July 25, 2016 Mile 549.0-565.1 16.1 Miles I am resentful. I was ready to sleep to the end of the universe, but instead my alarm has woken me at 4:30am again. I briefly consider rolling over and going back to sleep, but first I need water. A dry wind cools an otherwise warm morning; when it isn’t blowing, sweat percolates up through my skin. As cool water runs down my throat, my mind comes online, and the bitterness of being awakened is replaced by the realization that I can make it to town today. I step outside to empty my bladder and something scurries at the edge of my light’s beam. When I come back and start to pack up I see a kangaroo rat sitting on his haunches next to my tent. He quickly bounces away. I start my packing routine but he’s back in seconds, trying to jump in through the unzipped door of my tent. Bold fellow. Cute, too. I’m sure he smells my food. I shoo him away, once, twice, then zip up the door of my tent to finish packing. When I finish he’s right there, always hopping at a safe distance. I strap up and look around for the trail. In the dark with all of the fallen logs around I can't tell where it is. I was so tired last night that I don't even remember from what direction I left the trail. I pull out my phone and check the GPS with a bit of chagrin; self-reliant I am not. As it turns out, I’ve camped in a spot where the trail surrounds me in every direction but East. I start walking in a direction that I think is North, and step back onto the trail. Even in this pre-dawn darkness, I can see smoke smeared across the eastern sky, lit from below by the pink-orange lights of the town of Mojave. It permeates the air with a pungent, stinging taste. Later I will learn that the fire burned over forty-one thousand acres, destroyed eighteen buildings, and killed two people. I hike downhill, through a pipe gate where a line of windmills stand guard. Their red blinking lights illuminate my path. There is wind here, but the windmills stand still except for one, which creaks like an old swing set as it rocks slowly. An orange dawn begins, creeping into the black smudges of smoke. I hike down to a road where a post bears the names and phone numbers of thirty trail angels who are willing to come pick me up and give me a ride to town. That there are so many people willing to selflessly help us hikers warms my heart. I take a picture because there's another road in seven miles and I should get those miles done while I still have a cool morning to hike. Across the road is the sort of display usually found at those flat half-mile nature walks intended to include young children and the elderly. The displays are tilted posters mounted behind plexiglass at waist level, but instead of identifying species of bird and rodent, they identify the different types of windmill. I'm curious and have nowhere else to be, so I stand and read all four displays. I learn where the windfarm sends its power, which types of windmill are most efficient, and some of the history behind wind farming. One of the displays talks about the PCT, and I imagine I’m a tourist learning about it for the first time. I look south and imagine the Mexican border. Memories come flooding in. I look north to Canada. Imagination and memories are intermingled. Still so much to see. I imagine watching myself walk over the hills. What would I think, if I didn’t know about the PCT yet? Hobo? Pilgrim? I’d probably wonder why someone put a trail through the middle of a windfarm in the desert, and why anyone would want to hike it instead of the more beautiful mountains up north. If it weren’t part of the PCT, I probably would never have chosen to hike here, but I’m glad I'm here experiencing something different and learning the realities of how wilderness and civilization are intermingled. It gives me a sense of freedom to hike through civilized places, and it helps me see how a mountain lion or a coyote might experience their habitat. I hike away from the displays and forget most of what I read within a few steps. The tall dead grass is littered with plastic bags and bottles. I pass amongst a hodgepodge of different windmills and all I can remember is which ones are old models and which ones are newer. I climb a rise and disappear into the rolling hills. It feels like I am walking through someone’s backyard. It's all pasture land, but it’s divided into small parcels and there are farmhouses just a few hundred feet away. I imagine a family eating breakfast inside, looking out to see a hiker walking through their property. What was it like two months ago, when hundreds of hikers were coming through every day? I wonder whether the families knew what they were signing up for when they agreed to let the trail pass through. After several of these farms, I enter public land again. It’s easy to tell, because the grass is no longer green and chewed short. Long golden grasses cover the hillside and nearly obscure the trail. The heat is rising. I start a series of barren switchbacks down towards a freeway. Two men are walking the switchbacks below me. It takes me about twenty minutes to catch up.
“Good morning!” I say. “Oh, good morning.” They haven’t seen me coming. They have white hair, cut short under their trucker caps. One of them asks “Are you hiking the Pacific Crest Trail?” “Yeah.” “The whole thing?” “I’m hoping to. At least that’s the plan.” “Aren’t you kind of late? Are you gonna make it to Canada?” “I had to jump around a bit. I've already done a couple hundred miles ahead of this.” “Oh, good.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I’m getting ready to wish them a good hike and head on when he says “Are you going into town? Do you need a ride?” They drop me off at a Dennys on the edge of the town. I’ve been craving eggs and it’s 11:30 on a Monday; not many other places I'll be able to get eggs. The hostess makes leave my backpack in the foyer. I sit with my coffee and a book near the window and watch every person who goes by to make sure they aren't carrying my backpack away. I recognize it as a silly fear, but that's everything I own right now: shelter, food, clothing, bedding. I eat two breakfasts. I’m dreading going back out in this heat, so I decide to get a motel room. It's a long walk on pavement into the main part of Tehachapi. Longer than I expected, at least; long walks are all relative now. By the time I arrive I am a sweaty mess again. The town is lopsided: downtown is three or four blocks of a main street that runs east/west, and nearly all of the houses are on the south side. There’s not a soul around, maybe because it's over a hundred degrees, maybe because it’s Monday afternoon. Not even cars driving by. I find a motel near the two-feature movie theater, but no one answers the bell. Is this town abandoned? I find another motel on the south side of town, close to a park. This time someone answers. The proprietor checks me out a room and gives me a hiker discount, then asks me to make sure I clean up after myself. “And no drugs,” she says. I assure her that there will be no drugs. I spend the afternoon enjoying the freedom of no more miles. I watch a movie—I am the only one in the theater—then I pick up a six pack of beer and go back to my hotel room to clean up and call Lindsey from an air conditioned room. I’m feeling a little guilty about being off the trail so soon, but mostly I feel relieved to be out of the heat.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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