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