Deep Creek

Day 21: Holcomb Creek to Deep Creek Hot Spring, 22 miles

One of the things that nobody bothers to explain in any of the guidebooks is the law of Hiker Hubris. The minute you congratulate yourself on having finally "figured it out"--say, for walking a solid twenty miles with a full resupply and a fair load of water, and then and NOT feeling like you're going to curl up and die as you pitch your tent that evening--the trail gleefully responds by handing you your ass the next day.

The hike through Deep Creek was like that for me. I'm not even sure why. I started well enough, and water sources appeared at regular intervals--which sounds foolish but makes the whole day easier--but some imbalance of internal chemistry or atmospheric pressure conspired to make a bad day.

It got hot early, and stayed that way. Around lunchtime I stopped under the Deep Creek bridge, in the welcome shade of some trees, to cook lunch and call Mom--and she sounded kind of lonesome. Mother's Day and both her kids pretty far away. At Splinter's Cabin, a picnic area, trail angels Donna and Jess had set up to serve cold drinks and food to thru hikers, and while I appreciated their generosity of spirit, I really didn't want any beer, or soda, or chips, or Famous Amos cookies--as kindly as it's meant, in my eyes that's just more trail food. It isn't what I crave, doesn't make me feel good. It's actually pretty difficult to find an even keel in your energy levels when you're eating garbage all the time. How do you graciously decline an opportunity to pig out when it's expected of you? My hiker hunger hadn't kicked in, anyway, and I suspected that not many other peoples' had, either--they were just seizing the opportunity to gorge themselves senseless for its own sake. I drank a Coke to be polite, and when a couple people lit cigarettes, moved on.

Deep Creek is popular among day hikers, and having a lot of clean, noisy groups of city folk in tank tops, carrying no packs, gawking at my unkempt, smelly person started to annoy me. I know I stink. I know I look like hell. No need to make a production out of it. I passed the 300-mile marker and couldn't make myself care. The trail climbed a narrow, sometimes crumbling ridge several hundred feet up the side of the river canyon--so you could see and hear the cold creek below, but never get close enough for a dip in the water, or a break in the shade of the trees. I got rattled at by snakes--twice--and I appreciate their courteous warning but it never fails to make my heart race. Poison oak joined the foliage along the trail. One damn thing after another, it seemed.

Did I mention how it was hot? Hot and exposed. It bores me to repeat it, but damn. The heat is forever a personal cross to bear. Early in the morning, with fresh legs and cool air, I can hike the first ten or twelve miles almost without a break; after it warms up, the next ten miles seem to take everything I've got. Too many Prussians, Swedes, and Englishmen in my genetic makeup, I guess; I can deal with lactose, but not heat. Other hikers walk on in apparent perfect ease, while I find myself dropping to the ground every two miles in order to cool off. It's maddening.

These are times when all the dumb, petty complaints rise bitterly to the surface. And it's never anything so straightforward as "why am I doing this, again?"

Stupid day hikers, leaving toilet paper everywhere like it's going to just evaporate.

Why am I only person drying underwear on the top of her pack? Convinced that nobody else bothers to wash underwear. Possibly nobody else bothering to WEAR underwear.

Why do trail angels put beer in caches? Alcohol very dehydrating. Also makes Assholes out of the otherwise Merely Annoying.

Wish I could jump in creek. Stupid trail. Why can't you just go in a straight line? Why are we always going west? Haven't been walking north in some time.

Does anybody really LIKE Famous Amos cookies?

Gah! Goddam lizard! Do you WANT me to step on you? What kind of dumb lizard runs toward a lumbering beast? Natural selection coming for you!

That night, it seemed, everyone was making for Deep Creek Hot Spring, both because they wanted a soak and because it was the only flat ground for several miles in either direction. I couldn't begin to fathom why anybody would want to sit in a hot spring after a sweltering day, but between the weekenders and the thru-hikers, the place promised to be crowded. I didn't relish the thought; nor could I see that I had any choice but to camp there. The terrain imposes limitations. Which also meant that it turned into the sort of day when you have to keep walking, no matter how hot its been or out-of-sorts you feel. Twenty-two miles, in my case.

And here I want to make a distinction. We use the term trail magic very freely. Too freely. Beer is not magic. No, I'm sorry, but it isn't. Someone leaving a bag of oranges looped over a fence; someone stocking a water cache in the middle of the desert; someone opening their house to shelter tired travelers; someone serving hot dogs and beer at a picnic area on Mother's Day. You know what? That isn't magic. It's something far more boring and far more valuable. It's kindness. It's hospitality. It's human generosity. The PCT could not exist without it. It blows my mind every time someone offers me a ride, or offers me a stamp from her purse when the post office is closed. It's extraordinary. And it is not magic. God help us that "magic" is the only frame of reference we know for describing such things.

