Month: April 2018

Campsite at mile 358 to highway 2 (mile 369 + hitch into Wrightwood)

It’s only ten miles to Wrightwood, ten rolling hilltop miles on a ridge between two deserts. During the last miles of our approach to Wrightwood we take an unofficial alternate along a forest service road, adding half a mile but providing better views into the valley where I lived for close to eight years. It feels infinitely far away, and yet so close.

I can see downtown Los Angeles in the distance, just below the familiar ridge of Mount Wilson. A small paper cut out of a city rising above the clouds and smog that fill the valley. Further out into the flat white I can see Palos Verdes and Catalina island. I’m suddenly struck by an odd melancholy, not in the way of missing a place, but in the sense of feeling removed from an entire population.

Well not an entire population, because Mac is coming to visit today! Yay Mac! Yay friend who drives all the way from Los Angeles to come and see me, listen to confusing inside jokes from strange dirty hikers, and drink beer. Thank you for coming to visit Mac, it was so nice to talk about something other than the trail for a while, to be reminded that a vibrant world exists beyond the dirt strip that is my current home.

Hanging out with only hikers is filled with the sort of rapid bonding that comes from intense shared experiences. However, the breadth of conversation thus far has largely centered around hiking. It’s nice to be able to talk about something else. Jobs, dogs, and adventures beyond my own. A whole world!

Mac departs this evening, and tomorrow we’ll hike out of town. For the next few days we’ll parallel the Los Angeles and then begin our turn north, away from the desert, away from the city, moving further and further from a place that I never loved, but might just find a way to miss.

Best Western near McDonald’s (mile 342 + 1mi road walk each way) to Campsite at mile 358

I wanted, desperately, to feel refreshed when I woke up this morning, but that just wasn’t in the cards. When Keith wakes me up at 6 I’m deep in the middle of a dream in which I’ve just been ejected from the top of a sky scraper inside a rocket propelled elevator booth a la Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and am presumably about to fall to my death. For some reason in the dream I’m very accepting of my fate and choose to spend my remaining seconds trapped in this box with a middle aged man marveling at how beautiful the city is, and wishing I had gotten off on the second floor with the woman in the blue pant suit. Sadly, awake me is not nearly as serene and I mope around the room feeling tired and frustrated, bothered by little things like damp waistbands on shorts that haven’t fully dried. Ah hormones. At least there is free hot breakfast aka free coffee aka free life fuel.

In the lobby with three other hikers the conversation du jour is the 27 mile exposed waterless stretch that climbs over 8,000 feet between Cajon Pass and the next resupply town, Wrightwood. The general consensus is to pack out as much water as you can, dry camp one night and then have a short day into town the next day. I should say, this is the consensus between the majority of us, however one woman plans to do this stretch in three days despite not being able to carry enough water for three days. This immediately enrages me and I tell her it’s a foolish thing to do – not that this will impact her choice in the slightest.

Her cavalier attitude is one I’ve seen a lot on the trail. People who won’t carry an ice axe through the Sierra, not because they’ve seen the snow reports, but because they don’t know how to use one, so why bother. People without enough water heading into the desert relying on maybe stocked water caches. People without enough food because maybe there will be trail magic. Only thru hikers would refuse to carry the weight of the two most important things keeping us alive: food and water.

While the mentality that everything will work out is certainly a pleasant one, when hiking in remote areas without cell service this sort of attitude is what tends to get people hurt or killed. The frustrating reality is that many PCT hikers feel they are immune from easily preventable accidents. This hubris stands in direct contrast to the two rescues (both PCT hikers without enough water) and the one death (heart attack) that have already occurred in the short time since the season started. And those are just the ones we’ve heard about!

I grumble this all over in my head during the massive climb towards Wrightwood. Wondering if people really are as under prepared as it seems, or if I’m being a grumpy hormonal jerk. Probably both. But also, mother nature deserves real respect. Respect of the knowledge that she’ll wipe you off the face of the planet and not even notice.

