to the canyon on the left. I follow the canyon back and forth three, four, five times, and finally I’m out. A broad valley continues in front of me. Foothills roll slowly away to my left side, a plateau to most of my right, and tucked close in next to the canyon, a domineering dam and spillway sit between me and what must have once been a lake. Now it is nothing but dirt and scrub brush. I follow a couple switchbacks and a steep dirt road down to the spillway and across to the other side, then down a dirt road. This is civilization again, but a sort of backstage civilization where utility workers make the magic kingdom run and high schoolers go to find temporary freedom from the coercions and strictures of parents and law enforcement. I follow PCT signs through some bamboo and tall grassy bushes, and come to Deep Creek again. It is broad and sandy now, and there is nowhere to cross without getting my feet wet, so I decide to embrace it fully. The water is cool and soothing on my bare feet, and I sit on the opposite bank and watch small fish and tadpoles as I cook my oatmeal with my feet still in the water. I haven’t seen another living soul all morning, but the water keeps me from feeling lonely. I fill up all my jugs, because the next water is a long ways off and it’s already a hot day. I pick up and move on over sandy hills and through tall plants. The trail splits into a dozen, crossing and recrossing itself. I’m afraid I might choose the wrong path, but they all lead in the same direction and eventually I see another PCT marker. The trail cuts left and crosses a paved road. A white minivan sits at a closed gate, and a woman in her forties comes out to ask if I’ve passed her daughter, who is hiking the PCT and is expected today. I haven’t seen another hiker since the hot springs, and I haven’t seen another PCT hiker since I left two days ago. But it’s good to know there are still PCTers out here this late in the season. Part of the experience is making friends with other hikers. She wishes me well, and I plunge back into the desert. A quick climb up the foothills leaves me sweaty. The trail traces a long path along the side of these hills, with a consistent wide-open view of the plateau to the right. I watch the trucks move in slow-motion down a distant road as I hike. It feels like I’m moving faster than they are. I have cell service again, so I call Lindsey when I take a break. It’s good to hear her voice. She had to leave for a rehearsal in the Bay Area a few days before I left, so I haven’t seen her in close to a week. She has returned to our home in Santa Maria now, and I feel a pang of guilt when I think about the mess she returned to. The last day before I left was a marathon of constant motion. At school, we had a half-day of classes, in which every class met for 18 minutes. There’s not much you can teach in 18 minutes. Then we had graduation (at which the band performed), and then I had to tell my band students that I would not be returning the following year. I would have liked to give them more time to process that before the end of the school year, but Lindsey and I made the decision only a few days prior, and I had to tell my principal before I told the kids, so it came down to the last day. It was emotional. By the time I got home, it was 7pm. I quickly got to work packing for the trail, but packing four months worth of food into priority mail packages is no small task. I also had to go to the store to purchase some last-minute supplies. In hindsight, I overthought the whole thing and made the task more difficult than it needed to be, but I ended up giving up at 3am, after I had only 5 resupply boxes completed and a disaster zone of zip-locked dry food and candy bars strewn around the dining room. Lindsey jokes about the mess and she is happy to hear from me. We talk for a half hour before I start to feel the pressure to get moving again. It’s difficult to say goodbye, but we do. My new pace is quicker. Lindsey has lifted my spirits. The trail stays on the side of these foothills for another ten miles, at least. I’m left with nothing to do but think, and so I think. I think about what I’m going to do for work after I finish the trail. I think about the erosion patterns of these foothills, and whether these looping half-circles of trail will be a constant feature all the way through Washington, and how much time it must have taken for these hills to erode into their current form. I think about what it must be like to live in one of these houses on the plateau, so far from every neighbor but still so close to the Southern California megalopolis. I fall into a long reverie about states of mind, and the filtering effect they have on our perceptions of the world. At a distance from civilization, it seems a little easier to perceive accurately. When I’m in the thick of civilization, I tend to find myself easily overwhelmed by people and cultural norms, and I fall into a sort of myopia that leaves me chasing goals and desires that aren’t important or fulfilling. I’m in a soup of distractions, always facing the opponent in front of my eyes without seeing the larger battle. When I let myself get away into the wild, I can examine those goals as part of a larger field of possibility, as if at a distance, and I can more easily see their relationship to larger purposes and more fulfilling desires. I have a feeling this is true for all of us, though perhaps not everyone finds themselves as distracted by civilization as I do. While I hike I try to think of steps I can take to help myself take better control of my filters and stay focused on the larger view when I’m in civilization. What has worked best for me so far has been meditation and hiking. I’ve been fairly consistent with the meditation on weekdays, though my discipline breaks down on weekends. Hiking, on the other hand, only seems to happen once or twice a month. I should really make that a weekly thing. Maybe even schedule a shorter recurring midweek hike, just to help clear the mind of the detritus that builds up from being around people every day. I don’t have any