Easing In

Day 2: Lake Morena Campground to Cibbetts Flat Campground, 12.6 miles

Day 3: Cibbetts Flat Campground to Al Bahr Shrine Camp, 15 miles

Day 4: Al Bahr Shrine Camp to Rodriguez Spur, 21 miles

I can see that I'm unlikely to fulfill my lofty goal of posting an entry to match each day.

We're wending our way north by traveling from one spigot to the next. All of our activities are determined by the water sources. Well, that and the heat.

Day 2 dawned relatively cold, thanks to the proximity of the lake, to the melodious call of a couple of idiot turkeys that nobody ever saw. Paul and I broke camp pretty quickly, having already cottoned to the fact that the best hiking happens early in the morning, before the sun gets too high. By noon of that day I was already pretty well spent. Still cheerful, but definitely tired. Even with shade breaks and plenty of water, I couldn't seem to muster a pace speedier than Dead Mosey. We took the 0.8 mile side trail to Cibbetts Flat to get water, and when I set eyes on the shady picnic tables, running creek, and hot, uphill climb to get back to the trail, I decided to call it a day. The End! Paul was clearly fit for another march, but elected to stay also, either from a grudgin acknowledgement that one ought to start a thru-hike gently, or from some notion that he's looking after me this first week, I can't say. I stretched out on a picnic table and alternately snacked and dozed for most of the afternoon. It was really... nice. Like being on vacation. It occurred to me belatedly that it had been my first Day With No Coffee, which might have contributed to the somnambulism...but how many people fantasize about spending a beautiful sunny day exactly in that fashion, napping by a stream and defending your granola bars from guerilla squirrels?

The next day was full of firsts. First resupply stop (in Mount Laguna), first rattlesnake encounter (nobody was harmed), first mac & cheese dinner (of hundreds, probably), and first storm (nobody was harmed). After an energetic morning hike, and spending a couple of hours in the shade of the Laguna General Store, I proceeded (again at a Dead Mosey) towards the Al Bahr Shriner's Lodge, where (according to Stonedancer, whom I'd encountered the day before) hikers could get a shower and camp on the lawn for free. Thank you, Shriners! I feel a little spoiled, two full rinse-offs in the first week, but when my stomach announced it's displeasure with three days of Diesel-Grade Trail Food, I was kind of happy to have the luxury of a bathroom. I don't care if that makes me a weenie.

The wind came howling through the hills that night, and I'm proud to say that my tarptent did not crumple on my sleeping head, though it certainly raised a tremendous flapping racket. (I now know to tighten the guylines about an hour after setup. We're slowly learning one another's ways, the tent and I.) Starting the fourth day a bit damp was completely worth the cooler temperature in the morning. Even Paul has gravely allowed that I "do alright" setting the pace on a cool morning. Fog shrouded the surrounding hills well past the hour that we expected it to burn off, recollecting Scotland (sort of), and the wind kept the heat at bay even into midafternoon. Heh. It feels strange and senior-citizenly to be talking always of the weather, but out here its kind of a big deal, since it directly impacts how fast and how far I can hike. When the mercury tops some particular threshold, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. That's the time to scout out a little shade, put up my feet, and wait for evening.

Fortunately, that cool morning gave me a solid start, since it was a pretty long haul to the next water source. A pretty big gaggle of hikers collected at the fire tank by Rodriguez spur, some with Names, others still traveling under our civilian handles--Cuddles, Grady, Ashley, Mark, Scat-Tracker, Unicroc, Rachel, Robin, Dave, Matt, Paul...and me. Thus amassed at a watering hole we eye one anothers' gear, rinse socks, pass the duct tape, mess with stoves and curse at varying volumes, talk about campsites and the plan for the next day, refine our Hiker Hobble--and then we're all in bed by eight-thirty. Ha ha ha.

The desert has something of Antarctica's immutability to it--a climate and landscape so harsh you might want to call it hostile, except Antarctica defies even the microbes, and here the wildflowers and lizards bear staunch testament to the fact that the desert CAN support life--just not mine, really. I and all the rest of the hikers walk carefully, tracing a tenuous line of resources that enables us to defy our individual human limitations. You'd think that sixty-eight miles and four days' stink would start to bring the message home, but I still can't quite believe I'm here, doing this half-cracked thing, walking across the desert and trusting that the twelve-inch span of dirt in front of my feet will eventually lead me north.