Cleghorn Picnic Area (mile 328) to McDonald’s (mile 342)

The only topic of discussion today is McDonald’s. I don’t even like McDonald’s, I haven’t eaten there in years and years and yet I find myself pondering my order as we hike our 14 miles towards I-15 and the promised golden arches. All American Austin says he’s aiming to eat at least six or seven McGriddles – the news of the all day breakfast menu has him grinning ear to ear. Keith and I both want ice cream and I want red meat something fierce. My period is due (although who knows, on the JMT it was really late and that was only two as a half weeks of hiking) and my body is telling me it wants iron. Each decision is based on McDonald’s. Should I rest now or just push on to McDonald’s? Do I need a snack or can I wait for McDonald’s? Should I pee here or can it wait for McDonald’s?

When we arrive it’s literally just like any McDonald’s you’ve ever been to. I guess that’s the point of the chain, they’re the same regardless of where you are. Keith, myself, All American Austin, McKayla, The Australians (Bean Dip and Moonshine), Norway, and AJ cram ourselves into a both and table and then proceed to order an alarming amount of food. Keith complains that McDonald’s has gotten really expensive. Bean Dip points out that the last time he ate here he probably only ordered one meal, not two. Good point.

While I wait to refill my water bottle a kindly older Latina woman asks me where I’ve hiked from. She’s the first person I get to tell “from the Mexican border!” I’m very excited about this while she is flabbergasted and relays my answers in rapid Spanish to her friend. As we work through the standard litany of questions her friend looks increasingly worried. Finally they both cross themselves and tell me that God will bless me on my journey. I’m not a person of faith, but the gesture is nice and so I tell the rest of our table that we’ve all been blessed. Why not.

Everybody hikes out and Keith and I head to the Best Western to do laundry and attempt to heal the chafe from my pack that’s rubbing the skin on either side of my spine raw. Tomorrow we’ll start the two day waterless stretch to Wrightwood. A two day water carry. What will that even feel like? I guess we’ll find out.

Campsite at mile 306 to Cleghorn Picnic Area (mile 328)

All afternoon we walk in and out of the accordion folds of the hillside. We’re hiking late in the afternoon, hours delayed by a morning spent soaking in Deep Creek hot springs. I am hypnotized by the repetition of the day; side hill up a knoll to a small saddle, then follow the hill back into the fold of the drainage. Two near U-turns connected by a straight line cut across the hill side. This continues for hours and somewhere in that space I lose my thought process completely. I’m just waking, sometimes simply starting at Keith’s feet in front of me. I watch his patient little stride, the occasional hitch step to adjust the sit of his shorts. How long do I watch this? I have no idea. I unintentionally study his walk, stride, pattern, noticing the slight sunburn behind his knees, the roll of his blue shoes when he’s waking up particularly steep sections, the way he tucks his poles under his arm and his pace slows while he checks our mileage on his phone. When was the last time I allowed my brain to slow like this, drift into low power mode.

When I do pull my head up it’s to find a low wide valley oozing out to the north. A flat green expanse cut through by a flat blue river dotted irregularly by low slung homes. It feels like anywhere rural America, forgotten by modernity, aged in nostalgia and a reluctance to change. It’s Norman Rockwells wet dream, bathed as it is in yellow evening light and textured by shadows cast from puffy grey clouds that have threatened rain all day but have yet to deliver.

How kind the PCT is to us today. Holding us in this special place within the vastness of everything, the world around us singing in that good way. Even the recovering burned areas are Technicolor lovely, shot through with grass and flowers as they are. I find myself marveling at this day, the perfect nature of everything and I attempt to envelope the streams of warming light, the smell of warm lavender and earth, the funny erratic breeze. I try and hold them inside of me for another day, not exactly. More like another me, I try and hold this day inside me for a future version of me who will cast her mind back for something delightful and stumble upon the memory of this day.

Campsite at mile 287 to campsite at mile 306

My dream of hiking the PCT started at mile 290 two years ago. I was halfway throug my first attempt at a light weight, big mileage backpacking weekend. 44 miles in two days along the PCT above Big Bear; it seemed an impossible distance, thrilling in that reckless way imbibed with uncertainty. That first evening I found myself camped next to four real deal PCT hikers. They invited me to eat dinner with them and taught me about ways to lighten my pack by ditching my Nalgene bottles for SmartWater bottles, told me stories about resuppling with only candy, and about hiking 20 miles a day, every day. I’d read Wild, I’d read Thru Hiking Will Break Your Heart and neither of those books made me want to hike the PCT. But meeting those people on that day in late April made me not only want to hike the PCT, it made me think someone like me could do it. After all, these amazing people were just people, bike messengers and software engineers and grocery store clerks, daughters and grandmothers and husbands. So then, why not me?

