The front of the Kennedy Meadows General Store was obscured by a few
old trees. To the right stood a rusting white pole with an equally
decrepit Shell Oil logo attached to the top. It drew your eyes down
towards a neglected list of gas prices, with only partial forms of
numbers revealing themselves. The old tank they stood guard beside was
empty, at least until the season picked up. The sky was a cloudless
blue, and as I took off my load, I heard a vaguely familiar voice
speaking German. It was coming from Lone Walker. Another hiker
interrupted my pausing revelation to ask, 'Have you seen Tiny ,
drinks, and an enormous stuffed Smokey the Bear doll with a contrived
six pack (This item will likely still be for sale at the Kennedy
Meadows General Store twenty years from now, and should remain the
only constant aspect of the otherwise ever-changing P.C.T.)' We
arranged for showers and laundry and went out to the deck where Steve
the Climber was flipping burgers on the grill. Steve had hiked some of the
trail last year and returned to this odd oasis to serve hungry hikers
and do odd jobs for this Tom. Incoming and existing hikers congregated
by the grill. We met Mother Moab and her twelve year old son Jayhawk
with a Mohawk, as well as Dustin from Massachusetts and his uncle
Curtis from Kashmir, WA.
J.R., who we met near the 58, was there, but wasn't staying with Tom,
who was being highly recommended by everyone after they asked about
Tiny Dancer. A fellow named Chris Knight strolled up, and shortly into
our conversation I discovered that he was dating a woman who used to
live in Cordova, AK, that I knew! It was the second small world
Cordova coincidence on the PCT, exactly 700 miles of trail after the
first one.
I walked around the building to get some laundry started and to get a shower. There were two outdoor showers in wooden stalls. I was in one, and two other hikers freshened up in the other... I don't think either of them were Tiny Dancer.
Outside the shower I finally met Tom, the operator of the hiker sanctuary down the road. We talked fishing and the absence of Tiny Dancer, who he was supposed to drive down to Ridgecrest so she could get a flight out to Seattle. He bought a large swath of property up here about five years ago, and set up some trailers for hikers when he found out that the trail passed by so closely. Over the years, with the help of hikers, especially those who had longer stays than others, he had developed the property even more, adding a terraced outdoor movie theatre with a large piece of white painted plywood as a projector screen. We hopped in the back of his truck and took the short ride to his place.
The closest trailer to the road, obscured by hammocks and two washers pits, was the 'comm center.' Rather, it had four solar powered, donated laptops that hikers could use to catch up with real world. Ryan and Chris took the beds in the back, and I slept on the couch right next to the row of computers. We moseyed down to the kitchen area for dinner. With all of the philanthropy going on here, we wanted to make sure we could contribute as much as possible for the short time we were going to be there, so we got to the know the workings of the kitchen and helped get dinner distributed to the ever growing number of hikers there. We met some more of the main characters of Kennedy Meadows, including Slim, who had started the hike this year but was taking an extended rest after coming down very sick in the last section. Curtis gave him some dog antibiotics near Walker Pass, which miraculously tided him over until he made it to Toms. Moss Stationary had just arrived as well, and was waiting for supplies and a group to tackle the Sierras with. I played baseball with Jayhawk, who was an avid soccer fan and apparently quite the long jumper. After the nightly film, in which everyone fell asleep except for the three of us, we tucked in for what we expected to be our only night in Kennedy Meadows.
I awoke to two foreign hikers coming in to the computer trailer. I rolled over as they scooted a couple of chairs towards the couch. My face was mere inches from their behinds. I opened my eyes again after about fifteen minutes and asked what time it was.
'Just now seven.'
'Seven... exactly?'
We helped out with Tom's famous pancake operation in the morning. We took dishwashing duty with an old timer named Gray Ghost, who was close to eighty. He was a Scandanavian fellow from the Midwest who had done the A.T. over the last few years.
We milled around the property for the morning, playing washers and picking up on trail gossip. Hanging out on the deck by the General Store waiting for the mail truck to come had become tradition for hikers in Kennedy Meadows. Dustin and Curtis had been waiting for almost a week. The grill was almost out of everything on the menu, but the hot dogs were palatable, and the tab increased quietly on a yellow legal pad out of sight in the store. Over lunch, Ryan expressed worry, 'Are they going to get more food?'
It seems as if the rest of the world has forgotten that Kennedy Meadows exists. Perhaps it didn't know in the first place. Our boxes did not arrive.
Tiny Dancer did, however! She was a short, red haired girl solo hiking the whole trail, but taking a couple of weeks off to let snow melt up ahead and attend a wedding back in Seattle. She was also filming herself dancing at various spots around the trail, either by herself or with other hikers. We did a Russian can-can in front of the store.
Don't Panic and Wing It arrived as well, they were both from Seattle and had completed the Triple Crown of thru-hikes, so their advice was wise and worth taking. We relaxed in Steve the Climbers trailer, which was a semi-permanent residence. Dustin picked up a guitar and started singing a twangy alt-rock country tune, mostly in the direction of his uncle, Curtis.
'I can't go with you on your rock climbing weekend/
What if something's on TV... and it's just never shown again?
It's best I'm not invited, I'm afraid of heights/
I lied about being... the outdoor type.'
That night we watched a documentary about the P.C.T. Buffalo, a hiker we had given a ride to Mojave from Tehachapi a week and a half earlier, showed up and complained that he had caught the same poison oak that we had. I didn't finish the movie, because Chris came back to tell me that a mouse had just eaten a hole through his mattress and into his sleeping bag. He and Ryan moved outside into the tent, but I considered the couch to still be safe, and fell asleep listening to the mice bang around on the kitchenette counter.
Tom took Tiny Dancer, Mother Moab, and Jayhawk down the mountain the next day. We took full control of pancake duty, as we were now experts of the kitchen. I added a little cinnamon to the recipe, and lots of extra butter, because you don't get many opportunities to please the crowd, so you have to take advantage when you get the chance. Steve the Climber was back behind the grill, and we bought him bacon from the store so he could make us his famous 'Climber Burger.'
The Climber Burger consisted of three beef patties, with cheese between each layer, guacamole, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and special sauce. It was a perfect meal before entering the Sierras, which also didn't happen that day, because only our food arrived, and we still had to wait for our winter gear and ice axes.
A crew of seasoned hikers returned from climbing Forester Pass the next morning, the tallest point on the P.C.T., and an especially difficult patch of trail during this record snow year. We were hearing that this was the worst snow year on record since 1982, and the lingering winter could make it the longest lasting snowpack since the seventies. The guides had some good advice on the conditions of the pass and which way to go when we got to the top, as well as what gear they found worked well and what didn't.
The rest of the day brought more dishwashing, more milling about, more ice cream sandwiches, and more absence of winter gear shipments. From what the locals knew about the way mail worked around here, mail would have to go from Bakersfield to Ridgecrest, and then up to Kennedy Meadows, each step taking at least one day, maybe more.
Don't Panic and Wing It took off that day, but hikers were coming in at a faster rate than they were leaving. Blaze from Canada arrived, among many others. Tom's season was picking up, and it was clear that he had to be careful about how he doled out his nearly infinite kindness. When Moss Stationary asked if he could pay to rip out map pages from one of Tom's P.C.T. books, Tom denied him for the understandable reason that he would have to go out of his way to buy a new one next time he was down in Ridgecrest. Moss Stationary made the curious choice of saying that he had planned on just stealing the book, but figured he should try a more legitimate strategy first. Obviously, this didn't go over well. Tom was a generous man, with a child-like gleam in his eyes, but he would not be walked on.
Our winter gear arrived the next day, and not a moment too soon. Tom photographed us before we set off early that afternoon. My pack weighed in at 45 pounds, due to the eleven days of food and added winter gear. We made nine miles that afternoon, picking up the first few hundred feet of what would be endless climbing over the next few days, and crossing the swollen South Fork of the Kern River on a bridge. We camped alongside a stream, grateful to start lightening our packs with the first dinner of the section.
We climbed about 600 feet to Monache Meadows. The green, thriving valley flanked by gray, snow capped mountains reminded me a lot of Alaska. So far, albeit less than twenty miles in, our Sierra experience was going swimmingly, and not nearly as snow covered as we had feared. This would change soon, however, we were just under 8,000 feet, but had a 2,500 foot climb out of the meadow. We crossed a bridge over the South Fork of the Kern River once again, this one made of steel and populated by dozens of barn swallows. We climbed steadily up to about 10,400 feet and then descended very gradually to the edge of Gomez Meadow. At the edge of the meadow was an old snag with a 19th century carving of a man smoking a pipe. It was almost certainly left there by a Basque sheep herder. Many herders from Andorra and the surrounding Pyrennes Mountains immigrated to the Owens Valley and made their living taking their livestock up to the high meadows of the well watered Sierras to graze, using the same passes that hikers essentially still used today to resupply in the valley. I stopped in the middle of the meadow to stretch out for a second, that first big climb and subsequent rest had left my left leg pretty tight. I sat and enjoyed the scenery and chirping birds for about five minutes, then noticed something a bit larger than normal working its way across the marshy flat. It was a beaver, at nearly 9,000 feet! It stopped and stared at me for a moment, and then went about its business. The tail was smaller than that of Alaskan beavers I had seen, but I was thrilled for the rare chance to see one here in the Southern Sierras.
It started to snow as we set up camp next to Dry Creek and awoke the next morning to a light layer of snow. Although the snow was slowing us down considerably now as our average elevation hung well above 9,000 feet, I could still appreciate the beauty of the Sierras with the pleasing contrast of white (snow), green (pines), blue (sky), and gray (cliffs). We had several lower passes to climb up that day, the first dropping us into a meadow where the streams only peeked out from a few collapsed sections of snow. Cottonwood Pass was our first 11,000+ of the Sierras, and we had to plan the ascent with the GPS from a preceding ridge. Any sign of trail was rare out here. We climbed atop a rock outcropping after defeating the pass, taking in the vast view as our confidence was peaking. We were exhausted from a day of lots of ups and downs in elevation, but had to traverse a long ridge to get to a lower spot to camp. It was getting late, and the sun was setting, but this made for one of the most memorably pretty patches of hiking this whole summer. We bouldered over sharp, golden rocks, tip toed across shimmering icy crests of the ridge, the experience overpowered my sore muscles. The moment was interrupted when I slipped and fell off a rock, but the deep soreness had subsided by the time I got out of the tent the next morning, hardly rested from a chilly, windy night.
Halfway through the next day we ran into Blaze, right after climbing out of Death Canyon (Hardly formidable compared with what was ahead.). We decided to climb Mt. Whitney with him the next day, and hurried to keep up with his fast paced, ultra light pace along the slopes to Crabtree Meadow. The snow was getting mushy by mid-morning, and in the afternoon we were often postholing to our calves. I hit a soft spot by a tree coming down and fell in up to my chest. I had thought simply hiking was good exercise, pulling yourself out of snow every ten steps was even more taxing. We were lucky to find a small snow free patch of ground in the meadow, and set up camp early to prepare for our ascent of Mt. Whitney the next day. Blaze told us stories of hiking in Alberta and we ogled his food that looked so much tastier than my boring potatoes and beef with onions.
The summit of Whitney is 8.7 miles off trail, but since it's the tallest point in the Lower 48, it's well worth the bonus miles. We were lucky to be with Blaze, because the trail to the Western face was almost completely under snow, and none of the waypoints were loaded on our GPS. Blaze had hiked this section last year, so he knew roughly which way to go. We climbed out of the meadow along a river, which we had to cross twice. The first crossing was a slick log that had iced over in the night. The second crossing didn't present itself so obviously as we made our way up. Blaze chose a daring leap across the water onto a snow cornice that he grabbed onto and pulled himself up on. Personally, I was a little shocked at the choice when there were plenty of less precarious options around. Ryan and Chris successfully followed Blaze, but I shook my head and found a much nicer crossing only a few hundred feet up where a stump had lodged in the water.
The approach rises up to a shelf below the form of the mountain. If it wasn't such a bizarre year, we would be treated by views of Guitar Lake. Instead, we carefully traversed above it on an icy slope, then slogged across the saddle before the lake to the bottom of the towering face. We were surrounded by sharp peaks on all sides. Mt. Whitney is really no more than a high point along a spindly ridge with a bit of a fade to it. While the view was stunning, the upcoming path was clearly going to be treacherous.
