April 1, 2016 It’s a tenth of a mile to the road. To the right is a fire station, and past that, the Warner Springs school grounds. My mom used to teach at that school. My adopted siblings Wanish and Autumn were students there. Elementary, Middle, and High School are all on this one small campus. Across the street is the community center. The area is a large fenced in square, with showers, restrooms, a small market, a parking lot, and a large lawn, which hikers are invited to camp upon. The market is closed this early, but I have plenty of food anyway. While we wait for my mom in the parking lot, I check the weather for the next two days on my phone. Sunny and warm, no wind, no rain. I decide to lighten my pack. Rain jacket, wind shirt, thermals, extra food—it all goes with Lindsey. My pack would be considerably lighter if it weren’t for the 4 liters of water that I have just refilled. Mom, Wanish, and Autumn show up with homemade egg and cheese bagels and chai lattes from Starbucks. Who says backpacking can’t be luxurious? We sit on the back bumper and devour our food. A couple of backpackers—one male, one female—who were camped on the lawn come over. I can tell they’re hoping this is trail magic—gifts of food and other kindness from random strangers, whom we refer to as trail angels—, and I suddenly feel guilty for not telling my mom to bring some extra food to share. They don’t seem to expect it, though, and they stick around to talk even after it becomes obvious that there’s no extra food. They are hiking with their friends, another couple who have to get off the trail due to knee problems. I’m grateful that my knees have held up. I’m anxious to get going—every fifteen minutes I spend resting is three-quarters of a mile that I could be hiking, and today will be my only chance to do some big miles. I chug the last half of my chai, hug my mom and siblings, kiss Lindsey, and depart on my own just before 7am. The trail is back on pastureland that slopes down to the west, affording a long view. The morning air is cool and pleasant, and the sun is just reaching over mountains to the east and glinting off the dewey grass. Once again, I am filled with a sense of gratitude. It doesn’t take long before the caffeine from this morning’s chai courses through me. A volume knob has quite suddenly been turned up dramatically: my sense of awareness, thoughts and ideas, the buzz of energy all seem to intensify at once. Physically, it manifests in a quick rhythmic pace and a long, sure stride. I am pure energy unfettered. The trail slopes down between trees, and I almost lose my way among several dirt roads and what seems to be an obstacle course designed for team-building. I cross another road, paved, and walk above a tree-lined wash that is obviously aiming for the mountains ahead. I pass into and out of the shade, and each time the shift in temperature seems more dramatic. Eventually the trees become more sparse, and more time is spent under the heat of the sun. I pass a campsite. An older hiker is just putting out his illegal campfire. This will make me angry for at least two more miles. The whole of Southern California is tinder; snap the branch of any bush or tree to see how dry and brittle the vegetation is here. Fires that destroy entire ecosystems and communities spring up weekly. But fuck all that, my personal desire to look at a pretty fire in the morning is more important than the homes and lives of countless animals and people. Fuck that guy. As the trail reaches the foot of the mountains, I cross paths with the father and daughter we met the previous day. The mother and son are hiking a little ways ahead. They must have passed while I was at the community center. I stop to talk with the father for a couple minutes, and the daughter jumps into the conversation to add anecdotes about her little brother. She is proud of him. Another shift in vegetation as I start the climb up the mountain: trees exit stage left, thick chaparral enters from all directions. It forms walls on either side of the trail. This goes on for miles as I wind my way up the mountains. Over and over I look ahead to what appears to be the high point of this section, only to turn a corner and realize that there is another, larger mountain behind this one. It seems impossible that I am still headed uphill. It seems like there there should be a metaphor for life in this endless succession of peaks, but I can’t decide if it’s positive or negative. The long uphill hike is a blur punctuated only by momentary images: A lone female hiker lies in the shade between bushes, eating one of three snickers bars she has laid out on her mat. At a spur trail to a nearby spring (the water report mentions an accumulation of leaves and larvae—I skip it), a PCT marker provides a sunny spot for a lizard doing push-ups. Passing around the side of a mountain, an overhanging tree trunk sports a kitschy wood sign: “Take a picture, it lasts longer.” Longer than what? Perhaps longer than this wilderness. I’m still pissed at the fuckwad with the fire. I finally reach the top, and the trail mercifully tips me downhill into a playground of khaki boulders and flowers of salmon and plum. The basin is a three-sided bowl, tipped toward the northeast. This seems as good a place to break for lunch as any. “Keep going Spinner!” is written in the dirt. After lunch, I am rewarded with a good half hour of downhill, and then the uphill starts again. I am baking. Water quenches for a moment, but a parched throat is the general rule. A plywood sign sits on the ground next to a side trail, announcing “Water and Shade,” and I can’t help but take the offer. It’s a short steep climb to a dirt road, and then I’m left to decide which way to go. I choose downhill, of course, and around the first turn is a water tank. No shade, though. A note from the owner tells me to treat or filter before drinking, and that there is shade at the house below. I can hear a guitar and voices talking. I fill up another four liters, drop some money in the donation slot, and make my way down to the voices. I arrive to find several people sitting in plastic chairs and talking while a guy in dirty jeans and a ratty t-shirt stands next to a clay oven and drinks a Budweiser. Music pours loudly from the nearby house, and a broken down RV sits on a nearby hill. This is Mike’s place. Mike isn’t here, but the man drinking the Bud is the caretaker, and offers me vegetarian pizza. I gladly eat three slices, and rarely has pizza tasted so good. I meet a family of three—the daughter is “Spinner”—and a group of four garrulous older women who introduce themselves as the Facebook Ladies. One of them offers me a Ghiradelli chocolate. We take turns learning each others’ stories—the family is thru-hiking, the Facebook Ladies met through a Facebook group dedicated to section-hiking the PCT. I stay for about forty-five minutes, and then decide that it’s time to get going. Someone asks me if I have a bong hit on my way out. I respond “Sorry, I’m a teacher”, as if that somehow precludes marijuana use. But I don’t have any, and I’m not interested in smoking today. I return to the PCT via Chihuahua road and start another long climb up the side of a solitary mountain. How am I still going up?! After a couple hours of climbing, the trail passes over the shoulder of the mountain and traces a fairly level path around its side. It starts to get sketchy. Parts of it have eroded down the side of the mountain, and the slope is steep. A fall here could be serious, maybe even fatal. I pass without incident, and start a sharp descent. I can see foothills to the north and houses to the northwest. By the time I reach the foothills a couple hours later, I am dog tired. I climb through the bushes to a campsite on a sandy orange hill about a hundred yards off trail. I cook pasta for dinner and read my book in the sunset. I climb into my tent feeling peaceful and spacious. I drift off to the sound of coyotes laughing.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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