But trail magic--instances when the trail itself seems to cough up something you need, right when you need it--exists, too. And in a small way that happened around the twentieth mile. I'd hit the wall some time before and still had two miles before camp--this is very common--and hadn't yet figured out how to deal. I was crouched under a tree along with a handful of others, all of us cautiously edging around the poison oak, refilling water bottles at the last source before we got to the [very polluted] hot spring. It felt crowded. It was still hot. I felt disgusting. I hated everyone impartially for existing. And slowly I registered that Mr Green and his cronies were talking to a woman a little younger than my mom--not quite dirty enough to be a thru-hiker, but very fit-looking and somehow not a casual picnicker--who turned out to be Ravenwing, aka Carol Burkhart. (I'm probably spelling that wrong.) She was the first woman, as far as anybody knows, to thru-hike the PCT solo. In 1976, or something like that, when she was 20 years old. And here she stood, still hiking, and amiably talking about return policies on shoes, while my grown-up self sat in the corner and felt miserable because the lizards were being jerks today.

Well there you are.

I got my water and hiked the two more miles to camp. Deep Creek was just about as awful as expected; I was just as tired as before; but I wolfed my tortillas feeling chastened. Go to bed, dummy. You hike again tomorrow.

Trail Salad

Day 20: Highway 18 to Holcomb Creek, 20 miles

Ingredients:
One ripe avocado
Handful of crushed Doritos
Hot sauce (optional)

Method:
Halve and pit avocado. Fill hollows with chips. Garnish with hot sauce to taste. Eat salad with a spoon, scooping bites out of the avocado skin.

Serves one.

San Gorgonios to Big Bear

Day 16: Ziggy and the Bear's to Mission Creek mile 228, 18 miles, plus 1 mile detour to fish farm

Day 17: Mission Creek to Coon Creek Cabin, 18 miles

Day 18: Coon Creek to Highway 18, 20 miles

Day 19: Zero in Big Bear

For breakfast Ziggy served up a smorgasbord of coffee, tea, juice, fresh fruit, and a dozen varieties of cereal, and we two dozen hikers (at least) sat around the back porch munching obediently, like so many good kids getting ready for school. The sky hadn't cleared overnight, but the storm that had pursued me for two days now swirled ahead vigorously enough that I didn't expect to catch up to it--and I had no interest in lingering to visit the buffet at the local casino--so after a second cup of coffee I let myself out the gate of the tall white fence around Whitewater House.

The trail climbs from the desert floor into the bald hills of the San Gorgonios, circling behind the Mesa Wind Farm before ascending straight up the side of one canyon to cross a dozen others. The storm hadn't gone away by any means, making for some dramatic crossings of the plateaus; I held on tight to my hat, and at one point even donned my rain coat. There's a windfarm out there for a reason. Before midday I reached Whitewater Creek, a wide rocky river canyon that looks a little like a glacial runoff plain, and boasts the most water the PCT class of 2013 has seen yet--about six inches deep, and you can step across it in two or three long strides. Ha ha ha. Still, good water is food water. Feeling touristy, I took the side trail to Whitewater Preserve to cook an early lunch under the cover of their picnic pavilion and admire their pondful of truly enormous trout--a token of the preserve's former identity as a fish hatchery.

Making my way back upstream, I saw that the storm had trundled further ahead, and that quite a lot of hikers leaving Ziggy's had come as far as the crossing and suddenly lost their motivation by the banks of the creek. It's hard to remember why we're trudging for miles through the desert when there's a creek, and a wide sandy beach, and a chance to immerse yourself and everything you own in the rushing water. Eventually most people extricated themselves from the clutches of the beach, and we leapfrogged the six miles over another set of barren hills towards Mission Creek, every last one of us toting too much water. It's funny to walk up on the rapidly-evaporating evidence in the sand of someone else's realization that he's hauling more than he needs. A mere two weeks in the desert and we've learned to TANK UP at every source, because god only knows the condition of the next spring. At Mission Creek we consulted the maps to learn that we'd follow the stream clear up the canyon, crossing about twenty times. Water EVERYWHERE. With MUD. And CRICKETS. It felt like a holiday as I plugged my last miles upriver, scoping out campsites.

The day after, of course, you pay for it by leaving the creek bed with a whopping gain in altitude. Yogi's guidebook warns that the climb out of Mission Creek is a "long, hot, slow uphill slog," but I must have lucked out with the cloudy remnants of that storm, because it wasn't too bad. Slow, yes, but not dreadful, because it never got too hot. Plenty of trees for cover. At Mission Creek I encountered my first specimen of the poodle-dog bush, however, and took a good look at this nemesis of hikers and trail crews. I have no idea who named that bastard plant, but a revision is in order. It grows in the wake of fires, looks like something out of Dr Seuss, stinks like weed (you smell it before you see it), bears nettle-like hairs that cause incapacitating blistery rashes similar to (but worse than) poison oak on blundering soft-skinned bipeds, and the best we can do for a name is POODLE-DOG BUSH? It sounds CUTE. It is not AT ALL cute. It is a MONSTER. Luckily it was easy to avoid in the Mission Creek area.