Honestly, it was obvious right then and there that it was way too early to climb the mountain from this side without crampons and rope. We would need to cut steps and zig zag up icy snow chutes that had buried the switchbacking trail. It was still quite early in the morning and the sun hadn't touched this face since mid afternoon the previous day. However, we were four boys, so our decision making was predictably unsound, so we started up the mountain, tightly gripping our ice axes. Since my mother reads this (and is, perhaps, the only person reading this), I'll spare the gory details of the slow, deliberate ascent. Each step was a summit in itself. My ice axe aged like a fruit fly on meth, going in shiny and new, and coming out etched, scratched, and gouged. Military jets flew in formation back and forth over the mountain as we climbed. After a few thousand feet the trail (if you could see it) meets up with the trail coming over from the Owens Valley side of the mountain. From there it calms down for a spell, winding right below the spine of the ridge heading North towards the peak. This is one of the most captivating stretches of trail you'll ever walk on, but it did take some care in the snow. The trail reaches the final push to the summit, which in this situation was a maddening fight with another sheet of icy snow. I was worn down and running off of sheer will, scrambling and kicking tiny footholds up to the plateau. The last hundred feet are a gentle crest to the top of California, at 14,505 feet. The mountain has a nearly 10,000 foot prominence on the east side, as this is the edge of the Sierra Block which is tipped up Westward towards the San Joaquin Valley. Clouds obscured all but a glimpse of the Owens Valley, but the view to the West was truly endless.
The stone hut built by the Sierra Club in the early 1900's after the first lightning death on Whitney was filled inside with snow. During the high season the Forest Service pays to helicopter a port-a-potty up and down from the summit weekly, but it was still too early for that. There were a few day hikers from the Owens Valley side shuffling through as well. We enjoyed the top, and began our descent right before noon.
The trip down was as hairy as the trip up, perhaps more so. Chris took a spill but luckily escaped with mere flesh wounds all over his arms. It started to snow as we got back to camp, and we encountered first a group of four hikers, and closer to our camp a convoy of ten PCTers, mostly friendly faces we knew from Kennedy Meadows. We would learn later that out of the 14, only one would attempt the Whitney summit the next day. Considering the weather and existing trail conditions, I would have felt fine making the same choice.
Nonetheless, we did what we did, and got away with it. As Chris said, 'I think we just climbed Whitney on Expert.'
There is little rest for the weary, Forrester Pass beckoned the next morning. We camped early with Blaze and swapped more stories as Crabtree Meadows sank deeper beneath early June snow.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tehachapi to Kennedy Meadows
The hike from Highway 58 near Tehachapi Pass to Kennedy Meadows is 140 miles long with multiple strenuous climbs. Hopefully the previous 560 or so miles gets you conditioned for this patch and the upcoming push through the Sierras. We were conditioned when we arrived in Tehachapi, but a week of pizza, hamburgers, burritos, frozen yogurt, beer, and tequila definitely had its effects. Recovering the weight was definitely a plus, I was down to 155 pounds when I reached Tehachapi, and got back up to 161 by the time we left.
We encountered a hiker named J.R. running down the first steep climb up from the highway. He had left something down at the pass. The climb was super windy, but just a preview of the gales we would encounter up ahead. The Mojave Desert blurred in a far off haze to the East, and the Tehachapi Valley, with the town and the Monolith Granite Mine in its palm, shined so golden, and so far away. We encountered J.R. later while taking a break on the other side of the climb. He had done the trail before, and was planning on breaking off at Walker Pass to rest in Lake Isabella for awhile. We descended back down into more wind turbine country, rounding along a forested slope. We started so early that we were able to take a long break next to a spring spigot. A hiker with all of his items in a gray sack passed by the spring, but we weren't able to get a lot out of him. J.R. had said people were referring to him as 'David Carradine,' referring to Carradine's famous role as a warrior monk who carried a large sack in the T.V. show 'Kung Fu.' I thought the Carradine reference was a bit unfortunate due to the actor's peculiar demise, and will from now on refer to him as 'Lone Walker.' Our slightly awkward introduction with Lone Walker was interrupted by low flying military fighter jets engulfing us with massive sound. We did a total of 19 miles that Tuesday, and camped near a ridge of wind turbines in a flat, grassy spot amid some sheltering trees.
On Wednesday morning the father and son section hiking duo we had encountered just past Lake Hughes chanced upon us again. They were heading South to HWY 58, completing the last section they had planned for early summer before he had to go home and take care of his 'Honey-Do' list. The trail seemed more and more like a small community on the move. I would encounter Lone Walker twice that day, only able to extract brief greetings from him both times. He did witness me approach a tree that had shed its bark but was emitting a strange, constant knocking noise. As I got close to it a small bird that I was unable to even slightly identify shot out of a hole and false charged my face, pulling up less than six inches from my nose. I stumbled back and tried to walk on as if nothing had happened. The water was scarce in these parts, and our days were planned carefully around water sources. I went pretty dry for a long portion of the day, which included a dirt road walk that was almost three miles long and three miles longer than my waypoints guide had said it would be. Along the way Yogi and the Three Bears and etched their names in the dirt next to an abandoned tire. I got to Robin Bird Spring with a dry tongue and a parched throat. We camped a few miles later next to a healthfully flowing creek in a wooded area that was a nice departure from the desert landscape around us. We had plenty of daylight to eat our freeze dried Mountain House dinners on the rocks above our campsite.
The trail twirled around through the woods on Thursday morning, crossing our stream several times. Someone left some Chewy Bars in a sign in box next to a service road. While only minimal calories, the taste took my mind off of my sore feet, which were still adjusting to being used again. We dropped quickly from the forest down to Kelso Valley, stopping at a water cache next to Kelso Road. The next fifteen miles were an unexpected struggle against heavy Santa Ana Winds that whipped me around like a doll. On several occasions a gust would catch me from the side and thrust my backpack around like a sail, at one point landing me in a cactus. I carefully planned out my break for the afternoon behind a particularly wide tree in the fold of a hill, but it was still a windy, cold, and barely restful affair. The trail climbed up towards Wyley's Knob, which overlooked the desert and HWY 14 below. The wind was comical on the West side of the feature, the East side, though less windy, was blocked by the sun in the late afternoon by the steep hill. This patch was quite pretty to look at, lots of pleasing rock outcroppings, obviously windswept terrain. We camped in a small protective grove of joshua trees, just off of Bird Spring Canyon Road and its trail junction water cache. The wind whipped at us all night. Chris and I both stabbed ourselves on the joshua trees that surrounded us as we set up our tent. We were sitting on a gentle slope down to the desert, a pretty view, but we were cold, and our mummy bags and tent seemed like better options than sightseeing. We made 25 miles on Thursday, and we were in for some big climbing on Friday morning.
Lone Walker had started up the ridge in the morning before we did. It was a 1600 foot climb over three miles, with most of the gain at the very beginning. I passed by Lone Walker on the way down the other side, and he responded to my greeting with an audible sound. The trail sank back into a high desert environment, following a road for several miles. We stopped at a creek covering the road to get some water and a mid-day rest. Some smoke blew over us from the West, which we would later learn was from a minor forest fire near Lake Isabella. The last half of the day was mostly downhill, we passed a section hiker named Symbiosis, who had two friends with the same backpacks as Chris and I. He was very true to the 'Hiker Handshake,' which is simply an elbow bump. I'm not sure what the reason for this special handshake is. I don't see any reason to fear germs out here, we're all sweaty and dirty. The trail dropped steeply down to Walker Pass at the 178 and its windy campground, where the three of us found a yellow bag hanging on a tree next to the spot we were going to set up. Upon further inspection, we discovered a bounty of Twix and Nature Valley bars inside, as well as a roll of toilet paper! It was one of the most exciting moments of our entire lives, and, unfortunately, that really might not be that crazy of an exaggeration. We ate all of the candy bars except for one, which I meant to grab the next morning, and the toilet paper, which we did not need. We had discussed the source of this bag in length, and ultimately figured it was left by a previous day camper, it was too publicly located to be a hiker cache. The wind made it quite difficult to set down our tents, even in a designated camping area.
On Saturday morning we reached Walker Pass at HWY 178 and started climbing again, right by the pass monuments. The climb was well designed, 1800 feet over eight miles. Upon reaching the crest of the first ridge, we were met with a vast view of Inyokern, China Lakes, and Ridgecrest below. The trail snaked around the east side of Mt. Jenkins, rising up into some fast moving mist. The trail turned rocky and the features of the other, non-windswept side of the mountain were jagged. I came upon a European man named Marco who was trying to climb Jenkins, but climbed the wrong peak in all of the fog. I chatted with him right around the corner from where Lone Walker was resting. Marco asked if he was one of my hiking partners, and I said we were just on the same patch of trail. Lone Walker and I exchanged some brief pleasantries as I passed, and I heard Marco attempt to start a conversation and fail as I ascended further into the mist. The Jenkins Peak/Owens Peak saddle is at 7020 feet, after which there is a decent descent down to the next water source. While crossing the valley later in the day, headed for our late afternoon climb, I crossed paths with Lone Walker, who was, curiously, walking South on the trail. I had not left the trail all day, and had not seen him pass me since we were up on Mt. Jenkins. This seemingly impossible occurrence actually gave me the chance to talk to Lone Walker longer than I ever had before.
"Where you going? Turning around?" I asked.
"Don't wan' camp o'er there. Too windy."
"Understandable. See you tomorrow probably!"
"Figure."
It was like riding a bucking bronco. You know it won't last long, so you're just grateful for every second you get. Chris, Ryan, and I filtered some more water before our climb, an 1800 foot affair that I tried to race Chris up, but even with a head start he overtook me handily. There's no beating that guy when his competitive juices get flowing. We camped on the ridge that night and were pelted by a mild ice storm.
The next day we could reach Kennedy Meadows in roughly 22 miles. Lone Walker passed by our campsite right before we left, commenting, "You camped here?" in his barely audible, characteristic tone. We dropped down the ridge and traversed a canyon until we reached Canebrake Road, after which the trail started a gentle ascent back up to 8000 feet. During the climb my 'piriformus' (Ryan knew the name of this muscle, it's the one that runs up your leg to your back, and is located essentially in your buttcheek.) spasmed very painfully bringing me to a halt. I was already a ways behind the others. I took a couple steps but it kept grabbing, so I was only stumbling painfully along. I sat down and stretched it out for a little bit, hoping that would do the trick, but within twenty more steps of climbing I was in pain again, and laid down in the middle of the trail, rather defeated. At just that time, Lone Walker came upon me. Without breaking stride, he asked, "You 'kay?" as I rolled over to allow him space. "Yes," I said, "just resting." I hung out for awhile in that spot, and then got up to try and see if my butt worked again. It didn't, so I clenched the complaining muscle as hard as I could with my left hand, held both of my poles in my right, and forced my way up the hill. The P.C.T. is not glamorous, and a picture of a man limping up a mountain with one hand firmly clenched to his ass would make a much more appropriate and descriptive logo. At the top of the saddle I let my hand loose of my buttcheek, and realized that I had somehow massaged the muscle back into some sort of functioning state. The drop into Kennedy Meadows was beautiful, following a dry canyon with far off Dome Wilderness shining in the distance. You could spot the Kern River snaking through the valley by its glinting. The sun was starting to fall between two mountains as we did another three miles through the Meadows area.
Our guides said that we would have to cross the Kern River in order to reach the Kennedy Meadows General Store and town. Fortunately, the trail had been rerouted to head more directly towards the spattering suggestion of civilization we were headed for, because the river was looking quite fast and uninviting. We strolled in close to 11 AM, quickly meeting all of the locals and resident hikers, all of whom asked us if we had seen a character named "Tiny Dancer." We hadn't. No one had seen our supply box either, so we were at a stalemate for now... To be continued.
We encountered a hiker named J.R. running down the first steep climb up from the highway. He had left something down at the pass. The climb was super windy, but just a preview of the gales we would encounter up ahead. The Mojave Desert blurred in a far off haze to the East, and the Tehachapi Valley, with the town and the Monolith Granite Mine in its palm, shined so golden, and so far away. We encountered J.R. later while taking a break on the other side of the climb. He had done the trail before, and was planning on breaking off at Walker Pass to rest in Lake Isabella for awhile. We descended back down into more wind turbine country, rounding along a forested slope. We started so early that we were able to take a long break next to a spring spigot. A hiker with all of his items in a gray sack passed by the spring, but we weren't able to get a lot out of him. J.R. had said people were referring to him as 'David Carradine,' referring to Carradine's famous role as a warrior monk who carried a large sack in the T.V. show 'Kung Fu.' I thought the Carradine reference was a bit unfortunate due to the actor's peculiar demise, and will from now on refer to him as 'Lone Walker.' Our slightly awkward introduction with Lone Walker was interrupted by low flying military fighter jets engulfing us with massive sound. We did a total of 19 miles that Tuesday, and camped near a ridge of wind turbines in a flat, grassy spot amid some sheltering trees.
