We wake almost as soon as it is light. The area is bustling with other backpackers packing their gear. The few hikers who are still in their tents must be deep sleepers. Lindsey and I are among the first to depart Rodriguez Canyon. A dirt road runs next to the fire tank, and the trail starts up on the other side. It cuts across the side of a stolid, pyramid-like mountain that I am tempted to climb on some future trip. My list of “stuff to see again” is getting longer every day that I’m out here, and I’m less than a hundred miles into this trip. It’s one thing to know rationally that the world is big; it’s another to put your feet on the earth and experience it step by step. What a glorious place we live. The ice showers, or more accurately, sprays, continue in a few gusts as we make our way along the side of the mountain. As we move away from the canyon, I am able to see more of the basin we were camped above. It is an immense triangle. The mountains we are slowly cutting across form the southeast wall, to the north is a light brown range, and the western edge is framed by a taller range that appears a darker brown. Each of the points of the triangle is a valley that stretches beyond view. This is erosion writ large, humble water gently imposing its will on the immensity of earth. We take our time down the trail and discuss whether we need to end our trip. If we run into another windy night, the tent is doomed; the splint can only be used for one breakage. We’re tired and haven’t slept much for two nights in a row. When we get to a spot with cell service, I call my mom to see if she would even be able to pick us up. She says she can, but it would be late the next day. That’s fine. We can hitch into the town of Julian this afternoon and spend the night in a hotel. The wind is all but gone now. The ice sprays, too. The sun comes out, and a rainbow appears across the distant mountains. It’s looking to be a much nicer day. Between that and the knowledge that we’ll have a safe place to sleep tonight, we both relax and enjoy the hike. Two fighter jets rip through the basin and we track them for ages before they finally disappear. This basin is even larger than it appears. A few hikers pass us one at a time. Tars, Monique, Cathy. I turn my attention to the desert flora, which seems particularly vibrant. Dull grasses and chaparral have mostly disappeared, replaced by yucca, ocotillo, and several varieties of cacti. Everything is blooming, and the juxtapositions between the yellows of the barrel cactus and cholla, the pinks of the prickly pear, and splashes of purple and red from unidentified blooms, are an endless and ever-changing delight. As we continue around the mountain, I can see miles of trail ahead, running a long slow descent northeastward to the basin floor, and then a straight line north to scissors crossing, where four lightly-traveled roads criss-cross before they head off toward distant towns. I tell Lindsey about a story my dad loved to tell, about a man he knew with an award-winning cactus garden (although who goes around giving awards for cactus gardens, I have no idea). People asked him how he was able to create such healthy cactus. His answer: “I read the weather reports in the paper every day. When it rains in the desert, I water my cactus.” Moral: You can’t outdo nature. We pass a mobile home built up on a hill, miles from anything except the trail. A mile or so later, I climb a small ways off trail to collect a mylar balloon that has travelled a long chain of irresponsibility to get here: a manufacturer who no doubt knows the negative impacts on wildlife and chooses to make it anyway; a retailer who chooses profits over responsibility; a fool, perhaps a parent or coworker, who perhaps means well but out of ignorance—or worse—indifference, makes the purchase; a devil who releases it into the air with disregard for the consequences to life. A latex balloon takes from 6 months to 4 years to biodegrade. That’s already an awful burden to put into the wild, but use google to look up the time it takes for a mylar balloon to decompose, and you won’t find a clear answer. That’s because nobody knows. Mylar, which is polyester film covered with a metallic coating, is considered “not biodegradable”. Balloons regularly kill all manner of animals: some mammals and sea turtles will try to eat them and starve to death, and birds and ocean life can get trapped in the ribbons. Please, if you want to celebrate, there are much better alternatives: blow bubbles instead of releasing balloons, give potted plants and flowers. I’ll even subject myself to listen to one of those blasted airhorns if you agree not to release balloons into the ecosystem. We stop several more times on our way down the mountain in order to strip off layers of clothing. The wind is completely gone now, and the heat begins to intensify. By the time we hit the desert floor, it is easily eighty degrees, probably pushing ninety. The trail is still a gentle downhill, but it looks and feels flatter than before. I look for snakes among the cactus and dry bushes, slightly disappointed that I haven’t seen one already, and I begin to wonder how difficult it will be to get a hitch. I’ve never done this before, and I’m a little nervous about it. Before we know it we are at the road. Monique and Tars have been there for a few minutes, and Cathy is just taking off her pack. They’re talking with a bearded man who introduces himself as Trail Angel Ed. He offers us cold water and a ride to Julian, and we gladly accept both. It’s several miles to Julian, and we ask Ed about his trail angel experiences. He does this regularly, he says, and enjoys helping out hikers. He also mentions that he’s working on a master’s degree and is writing a research paper about PCT hikers. When we arrive in town, Ed points out several hiker-friendly spots and gives us advice on where to eat and stay. We all opt to check in to the Julian Lodge. Lindsey and I shower and wash our laundry in the bathtub and sink. A wagonload of dirt comes out of our clothes and gear. It’s like a magic trick—I don’t know where it could have been hiding! It takes us a good forty-five minutes just to clean it all up. We go out for food at the Miner Diner—it’s strange to be around normal people again—, then for a beer at Buffalo Bill’s, and finally to “Mom’s” for some famous apple pie a la mode. We opt out of the apple and choose strawberry rhubarb instead. It's a good choice. The two girls from the first day (we learn their names are Haven and Kristen) are sitting with another girl, who I don’t recognize. They have skipped ahead from Mt. Laguna because of the wind. We tell them our horror stories from the wind. It takes me about 15 minutes of sitting and talking with them before I realize that the third girl is Cathy. After a shower and with her hair down, she looks like a completely different person.
Lindsey and I go back to our room and read our books until it gets dark. We look at the weather for the next few days. Low 80s, no wind, no rain. We talk it through and then call my mom: Never mind about the ride, we’re going to continue hiking.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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