I hike slower than just about everyone out here, but wake up a lot earlier, and with the temperature in my favor I kept ahead of the crowd from Ziggy's well past midday. Just about the time I'd resolved to have lunch at the next water source, I walked up behind another solo female hiker, who started as she heard my approach. She introduced herself as Nicky, and evidently recognized my face--turned out this was Scout and Frodo's daughter, who remembered my having stayed at her parents' house amid the throng more than two weeks prior! She was out for a section hike, hoping to catch the thru-hikers on their way north, but turned out, too, that it hadn't worked out quite as she'd hoped--the kick-off herd was still a little behind--and I was the third person she'd seen all day. It took about ten seconds to see that she'd been feeling lonely, and she admitted that she was planning to call her dad from the next road crossing (coincidentally the campground and location of the spring) to throw in the towel a couple days early. We chatted as we walked--always a little tricky when hiking single file--and she seemed to perk up a bit, but also looked relieved to reach the campground, so I figured we'd be parting ways and left her to make her phone calls as I set off to get water.

Surprisingly, she joined me where I'd exploded my pack onto a picnic table--no cell service! Looked like she'd have to finish her week in the woods after all, and abide by the prearranged plan for pickup in Big Bear. I commiserated with her dilemma, but on the other hand it was really nice to talk with someone who knew and understood the Principal Preoccupations of hikers--food, blisters, water, elevation profiles, miles to the next town, pooping--and yet had nothing to do with them, hadn't invested her whole life in them for six months, so she could talk about something ELSE. AND a woman about my own age. Gadzooks.

We were joined by another hiker, who introduced himself as Stats, from Tennessee, and collectively we agreed to mosey onward eight miles to the next campground. Coon Creek proved to be the site of a large log cabin, with a huge stone fireplace and a couple of smaller outbuildings--all clearly once very fine--now gutted and pocked by the grafitti of thousands of teenagers (and probably hikers). Stats wasn't feeling well, and Nicky was suffering fromthe kind of first-week blisters that afflict most hikers, so they elected to call it a day. I still felt pretty energetic, but looking at the map, it didn't seem like I'd find any flat spots for quite a stretch, and I was enjoying their company, besides, so I joined them. Cooking our variously awful trail dinners, Stats and Nicky told grad school stories; I told Antarctica stories; Nicky described The Day She Climbed the Wrong Mountain in northern Italy; Stats related everything that was different about the AT. Hikers are a pretty accepting lot, one can drop into any collection of personalities and they'll scoot over to make room, so to speak, but I think that was the first time I'd felt myself to be a part of a companionable group that had anything but hiking itself in common.

It got cold pretty quick, that high in the mountains. Having some little experience with log cabins, I had a sneaking suspicion that sleeping on the concrete floor of the cabin would be colder than sleeping on the ground--and so it proved to be--but the sky threatened rain and my comrades demonstrated less faith in their shelters than I had in mine, so I got a chance to find out that my $400 sleeping bag was
money WELL SPENT. Trial run for the Sierras, right? Next morning I rolled out first, as usual, agreeing to meet up with Nicky and Stats at the notorious Animal Cages, retirement prison for famous exotic animals no longer of use to the movie industry. (Southern California continues to astonish and horrify me.) By the time we reconvened, Nicky had gotten ahold of her dad and arranged for pickup off of the highway at Onyx Summit; still feeling under the weather, Stats opted to hitch to Big Bear from there; I bade them adieu and continued the twelve miles to where the trail next crossed the highway. By then I was more than ready for a town day: shower, laundry, non-trail food, and to my surprise it happened that Paul was still hanging out at the hostel.

My first time hitching alone! I got picked up within ten minutes by a woman who introduced herself as Jenny. I asked if she'd like a couple of bucks for gas, as hiker courtesy mandates, and she replied, "Oh no, just get in the car, honey! You can put your sticks in the back, okay? I've done this literally hundreds of times!"

We took off like a shot, Jenny driving freely across the centerline like a maniac, discoursing all the while. A good hitch-hiker is supposed to provide a little entertainment, a few stories, ask a few questions, in exchange for the ride--this has the added benefit of encouraging townies to pick up other hikers in the future--and Jenny required very little prompting before she had the conversation entirely in hand. Where was I headed? Oh yes, the hostel, she knew exactly where it was, she'd taken literally hundreds of hikers there, no problem at all. And did I have a trail name yet? Gosh, I wasn't hiking all by myself now, was I? I looked like I was about eighteen. No? She'd never have guessed. She was sixty four years old. Her boyfriend was seventy nine. Fifteen years wasn't too much of an age difference, did I think? She let a male hiker stay at her house once and her boyfriend got SO MAD, but she thought he was just ridiculous. We're just hikers, nobody's going to rape someone her age anyway. She was studying nursing and just had her chemistry exam--what a terrible subject, how was she supposed to remember any of that stuff from high school?--and in order to pass you had to score a sixty-nine percent on the exam, sixty-nine, just to PASS, and here she just got her exam back this morning, she was shaking so bad, she just knew she'd done terribly, and she got a SIXTY-NINE POINT FOUR! In chemistry! So she and her girls were going out to celebrate. Her boyfriend wasn't in town anyway. And she knew she wasn't supposed to talk on the phone while she was driving, but she was going to do it anyway, I wouldn't tattle on her, right?