great ideas about how to keep the large view in the thick of things, though. The trail slowly winds its way out of the foothills. I cross a concrete bridge over a mossy stream and a large dirt lot next to a fenced-off water district building. There are a couple large trees next to the road here, and I take advantage of the shade to take a rest. I check the map and see that I am just below Silverwood Lake. The hike up to it looks intimidating and hot, though. I put it off and just sit until my restlessness finally overcomes my resistance to the uphill. It only takes a few minutes. The climb is as hot as I feared, and I start going through water more quickly. By the time I reach the top, I’m down to a liter of water. The lake looks refreshing, but the trail skirts far above it for a few more miles, so I’ll have to ration myself. Powerlines buzz overhead and speedboat engines drone across the wide lake. A buzzard circles overhead; I’m afraid he might be sizing me up for a meal. I’m getting hungry, but there’s a popular picnic area just a couple miles ahead, and I’m hoping there might be a food truck or small snack bar there. As I work my way around the lake, it seems like there is always another cove or arm of the lake between me and my goal. My energy drops low and I’m just throwing my legs down in front of me without care or intent. I finally get to the picnic area, and a restaurant menu is stapled to a post, but there’s no restaurant around. There is a running faucet, though, and I fill up with water. I sit for a long time on a shaded bench next to the restrooms. A few people come and go, looking at me funny—I’m sure I’m dirty—, but all I can do is sit. It takes me a half hour before I can muster the energy to walk twenty feet to a picnic table and make some instant mashed potatoes. The food helps, but I’m still exhausted. I rest for another hour and drink water until I’m bloated. Finally, I fill my water bottles and continue my hike. The trail skirts a road out of the recreation area, crosses under a highway, and begins another climb through a valley. The desert chaparral is a little greener here and provides a little more shade. The sun is getting lower, too, so it’s not so hot. It takes me a few hours to reach the top, but it feels easier than walking around the lake. A sign at the top tells me that the canyon I’m about to follow downhill is a rare ecosystem that hosts several endangered species, especially several rare birds. I know nothing about identifying birds, but suddenly every bird I see is potentially a rare find. Many of them are probably quite common, but the sign has adjusted my perceptual filter and increased their value. As I think about how easy it was to change the way I perceive the value of birds, I start to wonder how easy it would be to do that with everything. I start to look at every bush as if it is a rare find. I consciously choose to see life itself as a scarce and fleeting thing, and try to notice my experience in every moment. When will I ever be back in this place again? It’s a wonderful way to look at the world, but it quickly becomes exhausting as I try to keep perfect attention on my experience in every second. Fairly soon, my mind is back on more mundane matters, like not tripping over rocks and trying to find a campsite. The latter problem is solved when I come to a small clearing off the side of the trail. It isn’t shaded, but the sun is pretty low now, and I’m exhausted. I set up my tent and make dinner. Something roars through the air by my head and I nearly jump out of my skin before I realize it’s just a hummingbird. Everything else is alarmingly still. I climb into my sleeping bag and realize that I haven’t seen a single hiker all day as I drift off to sleep.
June 11, 2016 Mile 284-311 I’m so eager to get started this morning that I almost skip breakfast. But no, I know I'll need the energy. The grass is golden in the dawn light when I depart. I pass through the burn zone and back into the forest again, alternately climbing and descending over trail that is sometimes eroded, sometimes as wide as a sidewalk. It seems there is another dirt road every mile or so, and they are all active with cars, but I only see a few hikers. After a few hours, the forest gives way to a colorful high desert landscape with little protection from the sun. The trail unwinds itself into long downhill curves with open views to the North and low rises to the east and west. In the forest, a road could be right next to the trail and I wouldn’t know it. Out here, I can see that there are no roads nearby, and that makes the wilderness more real. I break at a flat rock a little way off the trail. There are several pieces of rusty metal nearby, including what looks like an old motorcycle chain. I chew on soy jerky and jelly beans and watch a chipmunk collect seeds from a pine cone. My mind is still tight from civilization, and it takes effort to just sit and watch. I’m bored. Do I really want to spend the next few months doing this? The wide basin suddenly drops off into a deep canyon, and I follow switchbacks down to a bridge. A young couple is crossing towards me, videotaping their passage with a selfie stick and stuck to each other with the lust of youth. As soon as I turn right down the junction on the other side, people in flip-flops and swimsuits are everywhere. Beer cans, too. Several use trails are smeared down the steep slope of the canyon, and I can hear the enthusiastic voices of a crowd in the depths. I yearn to join the party, but I know that I would only feel more alone if I did. I’m just not wired for large groups, and these aren’t my type of people. Besides, I’m well behind most PCT hikers, and I need to catch up if I’m going to beat winter to the Canadian border. As I turn the corner of the canyon, I’m given a view of the crowd gathered in clumps around a swimming hole at the base of a waterfall. A couple young men jump from the cliffs above to impress their friends and girls. It resembles a frat party, but still I feel a jealousy like nostalgia. My first full day of thru-hiking, and I’m already lonely.