On Wednesday morning the father and son section hiking duo we had encountered just past Lake Hughes chanced upon us again. They were heading South to HWY 58, completing the last section they had planned for early summer before he had to go home and take care of his 'Honey-Do' list. The trail seemed more and more like a small community on the move. I would encounter Lone Walker twice that day, only able to extract brief greetings from him both times. He did witness me approach a tree that had shed its bark but was emitting a strange, constant knocking noise. As I got close to it a small bird that I was unable to even slightly identify shot out of a hole and false charged my face, pulling up less than six inches from my nose. I stumbled back and tried to walk on as if nothing had happened. The water was scarce in these parts, and our days were planned carefully around water sources. I went pretty dry for a long portion of the day, which included a dirt road walk that was almost three miles long and three miles longer than my waypoints guide had said it would be. Along the way Yogi and the Three Bears and etched their names in the dirt next to an abandoned tire. I got to Robin Bird Spring with a dry tongue and a parched throat. We camped a few miles later next to a healthfully flowing creek in a wooded area that was a nice departure from the desert landscape around us. We had plenty of daylight to eat our freeze dried Mountain House dinners on the rocks above our campsite.
The trail twirled around through the woods on Thursday morning, crossing our stream several times. Someone left some Chewy Bars in a sign in box next to a service road. While only minimal calories, the taste took my mind off of my sore feet, which were still adjusting to being used again. We dropped quickly from the forest down to Kelso Valley, stopping at a water cache next to Kelso Road. The next fifteen miles were an unexpected struggle against heavy Santa Ana Winds that whipped me around like a doll. On several occasions a gust would catch me from the side and thrust my backpack around like a sail, at one point landing me in a cactus. I carefully planned out my break for the afternoon behind a particularly wide tree in the fold of a hill, but it was still a windy, cold, and barely restful affair. The trail climbed up towards Wyley's Knob, which overlooked the desert and HWY 14 below. The wind was comical on the West side of the feature, the East side, though less windy, was blocked by the sun in the late afternoon by the steep hill. This patch was quite pretty to look at, lots of pleasing rock outcroppings, obviously windswept terrain. We camped in a small protective grove of joshua trees, just off of Bird Spring Canyon Road and its trail junction water cache. The wind whipped at us all night. Chris and I both stabbed ourselves on the joshua trees that surrounded us as we set up our tent. We were sitting on a gentle slope down to the desert, a pretty view, but we were cold, and our mummy bags and tent seemed like better options than sightseeing. We made 25 miles on Thursday, and we were in for some big climbing on Friday morning.
Lone Walker had started up the ridge in the morning before we did. It was a 1600 foot climb over three miles, with most of the gain at the very beginning. I passed by Lone Walker on the way down the other side, and he responded to my greeting with an audible sound. The trail sank back into a high desert environment, following a road for several miles. We stopped at a creek covering the road to get some water and a mid-day rest. Some smoke blew over us from the West, which we would later learn was from a minor forest fire near Lake Isabella. The last half of the day was mostly downhill, we passed a section hiker named Symbiosis, who had two friends with the same backpacks as Chris and I. He was very true to the 'Hiker Handshake,' which is simply an elbow bump. I'm not sure what the reason for this special handshake is. I don't see any reason to fear germs out here, we're all sweaty and dirty. The trail dropped steeply down to Walker Pass at the 178 and its windy campground, where the three of us found a yellow bag hanging on a tree next to the spot we were going to set up. Upon further inspection, we discovered a bounty of Twix and Nature Valley bars inside, as well as a roll of toilet paper! It was one of the most exciting moments of our entire lives, and, unfortunately, that really might not be that crazy of an exaggeration. We ate all of the candy bars except for one, which I meant to grab the next morning, and the toilet paper, which we did not need. We had discussed the source of this bag in length, and ultimately figured it was left by a previous day camper, it was too publicly located to be a hiker cache. The wind made it quite difficult to set down our tents, even in a designated camping area.
On Saturday morning we reached Walker Pass at HWY 178 and started climbing again, right by the pass monuments. The climb was well designed, 1800 feet over eight miles. Upon reaching the crest of the first ridge, we were met with a vast view of Inyokern, China Lakes, and Ridgecrest below. The trail snaked around the east side of Mt. Jenkins, rising up into some fast moving mist. The trail turned rocky and the features of the other, non-windswept side of the mountain were jagged. I came upon a European man named Marco who was trying to climb Jenkins, but climbed the wrong peak in all of the fog. I chatted with him right around the corner from where Lone Walker was resting. Marco asked if he was one of my hiking partners, and I said we were just on the same patch of trail. Lone Walker and I exchanged some brief pleasantries as I passed, and I heard Marco attempt to start a conversation and fail as I ascended further into the mist. The Jenkins Peak/Owens Peak saddle is at 7020 feet, after which there is a decent descent down to the next water source. While crossing the valley later in the day, headed for our late afternoon climb, I crossed paths with Lone Walker, who was, curiously, walking South on the trail. I had not left the trail all day, and had not seen him pass me since we were up on Mt. Jenkins. This seemingly impossible occurrence actually gave me the chance to talk to Lone Walker longer than I ever had before.
"Where you going? Turning around?" I asked.
"Don't wan' camp o'er there. Too windy."
"Understandable. See you tomorrow probably!"
"Figure."
It was like riding a bucking bronco. You know it won't last long, so you're just grateful for every second you get. Chris, Ryan, and I filtered some more water before our climb, an 1800 foot affair that I tried to race Chris up, but even with a head start he overtook me handily. There's no beating that guy when his competitive juices get flowing. We camped on the ridge that night and were pelted by a mild ice storm.
The next day we could reach Kennedy Meadows in roughly 22 miles. Lone Walker passed by our campsite right before we left, commenting, "You camped here?" in his barely audible, characteristic tone. We dropped down the ridge and traversed a canyon until we reached Canebrake Road, after which the trail started a gentle ascent back up to 8000 feet. During the climb my 'piriformus' (Ryan knew the name of this muscle, it's the one that runs up your leg to your back, and is located essentially in your buttcheek.) spasmed very painfully bringing me to a halt. I was already a ways behind the others. I took a couple steps but it kept grabbing, so I was only stumbling painfully along. I sat down and stretched it out for a little bit, hoping that would do the trick, but within twenty more steps of climbing I was in pain again, and laid down in the middle of the trail, rather defeated. At just that time, Lone Walker came upon me. Without breaking stride, he asked, "You 'kay?" as I rolled over to allow him space. "Yes," I said, "just resting." I hung out for awhile in that spot, and then got up to try and see if my butt worked again. It didn't, so I clenched the complaining muscle as hard as I could with my left hand, held both of my poles in my right, and forced my way up the hill. The P.C.T. is not glamorous, and a picture of a man limping up a mountain with one hand firmly clenched to his ass would make a much more appropriate and descriptive logo. At the top of the saddle I let my hand loose of my buttcheek, and realized that I had somehow massaged the muscle back into some sort of functioning state. The drop into Kennedy Meadows was beautiful, following a dry canyon with far off Dome Wilderness shining in the distance. You could spot the Kern River snaking through the valley by its glinting. The sun was starting to fall between two mountains as we did another three miles through the Meadows area.
Our guides said that we would have to cross the Kern River in order to reach the Kennedy Meadows General Store and town. Fortunately, the trail had been rerouted to head more directly towards the spattering suggestion of civilization we were headed for, because the river was looking quite fast and uninviting. We strolled in close to 11 AM, quickly meeting all of the locals and resident hikers, all of whom asked us if we had seen a character named "Tiny Dancer." We hadn't. No one had seen our supply box either, so we were at a stalemate for now... To be continued.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Escaping the Valleys, or How I Ended Up Forever Alone at Buck Owen's Crystal Palace
The taxi that pulled up the parking lot of the Motel 6 along Highway 14 in Palmdale couldn't be. Could it be?
It was Salvador, with the same "what are the chances?" look on his face that we had. He would take us back to the trail, and, on top of that, he knew the way, sort of. Salvador had half a mind to throw on a pack and join us. The forces that surround us were pushing him out of the business. He was pushing back, but there was no telling what his future held. He took us all of the way to the trail for the same price he charged from Acton a few days earlier. He snapped pictures of us as we pulled our gear out of the trunk, an adventurous patch on his taxi cab mosaic.
The trail descended into a thick jungle of bushes, branches, and muddy meanderings of a stream. The trail dissipated, easily overcome by the challenge. The trail guide defeatedly suggested bushwhacking straight across to the Metrolink tracks ahead and relocating the trail there. Easy enough. The trail rose for a bit and stretched for a tunnel underneath Highway 14 near Agua Dulce. The long tunnel was a cool respite from the heavy sun that day. It was a very active day for snakes and other hikers. The trail on the other side of the 14 took us through Vasquez Rocks Park, another San Andreas Fault feature and named for the notorious bandit Tiburcio Vasquez. Vasquez committed many robberies between Santa Rosa and the L.A. Basin, but was particularly fond of doing work along Soledad Canyon and the southern end of the Antelope Valley where there were many difficult, yet serviceable, escape routes. He was eventually captured at a ranch in West Hollywood, allegedly turned in by his own family, and was executed in 1875 at age 39 for atrocities commited during his 1873 Tres Pinos job. The Vasquez Rocks are striking and otherworldly, so it follows that Captain Kirk and his Star Trek cronies foiled many a galactic menace around these parts, which served as sets for a few different planets over the years, as well as the home of the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
For PCT hikers, the big prize is just north of the park, at the Saufley's house in Agua Dulce. Donna and her husband are, perhaps, the most famous trail angels on the entire hike. They open their property up to passing trekkers, with a double wide trailer set up with all of the amenities one could need. It is very aptly named 'Hiker's Paradise.' Donna convinced us to take another 'zero' (Rest day, zero miles) there, as we were so far ahead of schedule. We helped get all of the bikes ready for the big surge of hikers who would be assuredly arriving in three or four weeks, with Chris being a valuable asset to the Saufley's with his bike mechanic expertise. We test rode a few a mile back and forth from the very brief town center of Agua Dulce to get food and watch basketball a few times. The return trips down the country road were dark and intoxicatingly loping.
Donna, understanding of our allergy to 'bonus miles,' drove us down to the trail and saw us off. We had to walk down the streets of Agua Dulce for a spell, but soon we were climbing again, 2,000 feet. We dropped into Bouquet Canyon, near the reservoir. As I was walking down a patch of trail with low-lying grass I paused my foot in mid-air above something that, at first, looked like a stick. I noticed the rattler at the end of the snake just in time, I had nearly stepped right on it. I batted it off the trail with my hiking pole and continued. We camped that night in a little hollow that someone had set up for hikers. There were lawn chairs, random dolls, and water. There wasn't much room in there, but we were able to squeeze our tents in for the night. Beetles came and joined our party. It was either a big beetle wrestling tournament or mating season, probably the former, though it was hard to tell.
The next morning a friendly day hiker named Mario passed by with his girlfriend and gave us some jerky. We followed the curves of the slope for hours, briefly dropping 1,000 feet down to San Francisquito Canyon Road, then climbing that 1,000 back up the other side. We dropped down near Lake Hughes along a gurgling, insect infested stream. We reached a trail angel set up called Red Carpet Cache, which was literally named. There were three decaying red carpets in the grass near a stock of water and the road. The small town of Lake Hughes was a few miles down Elizabeth Lake Road, tucked behind the last ripple of the mountains before they gave way to desert. We sauntered into the Rock Inn, built from steel and granite after the original structure burnt to the ground. The building used to house the post office and a general store. The store moved across the street, and the new post office was personally dedicated by George H.W. Bush in 1989, but the Inn remains with a restaraunt that serves all-you-can-eat spaghetti on Wednesday nights. It was Wednesday. Chris ate six plates.