Jenny didn't seem to have mastered the use of her iPhone anymore than the steering wheel, so the conversation with her "girls" took place on speakerphone. I had the privilege of listening to every word as she rounded up friends for drinks in "the Village" and I clung to the armrest. You know,'she'd just been coming over that ridge and wondered if there would be any hikers needing a ride and there I was! And she was just so happy about her exam that it seemed right to help someone else out. Jenny remembered abruptly that she had groceries in the back seat! Her house was right on the way to the hostel, would I mind if we made a quick stop? Oh good, and she could let the animals out at the same time. Yes, she does animal rescue, has done for years and years, fostered literally hundreds of cats and dogs. There are seven dogs and ten cats right now, her boyfriend just won't let her have any more in the house. Oh this is it, it'll only take a moment. Yes, of course, if I wanted to grab those bags in the backseat that would be a great help! It'll only take a moment!

Jenny opened the front door to an explosion of barking--the dogs were evidently housed in a back room somewhere, but the cats burst into the yard with the attitude of cats that have been cooped up inside all day. I carried in a couple of bag of groceries while Jenny darted around. She was just going to freshen up a little bit, alright? That way she'd only have to make one trip! Did I happen to see where she put down the car keys? I betook my smelly self outside and tried to coax one of he cats into being petted while Jenny rushed around, iPhone in one hand, hair brush in the other, making shushing noises to the din behind the dog door. She'll just be a minute! Oh, could I look behind the passenger seat to see if her purse is there? Yes, the big green one! That's it, no, it doesn't need to come in,'she just wanted to make sure it was there. She's just going to brush her teeth and then we can go, it'll only take a moment!

We did eventually get underway, and on the short drive to the hostel the sky opened and the rain that had threatened for days finally came crashing down on poor parched California. Jenny and I both crowed over the good timing. She let me out in front of a large blue house with a banner welcoming PCT hikers, and I thanked her again for the ride before she caroomed away to meet her girls. Oh don't mention it, honey, she's done this for literally hundreds of hikers!

Folk at the hostel that I hadn't seen for days greeted me with shouts of "Goodall!"--which offset the madness running the hostel itself. Paul scrounged a towel for me and let me borrow his nail clippers. Shower, laundry, Himalayan food, first night sleeping on a mattress, package pick up (thanks, Mom!), big breakfast at Thelma's, resupply, new shoes, iced coffee--maybe I'm starting to get the hang of this.

Weathering the Storm

Day 14: Idyllwild to mile 195ish, 16 miles + bonus uphill miles to get back to the trail

Day 15: mile 195ish to Ziggy and the Bear's, 16 miles

While refilling my supply of stove fuel at the hardware store in Idyllwild, I heard from the salesman about the imminent "big storm" in the mountains. I politely thanked him for what has to be one of the oldest wheezes in existence--spooking the solo female hiker with storm stories--and carried on with my chores. Nonetheless, I kept a weather eye to the mountains as I called into the bakery next morning (thank god bakers and hikers both wake up early) for coffee and a chamomile muffin (!), and prepared to leave town.

A trail angel named Dave--another one--gave me an early morning ride to the trailhead at Humber Park, plus a roll of Lifesavers "to keep me from getting dehydrated." Thanks, Dave! These people genuinely make the trail possible. They can never receive enough thanks, and saying "thank you," however many times, feels so paltry. Dave, like most trail angels, asks no kind of compensation for his help--not even a few bucks for gas--preferring to admonish us, gently but firmly, to remember to pay it forward. They don't want our money. They want us to remember to go out of our way and help somebody else someday. It reminds me of my folks. They'd make great trail angels.

The clouds thickened as I climbed back to the trail. They loured enough that I decided a summit of San Jacinto would be too socked in to merit the extra altitude (especially with a fully loaded pack), but it didn't appear too ominous in terms of immediate safety. One of those changeable days. When I stopped to cook lunch and tank up my water vessels, it snowed for a few minutes, fitfully, alternating with patches of dazzling sun. I ate my noodles with great deliberation. It's funny to witness, with partial and amused objectivity, the relationship between your mental processes and your instincts. My brain assured me confidently that it was May, there were several points of refuge available, and that I had a packful of expensive gear meant to protect me from the elements--not to mention a presently burdensome plenitude of food and water. My gut agreed with all of these observations--and meanwhile urged me to eat and keep walking. The last thing I wanted was to get stuck on the notorious Fuller Ridge in bad weather.