A couple miles later, the trail dips down next to Deep Creek, and I stop to fill my water and soak my feet in the shade. A large hispanic family has parked their four-wheelers next to the water and the children are playing amongst the rocks. The three young men who took my photo arrive just as I’ve finished pumping water, and they give me peanut m&ms and ask me questions about the trail. It’s a relaxing rest, but I have to get moving again. The previously crowded trail is suddenly empty, and I feel the absence of people like a heavy blanket. I gaze down at the water and boulders as the trail snakes around the western wall of the canyon. Miles pass, and my feet are tired. I have already passed twenty miles, and I’m looking forward to the hot springs a few miles ahead. A hippie with dreadlocks tied up in a man-bun passes in the other direction, with his bag hanging from a stick over his shoulder, and then I see a naked couple sunning themselves on a large granite boulder in the creek bed. I must be getting close. The canyon and the trail take a hard turn to the left, and suddenly I am at the hot springs. Hammocks and tents are scattered among the aspens. Overweight couples strut about without clothes, and a variety of individuals and small groups are wading and sitting in the creek and the springs. I strip down and jump in the closest spring. It’s piping hot, and I can only stay in for a minute before I pop over the rock wall and into the cold creek. A guy in his fifties is feeding scraps to his dog, and two guys with southern accents and brash attitudes are hitting on two thong-clad girls in their early twenties. I listen in to their conversation: the girls are on a road trip and heard about this place yesterday when they were in Big Bear. The guys are local, so I ask one of them a question about camping nearby, which is illegal but seems to be common. It’s a party zone, and I don’t actually have plans to camp here, but I’m craving human interaction, and this might be a way into the conversation. A little way upstream there’s an area that can’t be seen from the trail, he tells me. Camp there, and the cops won’t bother you. And with that, they’re back into their conversation without me.
A guy in his thirties does a backflip into the creek and comes within inches of busting his head open on the rock. All conversation stops in shock. When he pops up out of the water, he doesn’t seem to realize how close he came to tragedy. I tread water in the creek for a little longer, feeling more alone for all the groups around me, and then get out to dry off and have a snack before I depart. The little dog comes up and greets me, and his owner asks me if I’m hiking the PCT. When I tell him that I am, he offers me hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and potato chips. I devour them all. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Conversation comes easy over food, and some of my gloom lifts. When I depart, he tells me to watch out for rattlesnakes. My mood has lifted, but my feet are aching. I hike for a few more miles and start to look for a campsite, but there are none. White graffiti covers nearly every rock. One says “RIP Rafael” and the canyon suddenly seems more menacing. A use trail leads down to an abandoned cement building far below the main trail, and below that, a wide sandy area that extends far enough away from the creek that I could camp without breaking LNT principles. It’s close to sunset, I’ve hiked 27 miles today, and I don’t know where the next campsite will be. I struggle downhill and set up my tent between graffiti-tagged boulders and wonder whether I’m camping in gang territory. I suddenly feel very alone again. June 10, 2016 Mile 280-284 I hug my dad and disappear into the forest. It’s about 6pm, and I need to find a campsite before it gets dark. I can hear the crunch of my dad’s tires as he drives back down the dirt road. I suddenly feel very alone out here. I’m about a quarter mile from Cougar Crest, where I left off two weeks ago. I could backtrack that quarter mile, but it hardly seems like the forest will have changed much, or that I will have missed some amazing view in that short section, and the fire closures have already ruined any chance of a continuous footpath between Mexico and Canada, so it doesn’t really disturb me to skip it. Within a couple hundred yards, I have a view of Big Bear Lake, with all of its people and buildings. It seems far away. My dad and I made a stop in Big Bear, for dinner and cash. I lost my Moleskine notebook on the train ride down to Southern California, and it had my driver’s license, credit card, debit card, and the cash I was going to bring with me, so the $160 my dad gave me is all I have to get me through until Lindsey can mail me my replacement cards in a couple weeks. It’s a little nerve-racking—what if the package doesn’t get there in time, or gets lost in the mail? What if I run out of money to buy food? I’ve never realized how dependent I am on my wallet. Perhaps it will be good for me to get away from that for a bit, try a different way of living. I make the conscious decision to let the worry go, and although it doesn’t disappear completely, I’m able to start enjoying the evening. The trail is lined with flowers and pine trees, and something about the light makes it seem later than it is. I find my hiking rhythm almost immediately, and quickly come across a good spot for camping. It’s flat, open, and has a great view of the lake. But I’ve just gotten my engines revved up, and I’m not ready to stop hiking yet. Maybe I’ll bite off another mile or two. The trail flies by, and I think about what I’m going to do next year. I’ve just quit my job. I can hardly believe it. The last two weeks of teaching were even more difficult than usual, and I found out that the school was going to cut the beginning band program, hacking off the roots that I had put in place the previous year to help save the program. It was the last straw. Lindsey and I talked about it for a few days, and we both decided that it was time for me to try something else. I put in my resignation two days before the end of the school year. Of course, now that I am unemployed, that means I can finish the entire PCT this year. And it makes more sense: If I start another job, I’m not likely to have next summer off to do the second half. I think about my many interests, and try to decide on something that could be a good fit. Several ideas come to mind, but none makes for an obvious career. The trail opens into a recovering burn area in a valley. Charred tree trunks are casting long shadows in the shrubs and grasses. I’m not ready to hike alone in the dark yet, so I start to look around for a campsite. I find one above the trail on one of the valley’s folds and enjoy a spectacular sunset.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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