On the morning of Cinco De Mayo we headed back to the trail, two of us spoiled by real beds, the other not so lucky to have volunteered to sleep on the world's most worn out, uncomfortable roll away bed. We climbed out of Green Valley, a steep, hot affair that left us exhausted at the top. We rested for a spell at the highest point we would reach that day, a rattlesnake slithered past, and we barely noted its existence. A section hiker and his son encountered us and was very knowledgeable about the water situation ahead. We would have to plan our water out well until we got to Tehachapi, things were getting dry. Our next water stop was at a cement gurgler at a flat halfway through our day. The water was still and full of leaves and dead bugs, but we had faith in our Swiss water filter, and plenty of Crystal Light drink mix to mask the murky taste. We could feel the filter struggling with the yellow water. We crossed the 500 mile mark of our journey shortly thereafter, and camped at 5,370 feet at Bear Campground. The pleasant, green clearing had the strangest outhouse, the inside walls were covered in cheap cut-away carpet, and the toilet was wrapped in black trash bags. It got the job done. Two terrible things happened that evening. First, my spoon broke. Second, we realized we had been exposed to poison oak.
The next day was a frustrating meander down to the Mojave Desert. The Pacific Crest Trail has to break character in this section and actually depart from any sort of 'Crest' due to the Tejon Ranch's unwillingness to allow the trail to pass through any of their 270,000 acres. The Tejon Ranch owns a tract that was originally a series of Mexican land grants from the San Joaquin Valley, a vast portion of the Tehachapi Mountains, and section of the Antelope Valley and its foothills, where we found ourselves on the sixth. The spurned Forest Service insists that someday Congress will force the Tejon Ranch, a publicly traded NYSE company, to grant passage to the hikers, but until that day the trail stubbornly/maddeningly butts up as close to the ranch border as possible, greatly increasing the desert crossing that hikers will soon hereafter have to brave. The trail seems to fade out as it finally decides to give up switchbacking across the last vestiges of topography and reach the flat desert. At that point it's a straight shot to the 138, and Hikertown, a quaint, if not odd, recreated Wild West town designed specifically for hikers and similar drifters. The operator of the Neenach property, Bob, was very friendly, and we caught a bumpy ride 30 miles East into Lancaster with him and another guest. The poison oak was kicking in with a vengeance, and we needed medicine dearly. I had to take a test in Bakersfield the next day, and certain peculiar elements back in the Western Antelope Valley inspired the three of us to stay in Lancaster that evening at the E-Z 8 Motel and eat pies at Marie Callendar's. Apparently, Wells Fargo was plotting to blow up the Bay Bridge and blame it on (this character) who we encountered.
I had a whirlwind day throughout Bakersfield, a surreal semi-urban experience sandwiched between long bouts of wilderness adventure. I'm not sure if the people I encountered while riding the city bus around Shake'n'Bakersfield that day were any stranger than normal, or if I just hadn't been around other people in awhile, but the revolving door of characters entering and exiting the bus as we poked along through the city certainly kept my attention away from my Bakersfield Californian newspaper. My test ended after the last regional bus left for the Antelope Valley, and a hurried attempt to get downtown and rent a car was futile. My Saturday night ended at another E-Z 8 Motel, only this time next to HWY 99, stranded from Chris and Ryan on the other side of the mountains, stuck in the wrong valley. I sulked down the street to the providently located Buck Owen's Crystal Palace and spent my Saturday night taking in some live country and smothered baby back ribs. On my way back to Lancaster on Sunday morning I encountered another hiker named Gene, who had done the A.T. when he was only 17. He was in his 40's now, and was section hiking the P.C.T. whenever he could get the time. We had a pleasant conversation back up the mountains, he got off in Tehachapi to start hiking to Kennedy Meadows. I caught up with Chris and Ryan mid-morning in Lancaster, crammed in a busy diner on Mother's Day.
Citing sore feet and very bad poison oak, we decided to take the Kern Regional Transit bus up to Tehachapi on the eighth, and return to finish the desert section of the PCT in a few days once our symptons subsided. We were able to stay in my mother's boyfriend's son's trailer in his front yard, which was, in all honesty, the best living arrangement we have had this entire trip. Travis and his wife Mandy were terrific hosts, as were their three daughters Taylor, Lexie, and Kiersten, and their son David. I made a cake with the girls, with a family recipe my cousin Christina got from our Great Aunt Lucille, dubbed 'The Minnesota Better Than Sex Cake.' I told the girls that it was simply, 'The Minnesota Cake.' It is quite delicious though. THAT delicious? You'll have to gate crash our next Thanksgiving and see for yourself.
We were lucky to have access to my mother's truck in Tehachapi, so we could go down to the REI in San Fernando and pick up some stuff we left at Hikertown in Neenach. Bob was only vaguely aware that we hadn't actually returned several days earlier like we told him we would.
We returned to the trail in Neenach a few days later in order to actually reach Tehachapi, trail wise. The trail follows the Los Angeles Aqueduct for the most part at first, as we crossed it shortly after passing the now defunct Neenach Elementary School. The walkway over the water was surprisingly harrowing. Drowning in water bound for the fountains of Disneyland would certainly be a poor way to go. We walked along the artificial bank of an open section of the aqueduct, where I saw a few snakes crossing in the water, then turned North and literally walked on top of the black pipe for a few miles underneath the sun. The aqueduct turns East again, and continues under cement. In a wet year such as this, we could hear the diverted water gurgling towards millions of showers, lawns, and restaraunt tables in the L.A. Basin. We came across a few Southbounders who told us the section was already becoming active with other hikers who had caught up to us while we had been resting in Tehachapi. We made an easy 20 miles that day, camping in the north ripples of the valley beneath what is, essentially, the start of the Sierras. The desert wasn't blooming yet, but my eyes were mostly set on the dark clouds hanging on the edge of the San Gabriels, waiting to spread their tendrils across the valley. The temperature dropped quickly in the night, and we were hit by rain for the first time since the first day of hiking out of Campo. We weren't in any big hurry though, and let the morning sun dry our tent before we took off in the morning. It was another 20 miles through the burnt foothills, having to pause often to ponder which path ahead was a dirt bike trail, and which was the P.C.T. The trail rounded Northeast towards Willow Springs-Tehachapi Road, which runs from Rosamond in the desert up to Tehachapi. We entered wind turbine country, with 100 foot Vestas swooshing above our heads. I may be biased because of my family's involvement in the wind industry, but I think the descending ridges dotted with white turbines framed by the spanning desert and big, clay colored sky behind them are something pretty. There's a lot of time for thinking on the trail, and the color of turbines bounced around my head for a few miles. Why are they all that off white color? (The FAA says so, that's why.) What if they threw in a differently colored one once in awhile, like a pink one for Breast Cancer Awareness Month or something? (Probably would be frowned upon by, again, the FAA.)
We only had to hike a short nine mile section on Monday, the 16th, entirely through wind company property (There's dozens operating out here.). We started at Willow Springs Road near the intersection of Cameron Canyon Road, and ended up meeting up with the Cameron Canyon overpass at the 58, where Travis and his coworker Jared picked us up.
The three of us would take another six 'zeroes' in Tehachapi (Days where zero miles were accomplished.). We had to prolong our stay by one day to wait for a shipment that didn't come in on time. We took advantage of the time off to heal our feet some more, let the poison oak completely subside (Mine was ultimately quite minor, Ryan's was bad, and Chris' was something terrible, he had to drop sixty dollars on special ointments.), and set up our upcoming 27 day push from Tehachapi to Tahoe. I got a library card at the Kern County Library, we ate at very nearly every restaurant in town (Petra, the Greek place, was our favorite, though I am forever fond of Taco Samich.), couldn't get in to see Pirates of the Caribbean at the Hitching Post Theatre and watched Thor instead (meh). We took Rita's truck up to Bishop on the 395, and the up the 168 towards Aspendell in the mountains as far as we could. We dropped some food off in a bear box near South Lake, about five miles off trail, at just above 9,000 feet near some busy trout fishing beneath snow speckled peaks (Okay, I wish 'speckled' was accurate. 'Covered' is more like it.). This food would come in handy as we would be running low as we reached this point and Vermillion Valley Resort was not very hopeful in being open by then. The next two nights were spent in pubs and sports bars in town with locals who insisted on buying us drinks. This seems nice on paper, but we had a hard time dictating the quantity. Bartenders were starting to recognize us. The girl at Hungry Howie's pizza remembered us from Starbucks. The show 'Repo Games' sucks even when you're heavily hungover. We had filled up the black tank in Travis' trailer twice.
It was time to go. Tuesday. May 24th.
Epic thanks to the Dees!
It was Salvador, with the same "what are the chances?" look on his face that we had. He would take us back to the trail, and, on top of that, he knew the way, sort of. Salvador had half a mind to throw on a pack and join us. The forces that surround us were pushing him out of the business. He was pushing back, but there was no telling what his future held. He took us all of the way to the trail for the same price he charged from Acton a few days earlier. He snapped pictures of us as we pulled our gear out of the trunk, an adventurous patch on his taxi cab mosaic.
The trail descended into a thick jungle of bushes, branches, and muddy meanderings of a stream. The trail dissipated, easily overcome by the challenge. The trail guide defeatedly suggested bushwhacking straight across to the Metrolink tracks ahead and relocating the trail there. Easy enough. The trail rose for a bit and stretched for a tunnel underneath Highway 14 near Agua Dulce. The long tunnel was a cool respite from the heavy sun that day. It was a very active day for snakes and other hikers. The trail on the other side of the 14 took us through Vasquez Rocks Park, another San Andreas Fault feature and named for the notorious bandit Tiburcio Vasquez. Vasquez committed many robberies between Santa Rosa and the L.A. Basin, but was particularly fond of doing work along Soledad Canyon and the southern end of the Antelope Valley where there were many difficult, yet serviceable, escape routes. He was eventually captured at a ranch in West Hollywood, allegedly turned in by his own family, and was executed in 1875 at age 39 for atrocities commited during his 1873 Tres Pinos job. The Vasquez Rocks are striking and otherworldly, so it follows that Captain Kirk and his Star Trek cronies foiled many a galactic menace around these parts, which served as sets for a few different planets over the years, as well as the home of the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
For PCT hikers, the big prize is just north of the park, at the Saufley's house in Agua Dulce. Donna and her husband are, perhaps, the most famous trail angels on the entire hike. They open their property up to passing trekkers, with a double wide trailer set up with all of the amenities one could need. It is very aptly named 'Hiker's Paradise.' Donna convinced us to take another 'zero' (Rest day, zero miles) there, as we were so far ahead of schedule. We helped get all of the bikes ready for the big surge of hikers who would be assuredly arriving in three or four weeks, with Chris being a valuable asset to the Saufley's with his bike mechanic expertise. We test rode a few a mile back and forth from the very brief town center of Agua Dulce to get food and watch basketball a few times. The return trips down the country road were dark and intoxicatingly loping.
Donna, understanding of our allergy to 'bonus miles,' drove us down to the trail and saw us off. We had to walk down the streets of Agua Dulce for a spell, but soon we were climbing again, 2,000 feet. We dropped into Bouquet Canyon, near the reservoir. As I was walking down a patch of trail with low-lying grass I paused my foot in mid-air above something that, at first, looked like a stick. I noticed the rattler at the end of the snake just in time, I had nearly stepped right on it. I batted it off the trail with my hiking pole and continued. We camped that night in a little hollow that someone had set up for hikers. There were lawn chairs, random dolls, and water. There wasn't much room in there, but we were able to squeeze our tents in for the night. Beetles came and joined our party. It was either a big beetle wrestling tournament or mating season, probably the former, though it was hard to tell.
The next morning a friendly day hiker named Mario passed by with his girlfriend and gave us some jerky. We followed the curves of the slope for hours, briefly dropping 1,000 feet down to San Francisquito Canyon Road, then climbing that 1,000 back up the other side. We dropped down near Lake Hughes along a gurgling, insect infested stream. We reached a trail angel set up called Red Carpet Cache, which was literally named. There were three decaying red carpets in the grass near a stock of water and the road. The small town of Lake Hughes was a few miles down Elizabeth Lake Road, tucked behind the last ripple of the mountains before they gave way to desert. We sauntered into the Rock Inn, built from steel and granite after the original structure burnt to the ground. The building used to house the post office and a general store. The store moved across the street, and the new post office was personally dedicated by George H.W. Bush in 1989, but the Inn remains with a restaraunt that serves all-you-can-eat spaghetti on Wednesday nights. It was Wednesday. Chris ate six plates.