Fuller Ridge was a lark compared to the nightmare some hikers get to deal with in other years. I think I stepped on two (!) patches (!) of snow (!) the whole time. But the weather definitely started to turn snarly, and the wind picked up as I began my descent. "Descent" here used advisedly. According to my maps, as the crow flies it's a mere handful of miles from Fuller Ridge trailhead to the Snow Creek water tank at the base of the mountain; following the PCT it's more than sixteen. Losing that six thousand or however many feet seems to take bloody forever. The trail doesn't perceptibly "descend" at any point so much as present the hiker with an elaborate walking tour of the San Jacinto foothills, very slowly and tortuously returning her back to the desert.


As far as I can tell, there are two kinds of Hiking Day: the kind that has a specific destination in mind--water source, town, point of interest--and you walk until you get there, no matter how acutely you feel your feet falling off; and then the kind of day wherein you just walk until your feet feel like they're going to fall off, and think, alright, the next flat spot is Camp. That night was one of the latter. The wind and clouds had begun howling down the mountain with a noise and force and dramatic swirling of clouds that was frankly...unsettling. It made me jumpy. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that. I had to remind myself sternly that I was back in the DESERT, where it's WARM, not in Antarctica or anywhere else where winds of that magnitude mean You Might Die. Hell, I could see a WIND FARM in the valley below--clearly there'd be no getting away from it, the wind was just part of the landscape, like the overgrown sticker bushes that were coincidentally also making my life more difficult. Get a grip, woman. Still, a storm, not just wind, lurked somewhere on the mountain I was so determinedly "descending," and the gusts started yielding little droplets of condensed cloud matter, so figured I'd better split the difference between escape and refuge.


I made camp around mile 195, a little away from the trail and tucked into a hollow I thought might shelter me slightly from the wind. (It didn't.) My first Stealth Camp! I went through the usual motions of pitching my tent, amid much flapping, aided by veritable CAIRNS of stones over each stake, and auxiliary piece-of-wood stakes, and more stones--go big or go home, right?--but with every expectation that I would find it crashing down on my head in the night. My Master Hiker Backup Plan consisted of rolling myself and all my gear in the lee of a rock and waiting for sunrise. You know what? IT STOOD. It snapped and whistled tremendously, but that silly tarp-tent STOOD, and wearing earplugs I slept like a rock. At some point a particularly ferocious gale must have lifted the roof and dislodged the tip of my hiking pole from the grommit where it's supposed to fasten--so I woke up to find it'd blown a hole in the roof--but it STOOD. Everything stayed dry. And in nine hours the wind had not abated one whit.


Buoyed by the unexpected success of my shelter, I rolled out before dawn and started haring the rest of the way down the mountain in record time. Just at mile 200 a rainbow appeared behind me like the prize at the bottom of a box of Cracker Jack. At Snow Creek I paused for water and a snack, and Jeff and Gator, the two men whose somnolent camps I'd passed earlier, caught up to me. (They never even saw my tent. That's why it qualified as a Stealth Camp.) Jeff is a bit of a loudmouth who thinks he knows best and still carries a potty trowel. Gator hiked the AT a few years ago and packs a five-pound video camera. (Yes, this is really how to register other peoples' identities out here.) We discussed the merits of stopping at Ziggy and the Bear, just another six miles across the desert plain now standing before us, before setting out with everything firmly battened down and heads bent against the still-gale-force wind.

Ironically, leaving the lovely San Jacintos we crossed the ugliest, most confusing piece of trail I've yet encountered. Littered with junked cars and garbage, crossed by massive powerlines and jeep roads to and from construction sites, the desert surrounding Cabazon stands as testament to what a godawful mess human beings can make when they just don't give a shit. The "National Scenic Trail" could have been anywhere, utterly unrecognisable. Also, the WIND, did I mention the WIND? You lean into it at 45 degrees and squint from one marker to the next. The best I can say about those miles is, whoever put up the tall wooden markers, THANK YOU, or we'd have been sunk. By the time we reached the shelter of the underpass--and the ice cold cache of soda and water some dear trail angel had put there--we felt like we'd marched for a thousand years. Suddenly there was no question about whether or not we planned to stop at Ziggy and the Bear.

Ziggy and the Bear are an elderly couple who serve as trail angels at the edge of Anza, or Cabazon--my geography of southern California is appallingly limited, considering I'm traveling it on foot. They provide shade, water, wi-fi, cowboy camping, and god help me, EPSOM SALT FOOT BATHS to each and every hiker walking through their backyard. They've been doing this for over a decade, expanding the operation every season. They even have showers this year, and performed some elaborate reconstruction on their porch to accomodate the madding crowd. It's really quite extraordinary that anybody would go to these lengths to help a lot of smelly itinerants like us. Previous hikers Cool Ranch and Capitan were volunteering there, making sure every sun- and wind-dazed arrival got a seat, a lecture, and a footbath. Here is your towel. Here is your footbath. Here is your password. You may dump out the dirty water over there. You may wash your socks and whatever else in that sink. We will have salad and ice cream for dinner. Amen.