No reason, it turns out. We hiked past that same campground this morning, just a flat patch of dirt on top of a hill surrounded by stunted manzanita. Nothing fateful seeming about it.

All day the trail brought back memories, paired with the gentle rock of nostalgia. This area is resplendent with it’s white granite mashing into pink sandstone, pines and oaks and manzanita all rolled together from one hill to another, with Deep Creek plunging through the center – all cool green waters and swallowing pools. Today familiar and surprising, in the way that that a well worn path can sometimes shake you from your habitual revery and show you a new slice of the world that’s been tucked neatly inside the old.

Big Bear city (mile 266) to campsite at mile 287

Car after car rolls into the pull out at mile 266 of the PCT, where the trail crosses the road heading out of Big Bear. The bad weather from the day previous has resulted in a balloon of hikers getting back on the trail today. We follow the ranging group around a small fire closure alternate, bunching up again at lunch, nine miles into the day and our first water source.

But after lunch it’s just Keith and I again. The terrain gently rolling and largely wooded, pine needles littering the ground in that soft crunchy way. Big Bear lake strewn out below us bright blue as it reflects the clear cool sky, the whitecaps from the day before smoothed and soothed. It’s the kind of hiking that’s perfect for a wandering mind and I let mine off leash to meander where it will.

I think of the trail name I’ve recently adopted and still occasionally feel bashful about. Not when I’m with fellow hikers, where comical or bizarre trail names are not only accepted but vehimently encouraged. I think about having written about this trail name on my blog, where anybody can read about it. The whole thing feels suddenly childish, laced with impropriety.

But, why?

Where did I get the idea that adulthood was supposed to be droll, responsible, leached of fun and immodesty and spackled back over with closely guarded emotions, sterilized under florescent office lights? When did I embrace these ideas and make them my own? What else could there be; where does one buy an alternative blueprint for the intervening years between adolescence and the grave?

I think back to a woman I used to work with; raucaus, laughing, ineffably cheerful. Incomprehensible in her ballooning good humor. Silly. Is that what adulthood is? Could be? She was unlike anyone I’d ever met; in and out of my life in a flash that left me standing like the lone witness of a brief summer squal – all wind tousled, and yet bathed in sunlight.

What part of my life is this, I think, right now, will I remember this day when I’m 90? Perhaps looking back on the worries of youth from the safely of old age and laughing at myself for thinking I could daydream my life into something remarkable. In that way I’m hesitant to place too much gravitas on this hike. I don’t want to frame the PCT as some means of change. Going out into nature to find oneself – barely on and already the cliche feels worn to thread. But this trip, the simmering down of life into relatively simple tasks provides a contrast of sorts to how I’ve seen other adults managing their lives. Those self same people who told me “hike the PCT now, when else will you have the chance.” A phrase that feels both warning and trap.

We arrive at camp, a gentle flat within a stand of trees that’s nestled in a crook of the trail. My mind whirring back into the here and now, drawn into the immediate by the few tasks that I’m responsible for: feed self, set up tent, water, bathroom. Easy enough. But without any questions answered. But maybe that’s being an adult too; accepting that you don’t know, might never know, will spend the rest of your life being thrown from the nest again and again until you learn to find happiness in the falling. Or maybe it’s nothing like that, but rather finding enjoyment in the here and now. A syrupy yellow sunset, splashed through old trees. A kind man with a playful mind. A meal, a warm place to sleep, comfort. A solomn owl in the distance, and a tomorrow that promises something new.

Zero in Big Bear – no hiking

We’re taking another zero day in Big Bear. The weather today is supposed to be near freezing all day and well below that at night with 40-60 mph winds, which paired with the arrival of Gently Used, Breaker, and Shades has persuaded us to stay. I know it’s practically the right choice, but that doesn’t keep me from also feeling frustrated at sitting around another day. The boredom is starting to tingle up my arms and legs, my brain chanting go go go, time to go! Today feels like money, time, and food I’d rather have spent hiking. It’s an unnecessary frustration, that I’m forcing myself to live through. The product of the brain of a chronically bored, restless person; I’ve always struggled with this. Though, perhaps this feeling is instead the symptoms of a slow weaning from the endorphins I’ve been bathing myself in daily. The reward for hours spent on the move. The impetus to wake early each morning and begin moving down the trail on sensitive bloated feet and tightwire tendons.