On the morning of Cinco De Mayo we headed back to the trail, two of us spoiled by real beds, the other not so lucky to have volunteered to sleep on the world's most worn out, uncomfortable roll away bed. We climbed out of Green Valley, a steep, hot affair that left us exhausted at the top. We rested for a spell at the highest point we would reach that day, a rattlesnake slithered past, and we barely noted its existence. A section hiker and his son encountered us and was very knowledgeable about the water situation ahead. We would have to plan our water out well until we got to Tehachapi, things were getting dry. Our next water stop was at a cement gurgler at a flat halfway through our day. The water was still and full of leaves and dead bugs, but we had faith in our Swiss water filter, and plenty of Crystal Light drink mix to mask the murky taste. We could feel the filter struggling with the yellow water. We crossed the 500 mile mark of our journey shortly thereafter, and camped at 5,370 feet at Bear Campground. The pleasant, green clearing had the strangest outhouse, the inside walls were covered in cheap cut-away carpet, and the toilet was wrapped in black trash bags. It got the job done. Two terrible things happened that evening. First, my spoon broke. Second, we realized we had been exposed to poison oak.
The next day was a frustrating meander down to the Mojave Desert. The Pacific Crest Trail has to break character in this section and actually depart from any sort of 'Crest' due to the Tejon Ranch's unwillingness to allow the trail to pass through any of their 270,000 acres. The Tejon Ranch owns a tract that was originally a series of Mexican land grants from the San Joaquin Valley, a vast portion of the Tehachapi Mountains, and section of the Antelope Valley and its foothills, where we found ourselves on the sixth. The spurned Forest Service insists that someday Congress will force the Tejon Ranch, a publicly traded NYSE company, to grant passage to the hikers, but until that day the trail stubbornly/maddeningly butts up as close to the ranch border as possible, greatly increasing the desert crossing that hikers will soon hereafter have to brave. The trail seems to fade out as it finally decides to give up switchbacking across the last vestiges of topography and reach the flat desert. At that point it's a straight shot to the 138, and Hikertown, a quaint, if not odd, recreated Wild West town designed specifically for hikers and similar drifters. The operator of the Neenach property, Bob, was very friendly, and we caught a bumpy ride 30 miles East into Lancaster with him and another guest. The poison oak was kicking in with a vengeance, and we needed medicine dearly. I had to take a test in Bakersfield the next day, and certain peculiar elements back in the Western Antelope Valley inspired the three of us to stay in Lancaster that evening at the E-Z 8 Motel and eat pies at Marie Callendar's. Apparently, Wells Fargo was plotting to blow up the Bay Bridge and blame it on (this character) who we encountered.
I had a whirlwind day throughout Bakersfield, a surreal semi-urban experience sandwiched between long bouts of wilderness adventure. I'm not sure if the people I encountered while riding the city bus around Shake'n'Bakersfield that day were any stranger than normal, or if I just hadn't been around other people in awhile, but the revolving door of characters entering and exiting the bus as we poked along through the city certainly kept my attention away from my Bakersfield Californian newspaper. My test ended after the last regional bus left for the Antelope Valley, and a hurried attempt to get downtown and rent a car was futile. My Saturday night ended at another E-Z 8 Motel, only this time next to HWY 99, stranded from Chris and Ryan on the other side of the mountains, stuck in the wrong valley. I sulked down the street to the providently located Buck Owen's Crystal Palace and spent my Saturday night taking in some live country and smothered baby back ribs. On my way back to Lancaster on Sunday morning I encountered another hiker named Gene, who had done the A.T. when he was only 17. He was in his 40's now, and was section hiking the P.C.T. whenever he could get the time. We had a pleasant conversation back up the mountains, he got off in Tehachapi to start hiking to Kennedy Meadows. I caught up with Chris and Ryan mid-morning in Lancaster, crammed in a busy diner on Mother's Day.
Citing sore feet and very bad poison oak, we decided to take the Kern Regional Transit bus up to Tehachapi on the eighth, and return to finish the desert section of the PCT in a few days once our symptons subsided. We were able to stay in my mother's boyfriend's son's trailer in his front yard, which was, in all honesty, the best living arrangement we have had this entire trip. Travis and his wife Mandy were terrific hosts, as were their three daughters Taylor, Lexie, and Kiersten, and their son David. I made a cake with the girls, with a family recipe my cousin Christina got from our Great Aunt Lucille, dubbed 'The Minnesota Better Than Sex Cake.' I told the girls that it was simply, 'The Minnesota Cake.' It is quite delicious though. THAT delicious? You'll have to gate crash our next Thanksgiving and see for yourself.
We were lucky to have access to my mother's truck in Tehachapi, so we could go down to the REI in San Fernando and pick up some stuff we left at Hikertown in Neenach. Bob was only vaguely aware that we hadn't actually returned several days earlier like we told him we would.
We returned to the trail in Neenach a few days later in order to actually reach Tehachapi, trail wise. The trail follows the Los Angeles Aqueduct for the most part at first, as we crossed it shortly after passing the now defunct Neenach Elementary School. The walkway over the water was surprisingly harrowing. Drowning in water bound for the fountains of Disneyland would certainly be a poor way to go. We walked along the artificial bank of an open section of the aqueduct, where I saw a few snakes crossing in the water, then turned North and literally walked on top of the black pipe for a few miles underneath the sun. The aqueduct turns East again, and continues under cement. In a wet year such as this, we could hear the diverted water gurgling towards millions of showers, lawns, and restaraunt tables in the L.A. Basin. We came across a few Southbounders who told us the section was already becoming active with other hikers who had caught up to us while we had been resting in Tehachapi. We made an easy 20 miles that day, camping in the north ripples of the valley beneath what is, essentially, the start of the Sierras. The desert wasn't blooming yet, but my eyes were mostly set on the dark clouds hanging on the edge of the San Gabriels, waiting to spread their tendrils across the valley. The temperature dropped quickly in the night, and we were hit by rain for the first time since the first day of hiking out of Campo. We weren't in any big hurry though, and let the morning sun dry our tent before we took off in the morning. It was another 20 miles through the burnt foothills, having to pause often to ponder which path ahead was a dirt bike trail, and which was the P.C.T. The trail rounded Northeast towards Willow Springs-Tehachapi Road, which runs from Rosamond in the desert up to Tehachapi. We entered wind turbine country, with 100 foot Vestas swooshing above our heads. I may be biased because of my family's involvement in the wind industry, but I think the descending ridges dotted with white turbines framed by the spanning desert and big, clay colored sky behind them are something pretty. There's a lot of time for thinking on the trail, and the color of turbines bounced around my head for a few miles. Why are they all that off white color? (The FAA says so, that's why.) What if they threw in a differently colored one once in awhile, like a pink one for Breast Cancer Awareness Month or something? (Probably would be frowned upon by, again, the FAA.)
We only had to hike a short nine mile section on Monday, the 16th, entirely through wind company property (There's dozens operating out here.). We started at Willow Springs Road near the intersection of Cameron Canyon Road, and ended up meeting up with the Cameron Canyon overpass at the 58, where Travis and his coworker Jared picked us up.
The three of us would take another six 'zeroes' in Tehachapi (Days where zero miles were accomplished.). We had to prolong our stay by one day to wait for a shipment that didn't come in on time. We took advantage of the time off to heal our feet some more, let the poison oak completely subside (Mine was ultimately quite minor, Ryan's was bad, and Chris' was something terrible, he had to drop sixty dollars on special ointments.), and set up our upcoming 27 day push from Tehachapi to Tahoe. I got a library card at the Kern County Library, we ate at very nearly every restaurant in town (Petra, the Greek place, was our favorite, though I am forever fond of Taco Samich.), couldn't get in to see Pirates of the Caribbean at the Hitching Post Theatre and watched Thor instead (meh). We took Rita's truck up to Bishop on the 395, and the up the 168 towards Aspendell in the mountains as far as we could. We dropped some food off in a bear box near South Lake, about five miles off trail, at just above 9,000 feet near some busy trout fishing beneath snow speckled peaks (Okay, I wish 'speckled' was accurate. 'Covered' is more like it.). This food would come in handy as we would be running low as we reached this point and Vermillion Valley Resort was not very hopeful in being open by then. The next two nights were spent in pubs and sports bars in town with locals who insisted on buying us drinks. This seems nice on paper, but we had a hard time dictating the quantity. Bartenders were starting to recognize us. The girl at Hungry Howie's pizza remembered us from Starbucks. The show 'Repo Games' sucks even when you're heavily hungover. We had filled up the black tank in Travis' trailer twice.
It was time to go. Tuesday. May 24th.
Epic thanks to the Dees!
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Pillars of Salt in the San Gabriels
We survived the windy night on the edge of Mt. Baden Powell, as did the tent, though the wind threatened to break the poles at any given moment. We waited until mid-morning for the snow to soften up before we tackled the summit. Luckily, some Japanese climbers with crampons had broken in some steps in the snow up to the top. The climb was really slow going, at some points we were ascending straight up a staircase in the snow. The view of the Mojave increased with every step, a totally different environment than the one we were standing in. Chris had his mojo going that morning, and at points I swore he was running up the mountain in the distance ahead of Ryan and I. I slipped at one point, but dug in quickly with my hands and shoes. We reached the false summit, plodded along the windy ridge, and shortly after 11 AM we reached the top of the 9,407 foot peak, dedicated to Lord Baden-Powell, lieutenant general of the British Army and the founder of the Scout Movement. Getting to the summit was definitely a confidence boosting achievement, and the view of vast desert to the north and the smog covered basin to the south was quite the prize.
We dropped down after a brief break to the ridge running west off the mountain. We lost the trail in the snow, again, and worked our way down into a burnt, sloping chute where we knew the trail was. We weren't sure if we were above or below the PCT, and, frankly, didn't really care where it was at this point. We carved steps into the snow around to the next bend, a tiring, slow process. We worked back up to the ridge, finally, and relocated the trail shortly thereafter. We lost it a few more times, but reckoned over the snow patches and worked our way into a forested area where Little Jimmy Spring and Trail Camp was. After refilling on much needed clean, fresh water, we stumbled into camp, exhausted and wet from all of the snow hiking. Despite going at it hard all day, we only made eight total trail miles. Luckily, Little Jimmy Camp Ground was just snow free enough for us to set up our tents. There were little wood ovens set up at the camp as well, which Chris got light to dry our socks and shoes. I accidentally burnt a pair of socks so badly that they were no longer usable, so I just tossed them into the fire. Less to carry in my pack.
The next day we found our way down to HWY 2, where we had to take a road detour around threatened frog habitat. We passed several decrepit, small time ski hills that didn't seem to have much of a window of operation. After approximately three miles we regained the trail off of the Angeles Crest Highway and descended along an old road. For the first time in a few days I actually felt hot again, and shed my coat, which had been on for over two days, even while sleeping. We took a wrong turn at one point and ended up in the middle of a paint ball park. Fortunately, paint balls were not flying, and we found the trail again shortly thereafter. We were back in the desert at that point, winding up the side of a slope into another burnt area. We accidentally passed our intended campsite, which was unrecognizable after the fire, but camped a mile and a half up ahead on a flat saddle, with a few of the lights of Palmcaster below, and fresh water not too far away. We put around 28 trail miles under our belts that day.
We awoke early for a long day, and realized that we were actually in the middle of a closed section of the trail when we got to the intersection of the road below. The trail had been closed following the Station Fire two years ago. We didn't have much choice at that point, and pressed on to Acton. The recovery of the desert ecosystem after the fire was fascinating for me, however. At one point we were hiking through a grove of burnt trees, but the flora below was blooming with healthy green grass and vibrant pink flowers. A deer pranced down the ridge and across the trail no more than fifteen feet before me. It was clear how wildfires were just a part of nature's course, and that patch of trail was among my favorites so far. We camped that night next to an empty fire cistern, and I waited to go under for the night until the sunset faded to black that night. I was reminded of how lucky I was to be on this adventure.
We practically snuck through the rest of the closure the next morning down to the road to Acton. The last patch of trail went right by a ranger station and winding frustratingly around and over every ridge and rise it could reach, without discernable reason. We were hoping to hitch a ride on the road into Acton, but ended up walking the entire 5.5 miles into town. We passed by Tippi Hedren's (Famous for Hitchcock's 'The Birds') Shambala Wildlife Preserve, and were treated to the roaring of African lions. The road walk was both miserable and exciting, as we reached the much anticipated 49er Saloon in Acton for a much needed departure from freeze dried food. We caught a taxi ride into Palmdale to spend a few rest days after the long 110 mile section. Our driver, Salvador (From El Salvador), dealt in more than just transportation, we learned. We finished the day off with In'n'Out and the NBA Playoffs.