I hadn't planned to stay. I'd planned to take a break and put in another handful of miles before calling it a day. But Cuddles, Grady (now Fun Size), Ashley, Frosty, Atlas, Shotput, Wagonwheel, Alex, Noah the Prophet, and a whole crew of people I knew started rolling in; Belgian Red, Bunk, and Baby Steps were already there; even Billy Goat, a 70-something-year-old Triple Crown trail celebrity with more than 30,000 trail miles to his name, showed up. A lot of them had weathered the storm up on Fuller Ridge--sitting in puddles and clinging to the supports of their tents--and looked incredibly relieved to find a place to dry out gear and recoup after a rough night. As I paced, restlessly examining the black clouds now barrelling towards the hills where the trail would lead me, Cuddles wandered up and observed sternly that one does not leave shelter INTO bad weather. Listen to the veteran hiker, dummy. So I stayed, vicariously enjoying my ice cream and salad, watching the others playing Spoons (card game involving zero strategy) for packets of Body Glide.

It's not a race. Canada isn't going anywhere.

San Jacintos

Day 11: Cedar Spring to Taquitz Creek, 13 steep miles at high altitude + 1 warmup mile from the spring to the trail

Day 12: Taquitz Creek to Idyllwild, 2 PCT miles + a bunch of bonus miles to get to town

Day 13: Zero in Idyllwild

The San Jacintos offer some of the steepest climbs and most variable conditions on the PCT. Listening to the talk, sounds like some hikers are tempted to underestimate the severity of what a mountain can deliver--after nearly two weeks of cowboy camping under cloudless skies, they get cocky and send their tents home, or ditch their heavier clothing. But mountains breed weather, and these in particular get hit by the changeable air currents traveling between the desert and the distant sea. Even in May, it can turn serious. Halfmile's maps warn us that in 2005 a PCT hiker died in those mountains following a snowstorm. Now, all inflammatory warnings acknowledged, this year is probably one of the best for traveling at that altitude--there's no snow on the trail. None. The moderate temperature of the mountains comes as a welcome relief from the desert heat, and the scenery is stunning. But there were definitely several instances, stepping along an eight-inch ledge that appeared to have been pared out of a sheer rock face, when I could well imagine how scary it might be, covered in ice. I have no idea how anybody would get a pack animal through that section.

From the time I broke camp and waved farewell to Dave Carter and his companions, until I was putting away the remains of my long lunch break sometime midafternoon, I didn't see another soul. First--and so far, only--time that has happened. I can understand how too many days of solitude, especially in the wrong terrain, could work on the brain and undermine one's motivation to continue, but on that day it was delicious. Just me and the mountains. During a snack break, as I sat on a tree stump munching and staring into the middle distance, a deer wandered quite close, sniffing suspiciously at my still presence. The birds sang their reptitive three-note songs that always sound unfinished. At times I looked at the narrow piece of compressed earth that I follow so faithfully--the trail--and felt like it could be taking me anywhere. Anywhere! It's almost laughable. How do I know it will take me to the next water source, never mind all the way to flipping Canada? I don't know that I'll ever get used to what an act of trust hiking is.

As I was wrapping up my lunch, Grady caught up to me. We spoke for a few minutes and he said that he planned to make camp early and just enjoy the afternoon. After I'd moved on to the next creek and watered up, I stopped and considered my options--another few trail miles, then two and a half miles on the Devil's Slide Trail to Humber Park, then a hitch if I was lucky or another four mile walk into town, to get to Idyllwild too late to get any chores (washing) done, and pay to stay at the campground? Or--I could stay put. In this beautifully peaceful forest. Maybe Grady had the right idea. I had plenty of food, and nothing to gain from getting to town that evening. What was I hurrying for? I'd covered 14 miles of steep trail, after all, buffeted by a great deal of wind, paying careful heed to my footing, never for a minute able to settle into a stride or let my attention wander; that's a respectable day and I was tired. Maybe it would be nice to pause and revel in the scene that I'd worked so hard to gain. So I found a place to stop, and spent most of the rest of that day listening to the woods.

Next morning I felt rested and ready for a shower, though, and I arrived at Humber Park long before one might reasonably expect to get a hitch into town. I walked most of the rest of the way, through a pretty, ski-lodge-like neighborhood of expensive-looking houses, before a woman named Petra hailed me from her front porch and offered me a ride for the last mile and a half.

Idyllwild--a cute, kitschy, very hiker-friendly town--doesn't really open for business until nine, meaning there were already a lot of wakeful hikers stalking aimlessly from one concrete stoop to the next. First real town day! Town days mean something different to everyone--big meals, communication with the outside world, cleanliness--things we fantasize about during long hours on the march--but it's funny how stressful they can feel once you're finally there. Social norms that count for nothing on the trail assault the senses all at once. After many continuous days of walking, too, it's disorienting to do...anything else. Taking a zero is tricky that way.