But time spent at the Big Bear Hostel with the other hikers is it’s own kind of PCT experience. One that I am grateful to have. Yet another situation where socializing is involved, I’m forced/cajoled into participating, and then I enjoy myself. I swear to god I’m than I am self perceptive.

Anyway.

This additional down day will be a good opportunity to take a suggestion Mihai left on a previous post, and talk about some of the people I’ve met on the trail who have left an impressive on me. Today I’m going to tell you about Kristine.

I met Kristine on my first day on the trail. Her and her husband came into the campground at Hauser Creek towards dusk. They caught my attention because her husband, Randy, had one of those collapsible camp chairs – one hell of a heavy luxury item, especially when paired with their ultralight tent. But this wasn’t a couples adventure, it was Kristina’s adventure with Randy tagging along for support until Lake Morena. Parents to five kids between them, together nine years, married only four, and both in their late 60’s when Kristina decides to hike the PCT. It’s a huge leap for both of them.

During lunch at the Lake Morena malt shop the next day Randy tells me their first grandchild has just been born. Kristina is in the bathroom and Randy takes this moment to tell me that she’s a wonderful grandmother, a complete natural, he’s never seen anything like it, beaming as he says this. Going on, he says it’s so hard for her to be away from the kids for this extended trip, it’s probably the hardest part of the trail. That’s saying something, because Kristina wasn’t a hiker until about two years ago. Randy and Kristina hiked half dome in a day in 2016, and that set the ball in motion for her. 2017 they hiked part of the Tahoe Rim Trail, and later that year she decided she’d thru hike the PCT. Planned everything out, bought the gear, and now she’s out here. She’s really doing it.

I saw Kristina again in Julian, all smiles and warm glow. Then, most recently on the hike out of Idyllwild, a bright spot even on a sunny day, surrounded by eight or more hikers, her rolling gang. She said she’s been loving the trail, found a great group to hike with. She looked like an absolute all star and I am so happy for her. I can’t wait to see her further down the trail.

Zero in Big Bear – no hiking

In the last week Keith and I have been given, and more importantly accepted, trail names. As you may recall I was previously ambivalent about taking on a trail name, if you’d like to read more about that, check out day 5 of my PCT blog. However, that was also before I was given a trail name that felt fitting to who I am, and is frankly, just damn funny.

Keith becomes Starman –

This name stems from his time spent working at SpaceX, and his involvement with the launch of Dragon Heavy. If you’re unfamiliar, that was when SpaceX launched a car with a dummy inside instead of the traditional test payload for new rockets, which is usually just a giant block of concrete. The dummy in the car is also named Starman.

Runners up for Keith’s trail name include: Op-ed, Solver, Teacher, Gas Leak, Star Lord, and Professor.

Kara becomes Sporty Bastard –

This name is a combination of two separate instances. The first part being from a luncheon chat with Enigma – because apparently skiing, snowboarding, trail running, hiking, weight training, playing both soccer and ultimate Frisbee, and running triathlons makes you a bit of an oddity. Initially he suggested Sporty Spice, but I had little desire to be associated with a 90’s British pop band, and thus it was shorted to Sporty. The second part of my trail name came later that same day during a particularly brutal hill climb. The group was discussing the merits of marriage without children (as ya do) and I mention that my parents only got married once they knew there were having kids and I was conceived – something I feel has influenced my own relaxed take on marriage – Enigma cries out “you’re a bastard!” which I think is hilarious and so I adopt the trail name Sporty Bastard, Sporty for short. I’m sorry Mom and Dad if that offends you 😀

Runners up for my trail name included: Second Shoe, Tracker, The Hair, and a handful of others that were just lame. People on the PCT reaaaally want to give out trail names.