Our first rest day in Palmdale was spent resting and resupplying. The city is quite spread out, and we rode the bus out to East Palmdale, and then across to West Palmdale. Being in the middle of swarms of preteens at the Antelope Valley Mall made us feel as if we had traveled over a million miles from the slopes of Mt. Baden-Powell. Overall, however, our impression of Palmdale and nearby Lancaster is that they are perhaps modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. As a rule, we will not look back as we catch back up with the trail tomorrow, lest we turn into pillars of salt like poor Lot's wife in the Bible.
Sunshine, Afroman, cheap property, hamburgers. Righteousness?
We dropped down after a brief break to the ridge running west off the mountain. We lost the trail in the snow, again, and worked our way down into a burnt, sloping chute where we knew the trail was. We weren't sure if we were above or below the PCT, and, frankly, didn't really care where it was at this point. We carved steps into the snow around to the next bend, a tiring, slow process. We worked back up to the ridge, finally, and relocated the trail shortly thereafter. We lost it a few more times, but reckoned over the snow patches and worked our way into a forested area where Little Jimmy Spring and Trail Camp was. After refilling on much needed clean, fresh water, we stumbled into camp, exhausted and wet from all of the snow hiking. Despite going at it hard all day, we only made eight total trail miles. Luckily, Little Jimmy Camp Ground was just snow free enough for us to set up our tents. There were little wood ovens set up at the camp as well, which Chris got light to dry our socks and shoes. I accidentally burnt a pair of socks so badly that they were no longer usable, so I just tossed them into the fire. Less to carry in my pack.
The next day we found our way down to HWY 2, where we had to take a road detour around threatened frog habitat. We passed several decrepit, small time ski hills that didn't seem to have much of a window of operation. After approximately three miles we regained the trail off of the Angeles Crest Highway and descended along an old road. For the first time in a few days I actually felt hot again, and shed my coat, which had been on for over two days, even while sleeping. We took a wrong turn at one point and ended up in the middle of a paint ball park. Fortunately, paint balls were not flying, and we found the trail again shortly thereafter. We were back in the desert at that point, winding up the side of a slope into another burnt area. We accidentally passed our intended campsite, which was unrecognizable after the fire, but camped a mile and a half up ahead on a flat saddle, with a few of the lights of Palmcaster below, and fresh water not too far away. We put around 28 trail miles under our belts that day.
We awoke early for a long day, and realized that we were actually in the middle of a closed section of the trail when we got to the intersection of the road below. The trail had been closed following the Station Fire two years ago. We didn't have much choice at that point, and pressed on to Acton. The recovery of the desert ecosystem after the fire was fascinating for me, however. At one point we were hiking through a grove of burnt trees, but the flora below was blooming with healthy green grass and vibrant pink flowers. A deer pranced down the ridge and across the trail no more than fifteen feet before me. It was clear how wildfires were just a part of nature's course, and that patch of trail was among my favorites so far. We camped that night next to an empty fire cistern, and I waited to go under for the night until the sunset faded to black that night. I was reminded of how lucky I was to be on this adventure.
We practically snuck through the rest of the closure the next morning down to the road to Acton. The last patch of trail went right by a ranger station and winding frustratingly around and over every ridge and rise it could reach, without discernable reason. We were hoping to hitch a ride on the road into Acton, but ended up walking the entire 5.5 miles into town. We passed by Tippi Hedren's (Famous for Hitchcock's 'The Birds') Shambala Wildlife Preserve, and were treated to the roaring of African lions. The road walk was both miserable and exciting, as we reached the much anticipated 49er Saloon in Acton for a much needed departure from freeze dried food. We caught a taxi ride into Palmdale to spend a few rest days after the long 110 mile section. Our driver, Salvador (From El Salvador), dealt in more than just transportation, we learned. We finished the day off with In'n'Out and the NBA Playoffs.
Our first rest day in Palmdale was spent resting and resupplying. The city is quite spread out, and we rode the bus out to East Palmdale, and then across to West Palmdale. Being in the middle of swarms of preteens at the Antelope Valley Mall made us feel as if we had traveled over a million miles from the slopes of Mt. Baden-Powell. Overall, however, our impression of Palmdale and nearby Lancaster is that they are perhaps modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. As a rule, we will not look back as we catch back up with the trail tomorrow, lest we turn into pillars of salt like poor Lot's wife in the Bible.
Sunshine, Afroman, cheap property, hamburgers. Righteousness?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Blog for the week. www.storyinthesoil.com
So sorry it's been awhile since the last blog. With the wind whipping up and threatening to blow us and our tent off the side of Mt. Baden-Powell, it seemed like a good time to get one last message in before we took off into the sky.
We stopped at Deep Creek Hot Springs on the 18th, about halfway through our day. This section had been closed due to a slide, but it had since become passable, unofficially. We were greeted at the hot springs by some naked people. Conversation felt rather inorganic, as Chris, Ryan, and I collectively and silently decided not to strip all the way down. I never thought I would feel overdressed on the PCT. A naked man offered me marijuana. I did not want the naked man's marijuana, so I politely declined.
The trail continued along the side of the steep canyon, with the creek rapids raging below. We came across a hiker named James who warned us about a rattlesnake on the trail. We gave it some space, but it seemed pretty docile and lazy. We walked with James, from Riverside, out of the canyon. We emerged next to the Deep Creek Dam. James suggested we check out the spillway before we crossed the creek one last time. The cement spillway was warmed by the afternoon, and our voices echoed off the graffiti covered walls in incredible fashion. Later that day another hiker found a dead body about a mile from the spillway. I'll post more details about that if we hear anything. Our creek crossing involved much debate and a bit of back and forth walking, as it was much higher than usual. We eventually found a nice sand bar to cross, and our feet received great mud baths. The trail hardly existed on the other side, as we fought around bushes and through mud to get up to HWY 173. We walked another five miles before setting up camp next to a large puddle lake on what may or may not have been private property. We could hear the trains heading in and out of Cajon Pass hooting in the distance as the sun fell behind Mt. Baldy.
Chris has already written extensively about the 19th, our short day to Silverwood Lake, passing by more dams and crossing the 173 again. I will add that Silverwood Lake and its Marina were surreal paradise during the week. I'm sure that it gets quite crowded during the weekend with folks from the Basin. There were three showers at our campsite. Two were unacceptably mediocre, lukewarm and low pressure. One was Ryan's. Either he's easy to please or lucky.
The 20th was only 12 miles to Cajon Pass. We popped up the first ridge of the day and met Lion King, a jolly, breathless hiker on his way south. He only fist bumped because he was 'hiking dirty.' A bit farther along as we hiked the spine of a ridge winding towards the pass, we ran into Freefall, a fellow very involved with the PCT. He was coordinating the kick off party in Lake Moreno. From where we spoke we had a great view of the 138 below us, and I-15 in the distance. Their intersection was our destination. We dipped into a canyon and popped out alongside the 15, a monument to the builders of the Sante Fe Trail, and a McDonalds. We got our food right before they lost power for unknown reasons. Patrons and employees reacted with vastly varying degrees of panic and concern.
Everyone is in transit in Cajon Pass. There are three gas stations, a McDonalds, a Subway, a Del Taco, a dude named Moses who sells bomb tacos out of his van, and the most improbable Best Western on earth. We would stay there for two days.
On the second day Chris and I climbed up Cajon Summit, a quick 1,000 foot jaunt above the highway and railway intersection. There's a flagpole up there, with a tiny shred of America still attached. We had a great view of the Mormon Rocks, slanted protrusions of the San Andreas Fault. The 138 stretched west towards Palmcaster (Palmdale, Lancaster, indiscernible, hence Palmcaster). The 15, which is born in San Diego, strikes north, heading to Barstow in the Mojave, then Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, and the Canadian border, where it turns into Alberta Highway 2 (The Queens Highway) and continues up to Edmonton, pearl of the Alberta, and terminates at Peace River, home of the bachelorette from the fifth season of 'The Bachelorette...'
Where was I? Right, on top of a mountain.
Our first day back on trail was the 23rd, which involved 22.5 miles and an ultimate gain of 5,000 feet elevation. We waved goodbye to Moses, and dipped through tunnels beneath the highway and train tracks. My right ankle started throbbing early on, as we crested the first ridge. We dropped into a desert valley where we came across a cupboard with water for hikers. There was a mother mouse with babies hanging off her teets in there. We started climbing again, straight into a cloud. I was behind Chris and Ryan, and could hear them whenever they rounded a chute or crossed up a switchback, but I could not see them. I saw a few quail before we broke out of the cloud layer by a road.
At that point we had 7.5 miles and over 2,000 feet left before camp. They were long miles for me. The pain in my ankle had become much worse, and I was stepping as if I had a peg leg. Stopping would do no good though, so I kept plugging away, trying to keep my mind off the pain. I fell well behind Chris and Ryan, but they waited for me before the final two miles. Those two miles seemed even longer. We lost the trail for a bit in the snow. At one point I fell, and through the exhaustion and pain I picked myself up, despite the lack of inspirational music one would expect to be reaching a crescendo at such a moment. At the end of one last cruel climb, 8,300 feet above sea level, was Guffy Campground, the most beautiful I've seen so far. The sun was dipping and painting the sea of clouds below us light pink. We noted the beauty, then zipped up in our tents for a cold night.
My ankle felt almost like new after being elevated all night. We couldn't get any water from the cistern because it was frozen. Snow really slowed us down today. Especially above the barely operational Mountain High ski hill. It took us 3.5 hours to get 6 miles to the Grassy Hollow campground and interpretive center. We spent almost an hour in the little, warm museum, drinking refreshing water and learning more about the local flora and fauna. A few miles past we dropped down a gulch to cross HWY 2 (not in Alberta) and began climbing Mt. Baden-Powell. The ascent quickly turned disastrous. Post-holing up nearly two miles of mostly snow covered switchbacks, we discovered our desired campsite, and water source, was somewhere underneath the snow we were standing on. There were simply no other options that we could get to farther along in the afternoon, with snow covered slopes in all directions. Defeated, we descended almost a mile to the last flat spot we saw. It wasn't so windy when we set up camp, but it is rather exposed, and we're getting pummelled now. We didn't really have much of a choice. I convinced Chris and Ryan that the yellowish water I got from the bathroom faucets at Grassy Hollow would be safe for our dinners after a good boil. I made a high stakes bet against anyone contracting giardia. Again, not much of a choice.
Happy Easter everyone!
Check out www.storyinthesoil.com! It is our official page and will replace this Blogger site!
We stopped at Deep Creek Hot Springs on the 18th, about halfway through our day. This section had been closed due to a slide, but it had since become passable, unofficially. We were greeted at the hot springs by some naked people. Conversation felt rather inorganic, as Chris, Ryan, and I collectively and silently decided not to strip all the way down. I never thought I would feel overdressed on the PCT. A naked man offered me marijuana. I did not want the naked man's marijuana, so I politely declined.
The trail continued along the side of the steep canyon, with the creek rapids raging below. We came across a hiker named James who warned us about a rattlesnake on the trail. We gave it some space, but it seemed pretty docile and lazy. We walked with James, from Riverside, out of the canyon. We emerged next to the Deep Creek Dam. James suggested we check out the spillway before we crossed the creek one last time. The cement spillway was warmed by the afternoon, and our voices echoed off the graffiti covered walls in incredible fashion. Later that day another hiker found a dead body about a mile from the spillway. I'll post more details about that if we hear anything. Our creek crossing involved much debate and a bit of back and forth walking, as it was much higher than usual. We eventually found a nice sand bar to cross, and our feet received great mud baths. The trail hardly existed on the other side, as we fought around bushes and through mud to get up to HWY 173. We walked another five miles before setting up camp next to a large puddle lake on what may or may not have been private property. We could hear the trains heading in and out of Cajon Pass hooting in the distance as the sun fell behind Mt. Baldy.
Chris has already written extensively about the 19th, our short day to Silverwood Lake, passing by more dams and crossing the 173 again. I will add that Silverwood Lake and its Marina were surreal paradise during the week. I'm sure that it gets quite crowded during the weekend with folks from the Basin. There were three showers at our campsite. Two were unacceptably mediocre, lukewarm and low pressure. One was Ryan's. Either he's easy to please or lucky.
The 20th was only 12 miles to Cajon Pass. We popped up the first ridge of the day and met Lion King, a jolly, breathless hiker on his way south. He only fist bumped because he was 'hiking dirty.' A bit farther along as we hiked the spine of a ridge winding towards the pass, we ran into Freefall, a fellow very involved with the PCT. He was coordinating the kick off party in Lake Moreno. From where we spoke we had a great view of the 138 below us, and I-15 in the distance. Their intersection was our destination. We dipped into a canyon and popped out alongside the 15, a monument to the builders of the Sante Fe Trail, and a McDonalds. We got our food right before they lost power for unknown reasons. Patrons and employees reacted with vastly varying degrees of panic and concern.
