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