My body, I knew, had more than earned a complete, hiking-free day, and the price was right as far as lodgings were concerned, so I took both a nearo and a zero in Idyllwild. I hit up the campground for a shower first thing, then strode across town to the laundromat wearing my pack, straw hat, and long johns, smelly hiker clothes bundled under my arm, feeling ridiculous, trekking poles flying akimbo. (It's a good thing Idyllwild is used to us.) From the laundromat I caught up with Paul, who agreed that Mexican food at Arriba's sounded like dinner. We wound up looping the town several times getting our respective errands done--I think most hikers do the same--the library, the coffeeshop, the grocery store, the hardware store, a couple of different hiker boxes--Idyllwild is blessed in that all of this lies within walking distance. More than once we passed a sweetshop with a large window painting encouraging all and sundry to try their WORLD FAMOUS DATE SHAKES.

"Date shakes?"

"I know, right?"

"So does that mean they are suitable for persons on dates, or that the shakes have dates in them?"

Nobody I asked that day seemed to know which it was, so at the end of my second day I succumbed to the intrigue and ordered one. For Science. It did indeed have dates pureed into the mixture. It did not, however, taste particularly of dates. It tasted like vanilla soft serve blended with a lot of mysterious brown fibrous bits--because that's essentially what it was.

At dinner that night--Arriba's is popular among hikers--I overheard from Bunk and Baby Steps' table the description that seems best to describe all of us: a community of the linearly homeless.

Staying at the campground was strange. For three bucks a night, all of the hikers and bikers get bundled into the crummiest campsites, the ones with very few flat spots or shady trees, at the very back of the grounds, nearest the highway and the dog-grooming operation. So it's noisy at night. This after two weeks of wide open spaces, however fraught with intrusive wildlife and difficult weather, meant that while I enjoyed my shower and my veggies wraps and iced coffees (they had one called the British Invasion!), at the end of two days I was pretty ready to get back on the trail.

More Desert, and Paradise

Day 9: Mike Herrera's to boulder campsite mile 144, 17 miles

Day 10: mile 144 to Cedar Spring, 18 miles, plus 2 cafe miles and 1 mile descent to the spring

Can I just say that an iPhone surely ranks as one of the most frustrating compositional tools on earth? My vocabulary is larger than the phone's. Wrangling the auto-correct is like arguing with someone's fussy maiden aunt. No, I don't mean "he'll"--I mean HELL. The desert is hotter'n HELL. Stop trying to fix my words, dammit. Stupid phone. I might have to shake up this diary-like style of journaling, too. Not every day feels worthy of a story...sometimes it seems like, I dunno, like all I did was walk. Imagine that. But I haven't yet figured out a more efficient method for breaking down the continuum of my days.

In the spirit of honesty, I admit that day nine turned into an unremarkable, uncomfortable day when I couldn't seem to rally. Day eight had entailed a late start--sitting on the floor of the post office like a lot of n'er-do-wells lined up for the dole--a heavy pack, and a considerable climb. Pushing on for water, Paul and I had gotten to the Herrera's place just at dusk. (Mike Herrera is a trail angel who maintains a large tank of well water for hikers, and allows us to camp on his property. In the scope of trail magic, that sounds boring, I bet. Water's pretty boring until you don't have any. Ha ha.) Anyway, by the time I'd pitched my tent and cooked my lentils, it was full dark, and I don't think I got to sleep until after 10. Waaay past my bedtime. 

The morning drum beat went off at five, as usual, so I could get moving before the air got too hot. But I didn't have any energy to hike. I figured I'd get to the next water at midday, and stop for a siesta there at Tule Creek. It didn't quite work out that way; hikers crowded into the shrinking shade of a couple of trees around the pipe, chewing the fat companionably. It was pleasant, just not a place I'd be likely to sleep. A longish break would have to suffice. I munched on cheddar rabbit crackers and trail mix, and made the acquaintance of a few other hikers that had leapfrogged with me that morning--Shotput, Alex, and Wagonwheel, hiking together; Three Cats, who looks like a professor of something-or-other; and Atlas, who was brushing his teeth at the pipe, and then abruptly got everybody's attention when he pulled an electric razor out of his pack. 

"...I'm pretty sure that's a luxury item, Atlas," someone remarked into the sudden stunned silence.

He beamed at the crowd of astonished hikers and shook his head pityingly. "Nope!" 

Atlas hails from Minnesota, and has traversed this section of the PCT four times now. His knowledge of trail matters is encyclopedic--mention a geographical feature, a restaurant, a mile mark, and he can tell you everything there is to know about it--hence his trail name. He tells good stories.

