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.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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