April 2, 2016 A couple times through the night I become conscious of coyotes howling. Earlier, they were off a ways to the northwest. Now, closer and to the east. I wonder how close they had passed by my tent, but I am not worried. Bears and mountain lions worry me; coyotes seem harmless. I look at unknown constellations through the mesh ceiling on my tent and drift peacefully back into my gentle dreams. In the morning, I am well rested; so far, this is my best night of sleep on this trip. The predawn light gives the morning a fresh happy feeling, like a blank canvas or a new book. I climb out of my tent, and ooh! Ouch, my feet are tender! The previous day’s 25 miles have taken their toll. This is the first time my tent has been dry in the morning. It’s more enjoyable and faster to pack up with dry hands, and I break camp within 15 minutes. These desert hills are hard on my sore feet, but I’m able to ignore the pain after a while. I focus on the stillness and emptiness of the desert. No sounds except the sandpaper crunch of my shoes, no motion but mine. Between dinner, breakfast, and a few sips in the night, I have nearly run out of water. The water report says the next reliable source is Tulley Spring, about a half mile off trail. I’ve been avoiding hiking off-trail to get water, but it looks like this time I’ll have no choice. The next few water sources are caches left by trail angels, and I’ve heard that some hikers have arrived to find the bottles empty and no one around. The angels are having a difficult time keeping the caches stocked for the larger number of thru hikers that have begun to use the trail this year. When I arrive at the dirt road that turns off toward the spring, I see a mesh tent. A man sits up in his sleeping bag and looks out at me. I feel like I have somehow violated his privacy, but he is set up right next to the junction, and I don’t see how I could have avoided it. The road heads downhill, and I see a few more tents scattered around. A woman calls out hello to me as I reach the spring, which is really a hose attached to a pump. I sit down and start filtering water with my Sawyer Squeeze. It takes me about ten minutes to filter 4 liters, and during that entire time, the woman who called out to me has been brushing her long blonde hair. She is still brushing it as I start to climb back up the hill. When I get close to the trail, the man who looked out from his tent earlier is hiking down. We exchange a few words, and I joke that the climb back up is much harder than the way down. He replies that that was why he left all his stuff at the top. Oh yeah, I guess I could have done that. Most of my backpacking experience is from the Sierras, where an unattended pack is prey to bears, marmots, and chipmunks, so it didn’t occur to me that I could just leave it and come back. Oh well, too late now. I hike down and back up through a couple canyons, then up a sandy slope near a semi-developed area. The lots are spacious and rectangular, each with a single mobile home or RV in the center. Plastic chairs and children’s toys are scattered in the dirt. There is no one around, and I can’t decide if the area is abandoned or if it’s still too early in the day for normal people to be awake. Speaking of normal people, what sort of people decide to live out here, far from people, in a harsh desert landscape? The desert can be beautiful, but these ugly lots are not. Nonetheless, I begin to feel like I can understand the desire for a simpler, more relaxing life, and how that might outweigh the need for greenery or society. I come across the first water cache, a set of shelves with one gallon plastic jugs. But I am still full with water, so I sign the trail log and move on. A little while later, I come across the second water cache: Malibu East. It sports a variety of island kitsch, including surfboards and painted bar signs. I skip this one, too. Later, I will learn that a cooler is often stocked with cold soda, and the pit stop features a tiny library, and I will regret my haste. I start another long climb, with each rise giving way to a higher rise, and cactus flowers on all sides. Canyons drop to the sides of the trail in steep, dizzying cliffs. I am on top of the world. As I approach the final crest, the flora suddenly changes from sparse cactus to grass and shrubs. A horned lizard scurries off the trail and hides in the grass. A sign reads “table-top road”. A new valley opens before me. To the left, a verdant slope is topped with a tractor and a mobile home. To the right, the valley crumbles over a precipice into distant views of rocky desert. Straight ahead, a large mountain obscures the San Jacinto range behind it. A single scar cuts across the mountain face—a graded dirt road—and a distant hiker appears there as a white dot, slowly and steadily climbing. An overhanging bush provides shade for a rest and a snack, both of which I need sorely. The temperature must be pushing triple digits, and my feet are still tender. I check the map, do some mental calculations on my pace, and text Lindsey to tell her I should reach the road at about two o’clock.
When I start hiking again, the trail follows the disintegrating edge of the valley, mere inches from the steep erosions that spill into the desert. It is exposed and hot and dry, and I can’t seem to drink enough water to keep my throat wet for more than a few seconds. When the trail turns onto the the dirt road I saw earlier, I am too tired to climb but too hot to stop in the sun, so I push through and slog slowly uphill. The promise of a good meal at the Paradise Cafe keeps me going. The road turns, and I am rewarded by a short downhill section before I reach the road. It is 1:58. I walk out the gate and turn left, toward the cafe. It is another mile of road-walking, but I only take a few steps before I see Lindsey driving up to meet me. At the Paradise Valley Cafe, we sit outside on the porch with bikers and road warriors, and I am simultaneously proud to be a PCT hiker and embarrassed of how I smell and look. The bustle of the restaurant seems somehow distant from me, like I am watching it through a pane of glass. It also seems so unnecessary. Lunch is enormous and delicious: Veggie burger, french fries, chocolate shake and a beer. When we get up from the table, I’m not sure what makes it harder to move—sore muscles and tender feet, or my bloated belly. We drive up the road to a small bed and breakfast in Idyllwild. As grateful as I am to have a bed and shower waiting for me, I already miss the trail, and I can't wait to come back.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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