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.