Bright eyes flashed in the forest near me and I immediately froze. Which, side note, is definitely the wrong thing to do for pretty much any predator that you’ll find in North America. Realizing this, I started to get loud and big, waving my arms above me as I shouted “I’m a big scary animal” into the darkness. I mean, it’s not like the animal knew what I was saying anyway. Don’t judge.
Nothing.
Just some big round eyes staring back at me.
Oh god! I thought. Is that what mountain lions do? Is he sizing me up? Staring me down? Am I going to get mother-fucking eaten?!!
I turned and grabbed the largest thing that I could find, a sizable pine-cone, and lobbed it with all my strength into the forest, sending the creature in question bounding into the darkness with the speed and grace of a…. deer.
I had almost shit myself because a heard of deer were grazing in the field I was hiking through. Well. I guess that’s what I get for night hiking.
I started talking loudly to myself as I plodded through the dark on my way to camp. A late start to avoid, what turned out to be nonexistent, icy snow conditions meant that I would be night-hiking to reach my intended campground. Chilao Campground rested just past the halfway mark of the Silver Moccasin Trail, a 53 mile trail that crosses the entire Angeles National Forest from north to south. Mac and I had started on opposite sides of the trail, her on Friday me on Saturday morning, with the plan to reconvene at work on Monday morning. But at the moment I was just past the halfway point, it was well after 10pm, and I was crashing hard, coming down off the adrenaline high upon seeing the killer forest deer 20 minutes earlier.
Just make it to Chilao I thought. Hike hike hike. Just make it to Chilao. Hike hike hike.
At moments like this, there is really only one course of action. You get on your phone, and you blast the soundtrack to Hamilton.
I am Alexander Hamilton!
That’s right scary forest deer! I am Alexander Hamilton and I’m not going to let you eat me!
Fuck you bears and cougars! I’m Alexander Hamilton and I’m not throwing away my shot!
And so it was, deranged singing, headlamp beam swinging through the underbrush, profuse swearing, and trekking poles flailing that I stumbled into Bandito Group Campground. I checked the map. Nothing was supposed to be here, and yet here was a massive campground. A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans.” A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans” full of 100-odd people milling around in the dark.
To the adrenaline-tweaking night-hiker this can only mean one thing: water.
My initial plan was to approach the closest group huddled around a campfire, eloquently explain my situation – that I was thru hiking and had run out of water – and calmly ask them if they could spare a liter or two.
What actually happened was that I approached the closest group huddled around a campfire, not getting close enough to the firelight for them to actually see me, and with the awkwardness of a pre-teen at a school dance, asked if they had any water.
Silence.
“I’m hiking” I added somewhat lamely, as if that would completely clarify why a strange woman was asking for water, 50 miles from the closest metropolitan area.
Silence. And then.
“There is some water on those tables, near the bridal party.”
Sweet hallelujah! Oh lawd jesus I am saved! With the power of water I can do anything, I can hike all night! Wait… did she say bridal party?
And that, good readers, is how I accidentally on purpose crashed my first wedding.
Approaching the table like some skittish feral animal I scoped out the surrounding environment. Electric candles and discarded cans of PBR littered the picnic tables, drunk humans roved in loose packs all around me, bonfires illuminated the night, and literally not a single person seemed to register my presence. Filling my bottles with dirt-caked hands I only drew attention from one man, who seemed not to register the fact that I was toting a backpack, covered in dirt, and wearing an outfit that could best be described as a “dirtbag-hiker chic.” He grinned stupidly as his eyes roved from my feet, up my body, and finally resting on my face. Which, really should have alerted him to the fact that most wedding guests don’t wear headlamps and trucker hats, but what can I say, enough alcohol and you’ll start to think that boning a garbage can is a good idea. It was at this point in the evening that I retreated into the forest, set up my ground cloth on the outskirts of the revelers and was lulled to sleep by the sweet sweet melody of Shawty feat. T-Pain.
If you’d like an article about hiking the Silver Moccasin Trail that’s actually informative, check out the piece I wrote for RootsRated.