Everyone is in transit in Cajon Pass. There are three gas stations, a McDonalds, a Subway, a Del Taco, a dude named Moses who sells bomb tacos out of his van, and the most improbable Best Western on earth. We would stay there for two days.
On the second day Chris and I climbed up Cajon Summit, a quick 1,000 foot jaunt above the highway and railway intersection. There's a flagpole up there, with a tiny shred of America still attached. We had a great view of the Mormon Rocks, slanted protrusions of the San Andreas Fault. The 138 stretched west towards Palmcaster (Palmdale, Lancaster, indiscernible, hence Palmcaster). The 15, which is born in San Diego, strikes north, heading to Barstow in the Mojave, then Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, and the Canadian border, where it turns into Alberta Highway 2 (The Queens Highway) and continues up to Edmonton, pearl of the Alberta, and terminates at Peace River, home of the bachelorette from the fifth season of 'The Bachelorette...'
Where was I? Right, on top of a mountain.
Our first day back on trail was the 23rd, which involved 22.5 miles and an ultimate gain of 5,000 feet elevation. We waved goodbye to Moses, and dipped through tunnels beneath the highway and train tracks. My right ankle started throbbing early on, as we crested the first ridge. We dropped into a desert valley where we came across a cupboard with water for hikers. There was a mother mouse with babies hanging off her teets in there. We started climbing again, straight into a cloud. I was behind Chris and Ryan, and could hear them whenever they rounded a chute or crossed up a switchback, but I could not see them. I saw a few quail before we broke out of the cloud layer by a road.
At that point we had 7.5 miles and over 2,000 feet left before camp. They were long miles for me. The pain in my ankle had become much worse, and I was stepping as if I had a peg leg. Stopping would do no good though, so I kept plugging away, trying to keep my mind off the pain. I fell well behind Chris and Ryan, but they waited for me before the final two miles. Those two miles seemed even longer. We lost the trail for a bit in the snow. At one point I fell, and through the exhaustion and pain I picked myself up, despite the lack of inspirational music one would expect to be reaching a crescendo at such a moment. At the end of one last cruel climb, 8,300 feet above sea level, was Guffy Campground, the most beautiful I've seen so far. The sun was dipping and painting the sea of clouds below us light pink. We noted the beauty, then zipped up in our tents for a cold night.
My ankle felt almost like new after being elevated all night. We couldn't get any water from the cistern because it was frozen. Snow really slowed us down today. Especially above the barely operational Mountain High ski hill. It took us 3.5 hours to get 6 miles to the Grassy Hollow campground and interpretive center. We spent almost an hour in the little, warm museum, drinking refreshing water and learning more about the local flora and fauna. A few miles past we dropped down a gulch to cross HWY 2 (not in Alberta) and began climbing Mt. Baden-Powell. The ascent quickly turned disastrous. Post-holing up nearly two miles of mostly snow covered switchbacks, we discovered our desired campsite, and water source, was somewhere underneath the snow we were standing on. There were simply no other options that we could get to farther along in the afternoon, with snow covered slopes in all directions. Defeated, we descended almost a mile to the last flat spot we saw. It wasn't so windy when we set up camp, but it is rather exposed, and we're getting pummelled now. We didn't really have much of a choice. I convinced Chris and Ryan that the yellowish water I got from the bathroom faucets at Grassy Hollow would be safe for our dinners after a good boil. I made a high stakes bet against anyone contracting giardia. Again, not much of a choice.
Happy Easter everyone!
Check out www.storyinthesoil.com! It is our official page and will replace this Blogger site!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Earthquake anniversary and Big Bear Lake
Oscar de la Hoya used to train in Big Bear Lake to take advantage of the high altitude and close proximity to the LA Basin. We trained in Big Bear as well, if by 'trained' you mean 'ate a lot.' The town of Big Bear Lake slows down considerably when the ski slopes close. At the moment only the highest runs were still open. The Village was fairly muted, most shops were shuttered. The businesses that were operating were happy to see us. The lady at Virginia Lee's Hot Dogs treated us like a mother would. I made another cake, this time a double layer, but I didn't have enough frosting.
As some of you might know, April 14th was the first anniversary of the earthquake in Yushu. I spent much time walking along the water and reflecting, as well as figuring out what else I can do at this point from this side of the Pacific. The town is still in full rebuilding mode. My co-teacher at Kunpen Vocational Training Center (one of the NGOs we are supporting) is still in Lhasa with his family. Yeshi, the director of the woman's school we are fundraising, is in Xining, the provincial capitol, training and staging for her return to Yushu. As our trip progresses, and the website evolves, we will have a clearer way for all of our supporters to see how their help will translate over on the plateau. Our current fundraising objective is a mobile classroom trailer for Yeshi's school, and she is $2000 US away from being able to purchase and transport it to Yushu from Xining!
We put in two full days of relaxing before hitting the trail. We got a late start on Saturday morning, having to wait quite awhile at the bus stop next to El Pollo Loco. The MARTA bus system helped us out quite a lot, even though it only ran hourly. We walked nearly the length of Big Bear Lake on the north side, running into a few hikers on their way up to Bertha Peak. The trail heading north from the lake was inundated with falling trees. Snow came up a bit too, but wasn't much of a problem for us. It was an issue for a guy we saw on a nearby jeep trail with a moped, we're still not sure what he was thinking. We passed through a scorched zone eight miles later on, camping right on the edge of it at Little Bear Springs campground. The full moon popped up over the hills and turned into a spotlight, and with it, the distant thumping of a heavy bass sound system. Somewhere not too far away a rave party raged on beyond dawn. It was still thumping, perhaps in the absence of conscious dancers, as we packed up the next morning. Civilization was always reminding us of its proximity.
Strategic planning led to a short day of hiking today, only thirteen miles to Deep Creek Canyon Bridge. We rested often, and one point lost the trail by Holcomb Creek, and had to dodge around in the sticks and heated alpine underbrush to relocate it. We crossed Holcomb three times, once requiring us to remove our shoes and take to the waters. The trail climbed out of the canyon and back into the desert for a few miles before dropping back down to Deep Creek and its famous bridge. We met a section hiker named Crazy Nuts who had done the whole Triple Crown a fee years ago (the PCT, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Appalachian Trail). He had some good tips and encouragement for us. We camped on the sandy banks of the gurgling creek.
www.storyinthesoil.com
As some of you might know, April 14th was the first anniversary of the earthquake in Yushu. I spent much time walking along the water and reflecting, as well as figuring out what else I can do at this point from this side of the Pacific. The town is still in full rebuilding mode. My co-teacher at Kunpen Vocational Training Center (one of the NGOs we are supporting) is still in Lhasa with his family. Yeshi, the director of the woman's school we are fundraising, is in Xining, the provincial capitol, training and staging for her return to Yushu. As our trip progresses, and the website evolves, we will have a clearer way for all of our supporters to see how their help will translate over on the plateau. Our current fundraising objective is a mobile classroom trailer for Yeshi's school, and she is $2000 US away from being able to purchase and transport it to Yushu from Xining!
We put in two full days of relaxing before hitting the trail. We got a late start on Saturday morning, having to wait quite awhile at the bus stop next to El Pollo Loco. The MARTA bus system helped us out quite a lot, even though it only ran hourly. We walked nearly the length of Big Bear Lake on the north side, running into a few hikers on their way up to Bertha Peak. The trail heading north from the lake was inundated with falling trees. Snow came up a bit too, but wasn't much of a problem for us. It was an issue for a guy we saw on a nearby jeep trail with a moped, we're still not sure what he was thinking. We passed through a scorched zone eight miles later on, camping right on the edge of it at Little Bear Springs campground. The full moon popped up over the hills and turned into a spotlight, and with it, the distant thumping of a heavy bass sound system. Somewhere not too far away a rave party raged on beyond dawn. It was still thumping, perhaps in the absence of conscious dancers, as we packed up the next morning. Civilization was always reminding us of its proximity.
Strategic planning led to a short day of hiking today, only thirteen miles to Deep Creek Canyon Bridge. We rested often, and one point lost the trail by Holcomb Creek, and had to dodge around in the sticks and heated alpine underbrush to relocate it. We crossed Holcomb three times, once requiring us to remove our shoes and take to the waters. The trail climbed out of the canyon and back into the desert for a few miles before dropping back down to Deep Creek and its famous bridge. We met a section hiker named Crazy Nuts who had done the whole Triple Crown a fee years ago (the PCT, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Appalachian Trail). He had some good tips and encouragement for us. We camped on the sandy banks of the gurgling creek.
www.storyinthesoil.com
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Long delayed update: Snow for Daze
The last leg to Idyllwild was both treacherous and beautiful. We rolled along Spitler Peak first, which made for some exhausting trail. As we approached 8,000 feet we had a great perspective to the south, where we could see Cathedral City and a large portion of the Salton Sea. We started running into quite a lot of snow as we rounded Apache Peak. At first it was just snow covered slopes that we had to delicately posthole, with the trail poking out the other side. But by early afternoon after a bit more climbing we started losing the trail a bit. Finally, we rounded a point and were greeted by the sight of endless snow. We took it slow, taking deliberate steps, watching each others backs. When we finally came to a dry patch, we had lost the trail completely, and had to rely on the GPS to try and recover it. We climbed to the top of the nearest ridge, and then dead reckoned our way down through the forest to the nearest waypoint. We were soaked from being in the snow, though I had an advantage with being so light. There were times when the snow was hard and thick enough that I could kind of prance on top of it like Legolas. We found some old hiker tracks a little ways down, and those led us to a tree with a PCT logo on it.
Unfortunately, the trail was still two feet under snow, and with a huge climb around Tahquitz Peak up ahead, the effort of holding onto the trail in such conditions would hold us back from getting into town by nightfall, which would be very dangerous. Therefore, we chose a heading down the valley and up the other side of the ridge where the trail spur to Idyllwild was. The valley held a stream in it's palm, which ran with the most refreshing snowmelt water. We crossed back over the trail once, coming out alongside Tahquitz with a great view of Suicide Rock, a small dome that had apparently been named in tragedy. Using the GPS, we finally located the trail, and with it, the switchbacking spur down to Idyllwild. Within a couple thousand feet of descent we departed the snow line, and descended with fat gray squirrels down to the parking lot. Shockingly, there were two foreign hikers at the trailhead who had the intention of climbing up to the disaster we had just escaped, starting at 6:15 PM to boot.
As we reached the outskirts of town we encountered a fellow named Pat. He had a big Santa beard and offered us a ride into town. We got a quick tour of Idyllwild and its amenities, the best places to eat and whatnot. Pat's Chrysler had OK DEAR on the license plate, he claimed it was his wife's. We would see him three more times around town before we left.
On the sixth Ryan's parents, Mark and Cindy, drove up to visit us. Mark was accepting an award at a medical conference down in San Diego, so our timing was perfect. The McKinstry's have been our support team, shipping us our resupply boxes along the trail. They bought us pizza and beer, which we made quick work of. Unfortunately, Mark and Cindy couldn't stay long, and headed back to San Diego in their rented neon yellow Ford Azeo.
While in town, it was critical to eat as much as possible. Idyllwild, referred to as 'The Hill' by locals, facilitated this need quite satisfactorily. We scarfed down eclairs, burritos, yogurt shakes, exotic jerky, margaritas, beer, hot chocolate, anything we could get our hands on. It didn't take long to feel local, I even have an account at the video rental store now.
We ended up staying a third day because it was snowing on the eighth when we awoke. We figured to take an alternate route regardless, there was no way we could go back the way we came, with fresh snow, and then climb higher to round Mt. San Jacinto. It would be foolhardy. Instead, on the ninth we headed North on the 243. The 243, named the Esparanza Firefighters Memorial Highway, runs 25 miles to Banning on US Highway 10. We had the option of following it all that way, but we decided to turn off on Black Mountain Road, which would take us up past 8,000 feet on the other side of San Jacinto. Even if it had deep snow we wouldn't lose a wide road like we lost the trail. The climb became exhausting once we got to snow level, pulling our feet up one after the other. The road crested the ridge, and took a beautiful stretch at the top where you could look out from among rock outcroppings to the Mesa Wind Park and the city of Banning to the west.
