July 28, 2016 Mile 608.9-630.8 21.9 Miles Darkness and shouting. An engine humming. Two—no, three voices shouting in the dark. Two male, one female. Unintelligible voices. Are they drunk? It's two-thirty in the morning. Water attracts life. I’m not sure what else these three humans are up to out here at two thirty in the morning, but certainly they’re collecting water. In truth, their voices are a little like water to me, loud and brash as they are. I haven’t heard a human voice in two days, and only during the brief stop in Tehachapi for the two days before that. I want to rise up out of my tent and cross the campground to them, have a conversation. But there’s a chance that strangers in the desert at two-thirty in the morning might not have the most noble intentions. And besides, it’s two-thirty in the morning. What would I say to them? “Hi, I was just sleeping over there and you woke me up. Do you have any tasty food?” What would I look like to them, dirt-caked and groggy, stumbling into their headlights out of the dark like a phantom? I'd as likely get shot out of fear and shock as not. I just roll over and listen to their shouts in the dark, enjoying the sound of voices and my invisible anonymity in the corner of the woods. In the morning I fill myself with water until I’m bursting at the seams and replenish my bottles. This is a forty-four mile stretch with no reliable water source. In fact, the water report tells me that right now every source from here to Walker Pass is reliably dry. There might be some caches where the PCT intersects dirt roads, but I can't count on them this late in the season. My pack groans under the weight; my hips and the soles of my feet complain louder. It’s going to be a long day. I while away the morning hours inside my head, running over the same ground that I’ve covered nearly every day since I started this trip. Agonizing over my purpose in life, feeling the pain of my regrets, counting my shortcomings. In my better moments, I make promises to myself, set goals, analyze how my shortcomings might be used as strengths. That takes great effort, like channeling a river through a new course, but I can see it is valuable work and I make the effort whenever I remember. Even more difficult is self-forgiveness. It feels wrong, especially when the injury includes someone else. Unkind words spoken out of anger or hurt, broken relationships that I was too young and immature to see my way out of without breaking both of us. At times the mental thrashing becomes so great that it just stops out of sheer fatigue. In those moments I gain something close to peace, and it always surprises me. In those moments I let go of the tangled threads and turn my attention outward, and the great knot inside of me seems to loosen a bit. Today, as the knot loosens and I turn my attention outward, I find myself looking at rows of desert mountains. Not the nothing view of the flatlands, but the first intimations of real mountains—the Sierra Nevada. Scrub and pine are scattered among brassy grasses. I imagine ahead to Walker Pass, where Lindsey dropped me off and I met Shoes. It is simultaneously the future and the past. All this skipping around has me completely scrambled, and I find myself once again letting go of the thread of the trail, the narrative of what my through-hike is supposed to be. Hike your own hike, I think, even if it’s not the hike you expected. I follow one of the ridges on an old dirt road. I can see for miles, but the only evidence that there are other creatures anywhere on the earth are the jet contrails streaked across the sky. The trail drops over the side of the ridge and turns east. A huge valley gapes open below. With my eyes I trace the drainage lines from the northwest and north down and across to where this valley opens into a larger plain to the southeast. The area is enormous and it is difficult to believe that water has carved all this out in a desert that sees rain only a few times a year. I am struck by the massive scale of time that is written here on the face of the earth, and the span of my life seems microscopic in comparison. All my worries and regrets and hurts, as well as my goals and desires, they all seem like the scurrying of an ant in a maelstrom: pointless. My knots loosen a little further. I find more of my consciousness letting go of other concerns and joining in experiencing the present moment. The heat is getting bad, and I start to look for a place to rest and eat some lunch. I might be in ant in a maelstrom, but I can still take care of this body. An old tree is rooted in the slope just above the trail. Its branches are thick like telephone poles and create a half-globe of shady leaves. Under the dome of its canopy I eat lunch and look down on the trail that cuts down through the sandy floor far below, a white line stretching for miles to the east before it disappears around another desert mountain. There is no shade in all those miles, I realize with a sinking in my gut. I am down from seven liters to three and I still have at least 30 miles before the next water source. I consider whether I should stay here in the shade until evening and then hike into the night, but I’m afraid that I’ll be out of water by then, and there’s still a chance that there’s a water cache ahead. I decide to continue. The second I step out from under the canopy the sun reminds me of its strength and superiority. I am starting to feel a little nauseous and beat down. The trail heads downhill and I am grateful for it. It’s a long downhill along the side of the slope. Something flashes in desert floor; probably a mylar balloon. It’s an hour to the desert floor, and then the trail turns over a small hill right before a road crossing. When I crest it a wave of relief washes over my body. There, in the bushes next to the road, are fifty gallon-sized jugs of water. Filled to capacity and heavy again, I start the blazing trudge along the desert floor. I am carrying a chrome-dome umbrella, silver above and black below, that blocks the direct sunlight, but the reflection from the sand is almost as hot and almost as blinding. I am squinting through my sunglasses and a sharp headache starts to form in my temples. When the path is straight and smooth, I close my eyes and hike blind for several steps at a time for a little relief. I come across a backpacker resting in a patchy bit of shade under a Joshua tree. The first human I have seen in days. We exchange a few brief words, but he seems groggy and reticent to speak, like he just woke from a nap, and I am out of practice. I wish him luck. Spiny plants. Dried-out grey shrubs. Dismembered remains of Joshuas. And sand—endless sand that shifts under my feet with every step and rubs inside my shoes and radiates heat. I am ready to be done with the sand. I climb a long rise with flat desert stretching out away. The farther I can see, the more apparent my isolation becomes. And yet something in the simple difficulty of it all gives me confidence. I start to believe in my self-sufficiency and begin to embrace the brutal heat and intense solitude.
A dirt road and a nature-walk display reveal themselves at the top of the rise. I read about desert tortoises and the Mojave desert. I’m back atop the eastern slope of the Pacific Crest, with views down into the endless flatlands. I search for tortoises, but they elude me. I follow the trail north again, skirting the dirt road for a few more miles, digging my feet up and down the sandy slopes. I check for cell service. None. Walk a half mile, check again. Nothing. It obsesses me. My love of solitude was ephemeral, it appears; all I want now is to call my wife. I finally get a bit of service around the other side of the mountain. I call Lindsey and her voice is an oasis, seeping in and banishing stress I didn’t know I had. We only talk for a couple minutes because service isn’t great and I can see Bird Spring pass, where I plan to camp, a mile or so ahead in a saddle that has wider views. That should mean better service, right? I’ll try to call her after I get there. I hike down to the pass. It has a large mountain to the north, a small hill just to the south, and big views to East and West. This will be incredible at sunset and sunrise. A well-maintained dirt road intersects the trail, and just on the other side are 5-gallon water jugs, arranged like a honeycomb, most of them full. I have a couple liters left, but dinner and breakfast to make and another fifteen miles to hike tomorrow. I feel immense gratitude for the trail angels who keep us hikers safe and hydrated. I set up my tent and then check my phone. No service. What a load of crap. This is the most open spot I’ve been in all day. There should be tons of service! I hike back up the trail a little bit to see if I can catch a little bit. I find one bar, then two, but every time I try to call Lindsey the call fails. I try hiking up to the top of the hill. It’s taller than it looked. Only one bar, and the call fails again. I consider hiking back a mile, but it was a choppy conversation the first time and I’m nervous to hike that far away from my gear. Besides, another mile uphill sounds exhausting. I try to call a few more times, but finally I give up and return to my campsite, my book, and an early dinner.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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