I spent most of the rest of the day climbing out of Nance Canyon with a heavy load of water and a blister coming in on the bottom of my pinky toe. I've been pretty fortunate with my feet--much more so than some of my comrades--but it comes to us all sooner or later. When I got to the fully-loaded water cache at mile 143, and saw from the register that some folk had loaded up with six liters there, I couldn't decide if I was more annoyed with them for leaning so heavily on the cache, or with myself for being so dumb as to haul four liters in expectation of a dry camp. It was hot, and I was tired, and my feet hurt, and my shoulders hurt, but I tell you one thing--trail life somehow doesn't allow me to lose my temper. (Yet.) I just kept slogging on to mile 144, where I planned to camp. Paul was already there, and intended to cover another handful of miles that day, which made me a little sad, but I waved him off and stayed put. That campsite was the best thing that had happened all day--sitting among massive orangey boulders and overlooking the valley, I could remember why I'd decided to do this damn fool thing, thru-hiking, sore feet and all. Pitch tent, cook dinner, go to bed.

The next morning was special in that I had a Destination: the Paradise Cafe, beloved of hikers, a mile up the highway from where the PCT crosses at mile 153. I've figured out now that hikers don't go to these places because they're necessarily that special, but because it gives us a short term goal--something more immediate than Canada to walk towards, to think about. THAT is special. Feet taped, and much better rested, I booked it that morning and arrived at the Paradise by nine-thirty. Paul and the rest of the fleethounds had just finished breakfast and were packing up to go, but I didn't care. A cafe! With tables! And soap! My first question to the waitress, predictably, was whether I could have a SALAD.

She gave me an funny look. I seem to get that a lot. "Sorry, hon, they don't start making lunch until eleven."

"That's okay. I can wait! But..." glancing at the menu, "in the mean time, could I have...a milkshake?"

"Sure you can have a milkshake--"

"Chocolate??"

"...we got vanilla and coffee."

"COFFEE. Yes! A coffee milkshake! Even better. Please! Is it okay if I sit outside?"

In a few minutes I was presented with a vast glass of milkshake--they even gave me the extra bit in the metal mixing cup. I plugged in my phone and sat on the porch, slurping milkshake and greeting hikers as they rolled in. Grady and Cuddles arrived, joined by Cuddles' wife, to whom Grady introduced me as "Jane Goodall." This was clearly a assignation he'd thought up some time before.

I had to laugh. Jane Goodall! So this is what comes of a big hat, a collared khaki shirt, and an asocial personality. "You like it?" Cuddles inquired.

"Of course!" Jane Goodall is one of my heroes, and I could do infinitely worse for a trail name. It suits my tendency to watch the general goings-on from some little distance, with polite interest. I better resemble an anthropologist given bad directions than a thru-hiker, anyway. I'd imagined jokes on Earhart, or Bedelia, or my incurable swears, or my incurably flushed face. Jane Goodall is so much better. It's a little awkward for introductions, and has since been shortened to Goodall, but I'll take it, and gladly. 

At eleven I got my salad. I wish the diners of the world could branch out from iceberg, but I enjoyed it immensely all the same. I could tell the waitress was very amused. Shortly after noon I paid up and collected my pack to go. Filling my water vessels at the hose in front of the building, I looked up suddenly to see the waitress--Stephanie was her name--bustling towards me. "You weren't gonna leave without saying goodbye, now, were you?" She gave me a big hug, in spite of my trail stink, and heartily wished me good luck. 

Feeling pretty chipper about, oh, everything--I'd gotten a MILKSHAKE! and a TRAIL NAME!--I made my way back to the trail and started the climb into the San Jacinto Mountains. The scrub brush changed into pine trees. Gaining altitude, the air cooled, and the views opened up as I reached the ridge: to the east, a muscular, bleached-brown landscape of desert; to the west, rolling hills of green. The wind had kicked up, and it felt like I'd walked into an epic scene from Lord of the Rings. Before long, it seemed, I reached the side trail for Live Oaks spring, a possible water source and campsite. It was about four and I still felt great. I was full of milkshake and salad. I could walk to the next spring, some five and a half miles farther, no problem! At this point the light went on--I need to eat more at midday. Dinner cannot wait for dinnertime. GOOD TO KNOW. 

By the time I reached Cedar Spring, my energy was waning with the daylight, but the descent along the side trail ducked out of the wind so suddenly that the world felt magically still and beautiful. The trees grew taller, and even grass appeared in patches--the effect of a natural water source, around here, is very tangible. Surprisingly, a dozen tents circled the trickling basin--not one of them belonging to a PCT hiker. I spoke with one Dave Carter, who explained that his little group was part of an outdoor club from Oregon, in the Jacintos for a short trip. He asked all about my experiences on the trail so far, how I came to start such an adventure--this is turning into a scripted exchange--and got to introduce myself by my trail name for the first time. 

Exhausted, but pleased with myself, I think setting up my tent that night was the first time I felt like I'd arrived, I was really on the PCT: I was a thru-hiker.