So why did I change my tune on trail names? First, because I think Sporty Bastard is fitting, and it’s something I never would have thought of on my own. I abhor the task of describing myself and cringe every time I’m asked for a bio. But it’s fun to hear what other people see in you. Second, I’ve always needed an outlet for my excess energy and tendency to grow bored quickly, and physical activity has often filled that need. Being active is a deeply ingrained part of who I am. Third, I’m a fan of the fact that it’s a gender neutral name, and the fact that it makes me and others laugh every time I say it. I also like that people don’t mispronounce it unlike with my real name. And finally, I am a bit of a bastard, not just by birth (because I was only conceived out of wedlock, not born out of it), but also by my contrarian nature and general disregard for arbitrary/unearned authority.

Zero in Big Bear – no hiking

“Are you going all the way through?” That was the most common question I was asked in the first week on the trail. The answer always the same: “that’s the plan!” Because it’s never really certain that you’ll finish a thru hike, the best you’ve got is a plan. A plan and the hope that you’re one of the people who loves it enough to stick it out. A plan and enough luck to avoid injury and illness. A plan and the dream that this new wild adventure is really what you’re looking for.

This morning I learned that Crispy quit the trail. The week before it was Quadzilla. Since starting the PCT three weeks ago I’ve heard whisperings and stories of folks who quit on their first day or before the end of their first week, about others who were forced off the trail due to injury. Each time it’s sad, each time it hits close to home, the knowledge that someone’s dream is over. The months or years of preparation that lead to the start of the trail has come to an abrupt end for them. Statistically speaking, it will come for most of us.

I can’t imagine quitting the trail is anything but hard, not less so because the hiking community will view it as a failure rather than a personal choice. I have to assume that Crispy and Quadzilla did what was right for them and their relationships and for that I can hardly fault them.

We rarely give enough credit to those who try something new, even if they end up hating it and abandoning it. And this dichotomy of success or failure is what makes it so hard to try new things, because it feels like if you don’t complete what you started, don’t line up with the standards set by the community, then you’ve failed. But in reality, you’ve just learned. Learned that something wasn’t your cup of tea, learned that other things are more important, learned what makes you happy. How can you fault someone for learning?

So to Crispy and Quadzilla, I hope your choice to get off the trail brought you peace, and I hope it feels right for you. I really enjoyed the time we got to spend together. Best wishes, my fellow hiker trash.

Campsite at mile 248 to HWY 18/Big Bear city (mile 266)

At mile 250 we’re stopped short by what our guide app euphemistically calls a “private zoo.” The compound for Randy Miller’s Predators in Action (http://www.predatorsinaction.com), consists of a house and a half dozen 12×12 foot chain link cages which at various times contain big predators who are largely used in films and other staged entertainment. Today there is just one lone bear pacing back and forth, back and forth in it’s too small cage. Head drooping, eyes dull, it unenthusiastically rolls it’s one toy – a small bare tree stump – before returning to pacing. Oh bear, I think, you do not deserve this. Behind me the sounds of cars heading towards Big Bear city draw my attention. A town that adorns nearly every street corner and business with images of bears, the people so removed from real bears, from this bear. I wonder how many people even know this creature is up here alone. It’s a morose way to start the day, but what can we do here in this moment? Nothing. And so we move on.

As we walk through the cool morning Keith and I talk about the latest films we saw with a wild animal in it. I honestly can’t remember what it was, but I know I’ve certainly been part of the problem. Escaped into an on-screen fiction where live animals performed for my entertainment and I never spared a thought as to their lives off screen. It makes me feel dirty. I hope CG will soon remove the need for real animals in films and television.

My attention is drawn back to the trail by the presence of bear poop, evidence of the local black bear population. The conversation shifts to the few bear encounters we’ve had over years of hiking, laughing at how many people ask PCT hikers if they’re going to carry a gun to defend against bears. It’s sad how little most folks know about bears, envisioning them as these vicious human-eating super predators, when in reality most bears want nothing to do with you. It’s during this conversation that we discover that we’ve lost the PCT and meandered onto a different trail. Dang. I can see the PCT across the small valley, but instead of backtracking we endeavor down our new trail, assuming it will join back up eventually. The grand thing about going on an adventure is that nothing can really go wrong, it can only turn into more of an adventure!

The afternoon passes in a series of blustery hill climbs, our pace increasing as our eagerness for town builds. Eventually we are deposited at the Snow Bear lodge, my only favorite place in this town of bears, where for $90/night you can get a hotel room where nothing matches and there is a jacuzzi in the corner. I flop face down onto the red patchwork quilt and endeavor not to move for a very long time.