When we wake, it is cold, but it is the dry type of desert cold that presages a hot day. Our campground is next to interstate 8, and our first act after breaking camp is to pass underneath the wide bridge. Shade from the bridge and a small creek have given a few aspens and other foliage a chance to flourish; an unlikely oasis. Years ago, I lived and taught in Phoenix, Arizona. My sister lived in San Diego, and my mom in Temecula, so Interstate 8 was a fairly common route for me. Every time I would pass this area, I would look for the PCT and imagine that every dirt track I saw could be it, so this crossing is laden with meaning for me. As it turns out, I misjudged the location of the crossing by about a half mile on my drives. As we emerge from under the bridge, I imagine future travels along this corridor and I already view this moment as a memory. We begin a steep climb, and within minutes we are stripping layers of clothes. A few switchbacks later we pass a young British woman with red hair in a bob cut. She has traveled here to hike the trail, but already has doubts about her ability to finish. This is much harder than she expected, she says. She is hiking alone, and I think it is this as much as anything else that is hurting her spirits. I encourage her to stick it out until the Sierra, and I try to express the colorful beauty of those mountains, but how can I? She tells me they sound great, but I can already tell she will quit long before then if her experience doesn’t improve soon. This climb is already much longer than the climb out of Hauser Canyon, and the day warms quickly. A rocky canyon with a few pools of water drops away on our left, and clumps of bright yellow poppies spring up between the rocks around us. After a particularly steep section, we break at a flat rocky lookout to catch our breath. This would be a good campsite. We are already at least a thousand feet above the interstate, and I think I can still make out the border wall 30 miles south of us. I notice that we have already passed wind turbines that seemed impossibly far to the north of us on the first day, and I marvel at the hugeness of the earth, and also the speed with which we are able to traverse it. I fear that I am consuming the landscape too quickly, but I’m also ravenous. The landscape changes again as we circle east, from sand and rock to thick bushes and darker dirt. We come across a crowd of day hikers with cameras. A guide explains how to identify a bush, and the crowd murmurs polite manufactured interest; the nature walk sounded more interesting in the advertisement. We cross a road and continue around the eastern face of a mountain. The view is unbroken. The mountain side drops steeply down to the desert floor far below us, and we can see dry mountains and flat desert for at least 50 miles to the east and south. A strong, hot wind dries our skin and chaps our lips, and we struggle to stay on the trail. We rest often. The trail continues its endless climb, and soon we are back in the chaparral, which has been cut way back so the trail resembles more of a broad sidewalk than a dirt track. The clippings are recent, and scattered along the sides of the path. I wonder whether the whole trail will be this well maintained. It doesn’t seem possible. I hike ahead for a bit, and we finally have a meandering descent, which is short-lived and blisteringly hot. After another long uphill, I climb up a granite formation and make lunch while I wait for Lindsey. Several day hikers pass, one of whom jokes that I must be practicing to be a mountain lion ready to pounce on unsuspecting hikers. Lindsey joins soon enough and we eat peanut butter and nutella burritos. As I try to produce enough saliva to swallow each bite, I quietly vow to myself that peanut butter will not be one of my hiking staples. After lunch, we both feel sluggish and weak, so when we see a flat grassy area under a large tree about an hour later, we break out our sleeping pads and lie down in the shade. I sleep for about a half hour, and then read my book while Lindsey continues to nap. No hikers walk by in the entire two hours. When Lindsey wakes, she feels much better. Trees become more common, and for the first time on this trip, we cross running water. The rill is small enough to step across, but it works magic on our morale. We still have a long climb, but the sun is less intense, and soon enough we are in a forest. A lot of fuss is made over the seven hundred miles of desert that begin the PCT, but the truth is less dramatic: many of those miles pass through islands of mountain forest. This is our first forest of the trip, and it is peaceful and open. It reminds me, in fact, of the forest around Flagstaff, Arizona, where I lived for two years and visited often thereafter. We have finished our uphill climb and meander through the forest with only minimal elevation changes. Eventually we find our way to the Mt. Laguna campground, which is artificially grassy and eerily empty. We are disheartened to find that the water is off.
Lindsey is exhausted, and I wander off to the nearby road and restaurant—the Pine House Café—to look for a nearby sporting goods store. As I exit the campground, I see why it’s empty: the gates are closed. I ask about the shop, and they tell me it’s about a quarter mile down the road, but it’s already closed. On my way out, I see a sign for live music, and then I hear a crunching sound. I look over to see a silver Mercedes backing up; the driver has driven into—and knocked over—a fiberglass road marker. I walk back to the campground and see a few new tents in a nearby campsite. I tell Lindsey about the sporting goods store and the live music and we decide to go eat dinner at the Café. We bundle up, walk over, take the last available table and order veggie burgers. The band starts up, and they’re quite good. They are a jam band at the end of a tour, and they have a polish and ease that reflects a practiced touch and the enjoyment of playing for a home crowd. We drink hot buttered rum and I think to myself, trail life is good. By the time we head back to camp, it is dark and cold. The campground is still. We are suffused with alcohol and good music, and we nest comfortably into our down bags.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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