We were triumphant when we finally reconnected with the trail, but again, there was no holding onto it. Our best bet was heading directly towards the North face ($$$) and then locating the trail where it went down from there. For awhile we were bushwhacking again, fighting branches and chaparral to hold the course of a stream heading where we wanted to go. We came across a jeep trail, which led us to what was essentially a hanging, bowl-like valley along a steep face. We literally made circles up and down the rim of this valley, searching for the trail, but to no avail. With the sun in its closing credits, we found a patch of the jeep trail that had no snow on it and set up a frigid camp there. The wind kept blowing out our Jetboil, so we cooked our food in our vestibules and scrambled into our sleeping bags with full layers on, expecting a cold night. As soon as we zipped up snow started falling on our tents. I purposely ate three Clifbars before I went to sleep so that my body would produce more heat. With all of our preparation, we actually had the coziest night of sleep ever. I watched the wind whip violently at our rainfly from a tiny peephole out of my mummy bag.
We woke up late with a fresh dusting of snow around our tent, but we were alive. Chris found the trail down the mountain right away. After a frustratingly gradual descent we were back in the desert, over 6,000 feet below where we started. The Desert Water Agency set up a little water fountain by the road, where we rested by a rock and reacclimatized to the new biome. Bob, the water security, drove down to us in his truck. His job was to park on the street heading up to the pumping station and make sure no one tried to climb up the face that way. Beyond the trailhead and east to the next point was all private property belonging to the Water Agency, including the face above that, which, according to Bob, was the seventh steepest in the country. The bees we heard buzzing nearby, as well as the hive we hurried past coming down the mountain, were 'Africanized,' he said, 'you can bet your life on it.' No thanks. He gave us many warnings about the desert, 'Everything out here wants to bite you or stick to you,' as well as a few other politically incorrect comments that we laughed along with nervously.
We beelined across the wash, underneath Highway 10, and around the patch of houses that is West Palm Springs Village (No Services... Read: No Food.). Trail Angel David rolled up in a golf cart before we passed behind a ridge near the Mesa Wind Park operations building. He gave us a Pacifico to share and told us about San Gorgonio/Banning Pass (the fourth deepest in the country, he said) and what to expect ahead. He was very nice, and would be leaving water and supplies at the highway underpass for future hikers. We camped that night beneath the whirring of wind turbines. Rodney Dees, a major supporter of this endeavor, was the lead constructer of this whole wind park, which dotted the whole pass.
On Monday morning we got an early start and headed up one ridge, down the other side, up another, down to Whitewater Creek, which was only slightly treacherous to cross, and then up yet another rise, where we were greeted one final (hopefully) south facing view of Palm Springs, the Coachella Valley, and, yes, glimmering way in the distance, the Salton Sea. A straight walk to El Centro and the Mexican border from here wouldn't take more than, say, five days, tops. Flat the whole way. We spent the rest of the day following Mission Creek up its canyon, crossing it 24 times. Mission Creek, Whitewater, and Snow Creek over by Bob make up 5% of the water used by the greater Palm Springs area. The rest is water siphoned from the Colorado River, which is actually drawn over here from pipes reaching Los Angeles to the west. Mission Creek, or whatever cut this canyon, used to flow right into the Sea of Cortez, before the Colorado River threw up enough sediment to cut this region off (This is why the Salton Sea is endoherric, no outflow in any direction.) We made camp on a small hill cut by centuries of water flow. The 23 miles we put in were exhausting, so we relaxed by a small fire and put in for the night.
We climbed up to 8,800 feet the next morning. I was personally starting to wear out, and the sight of deer prancing up the ridge and passing us made me feel both hungry and inadequate. My right shoulder was really bugging me that morning, a sharp tugging pain around the trapezius. I had already switched out my frameless GoLite Pinnacle pack for an Osprey Exos that had a better weight distribution (I accidentally ordered a small one first, so I walked from Warner Springs to Idyllwild with a ridiculously small backpack. I have the large now.). What was becoming clear was that this pain was something I would have to live with, and was very likely related to a certain nasty hydraulic deck winch injury I suffered last July. With some adjustments, I can minimise the pain and go most of the day without it bothering me. It's not affecting my feet, so I'll keep on walking for now.
It was mid afternoon when we came across two large grizzly bears and a full grown male lion. Randy Miller's Predators In Action is located right on the trail, just a minute off of Highway 38. We were thankful for the cages, of course, but they were so small that we felt rather sorry for these Mega-Fauna beasts reduced to just another trail oddity. Let that be the only lion we come across.
We descended into camp close to seven, wearied from dealing with more snow and 22 miles of a constant grade one way or the other. To our surprise, there was already a fire going! Two other PCT Thru-Hikers that we had been following in the logbooks ahead of us were there, Spitfire and Rehab (All PCT Hikers use trail names. Ours are GameTime, Juggernaut, and Fresh Prinz.)! Rehab gave us some Bratwurst because we were low on food, and we all talked and kept the fire sparking in that damp valley late into the night.
We will meet them again, no doubt about that.
We pressed the pedal down today to get to Big Bear Lake. We had our first views of the Mojave Desert, before passing Baldwin Lake, named for Ernest 'Lucky' Baldwin, the San Francisco millionaire who started a gold stamp mine on Gold Mountain here in 1875. Past Highway 18 one can see modern mining operations underway. The midsection of the day was a bit taxing. The past few years of low rainfall killed a lot of trees, and subsequent wind storms and lightning has blasted trunks and branches all over the trail. We cab only hope that our trailblazing and twig snapping has made the path to Big Bear a little easier for those behind us.
We came into town with empty stomachs. They were filled.
Unfortunately, the trail was still two feet under snow, and with a huge climb around Tahquitz Peak up ahead, the effort of holding onto the trail in such conditions would hold us back from getting into town by nightfall, which would be very dangerous. Therefore, we chose a heading down the valley and up the other side of the ridge where the trail spur to Idyllwild was. The valley held a stream in it's palm, which ran with the most refreshing snowmelt water. We crossed back over the trail once, coming out alongside Tahquitz with a great view of Suicide Rock, a small dome that had apparently been named in tragedy. Using the GPS, we finally located the trail, and with it, the switchbacking spur down to Idyllwild. Within a couple thousand feet of descent we departed the snow line, and descended with fat gray squirrels down to the parking lot. Shockingly, there were two foreign hikers at the trailhead who had the intention of climbing up to the disaster we had just escaped, starting at 6:15 PM to boot.
As we reached the outskirts of town we encountered a fellow named Pat. He had a big Santa beard and offered us a ride into town. We got a quick tour of Idyllwild and its amenities, the best places to eat and whatnot. Pat's Chrysler had OK DEAR on the license plate, he claimed it was his wife's. We would see him three more times around town before we left.
On the sixth Ryan's parents, Mark and Cindy, drove up to visit us. Mark was accepting an award at a medical conference down in San Diego, so our timing was perfect. The McKinstry's have been our support team, shipping us our resupply boxes along the trail. They bought us pizza and beer, which we made quick work of. Unfortunately, Mark and Cindy couldn't stay long, and headed back to San Diego in their rented neon yellow Ford Azeo.
While in town, it was critical to eat as much as possible. Idyllwild, referred to as 'The Hill' by locals, facilitated this need quite satisfactorily. We scarfed down eclairs, burritos, yogurt shakes, exotic jerky, margaritas, beer, hot chocolate, anything we could get our hands on. It didn't take long to feel local, I even have an account at the video rental store now.
We ended up staying a third day because it was snowing on the eighth when we awoke. We figured to take an alternate route regardless, there was no way we could go back the way we came, with fresh snow, and then climb higher to round Mt. San Jacinto. It would be foolhardy. Instead, on the ninth we headed North on the 243. The 243, named the Esparanza Firefighters Memorial Highway, runs 25 miles to Banning on US Highway 10. We had the option of following it all that way, but we decided to turn off on Black Mountain Road, which would take us up past 8,000 feet on the other side of San Jacinto. Even if it had deep snow we wouldn't lose a wide road like we lost the trail. The climb became exhausting once we got to snow level, pulling our feet up one after the other. The road crested the ridge, and took a beautiful stretch at the top where you could look out from among rock outcroppings to the Mesa Wind Park and the city of Banning to the west.
We were triumphant when we finally reconnected with the trail, but again, there was no holding onto it. Our best bet was heading directly towards the North face ($$$) and then locating the trail where it went down from there. For awhile we were bushwhacking again, fighting branches and chaparral to hold the course of a stream heading where we wanted to go. We came across a jeep trail, which led us to what was essentially a hanging, bowl-like valley along a steep face. We literally made circles up and down the rim of this valley, searching for the trail, but to no avail. With the sun in its closing credits, we found a patch of the jeep trail that had no snow on it and set up a frigid camp there. The wind kept blowing out our Jetboil, so we cooked our food in our vestibules and scrambled into our sleeping bags with full layers on, expecting a cold night. As soon as we zipped up snow started falling on our tents. I purposely ate three Clifbars before I went to sleep so that my body would produce more heat. With all of our preparation, we actually had the coziest night of sleep ever. I watched the wind whip violently at our rainfly from a tiny peephole out of my mummy bag.
We woke up late with a fresh dusting of snow around our tent, but we were alive. Chris found the trail down the mountain right away. After a frustratingly gradual descent we were back in the desert, over 6,000 feet below where we started. The Desert Water Agency set up a little water fountain by the road, where we rested by a rock and reacclimatized to the new biome. Bob, the water security, drove down to us in his truck. His job was to park on the street heading up to the pumping station and make sure no one tried to climb up the face that way. Beyond the trailhead and east to the next point was all private property belonging to the Water Agency, including the face above that, which, according to Bob, was the seventh steepest in the country. The bees we heard buzzing nearby, as well as the hive we hurried past coming down the mountain, were 'Africanized,' he said, 'you can bet your life on it.' No thanks. He gave us many warnings about the desert, 'Everything out here wants to bite you or stick to you,' as well as a few other politically incorrect comments that we laughed along with nervously.
We beelined across the wash, underneath Highway 10, and around the patch of houses that is West Palm Springs Village (No Services... Read: No Food.). Trail Angel David rolled up in a golf cart before we passed behind a ridge near the Mesa Wind Park operations building. He gave us a Pacifico to share and told us about San Gorgonio/Banning Pass (the fourth deepest in the country, he said) and what to expect ahead. He was very nice, and would be leaving water and supplies at the highway underpass for future hikers. We camped that night beneath the whirring of wind turbines. Rodney Dees, a major supporter of this endeavor, was the lead constructer of this whole wind park, which dotted the whole pass.
On Monday morning we got an early start and headed up one ridge, down the other side, up another, down to Whitewater Creek, which was only slightly treacherous to cross, and then up yet another rise, where we were greeted one final (hopefully) south facing view of Palm Springs, the Coachella Valley, and, yes, glimmering way in the distance, the Salton Sea. A straight walk to El Centro and the Mexican border from here wouldn't take more than, say, five days, tops. Flat the whole way. We spent the rest of the day following Mission Creek up its canyon, crossing it 24 times. Mission Creek, Whitewater, and Snow Creek over by Bob make up 5% of the water used by the greater Palm Springs area. The rest is water siphoned from the Colorado River, which is actually drawn over here from pipes reaching Los Angeles to the west. Mission Creek, or whatever cut this canyon, used to flow right into the Sea of Cortez, before the Colorado River threw up enough sediment to cut this region off (This is why the Salton Sea is endoherric, no outflow in any direction.) We made camp on a small hill cut by centuries of water flow. The 23 miles we put in were exhausting, so we relaxed by a small fire and put in for the night.
We climbed up to 8,800 feet the next morning. I was personally starting to wear out, and the sight of deer prancing up the ridge and passing us made me feel both hungry and inadequate. My right shoulder was really bugging me that morning, a sharp tugging pain around the trapezius. I had already switched out my frameless GoLite Pinnacle pack for an Osprey Exos that had a better weight distribution (I accidentally ordered a small one first, so I walked from Warner Springs to Idyllwild with a ridiculously small backpack. I have the large now.). What was becoming clear was that this pain was something I would have to live with, and was very likely related to a certain nasty hydraulic deck winch injury I suffered last July. With some adjustments, I can minimise the pain and go most of the day without it bothering me. It's not affecting my feet, so I'll keep on walking for now.
It was mid afternoon when we came across two large grizzly bears and a full grown male lion. Randy Miller's Predators In Action is located right on the trail, just a minute off of Highway 38. We were thankful for the cages, of course, but they were so small that we felt rather sorry for these Mega-Fauna beasts reduced to just another trail oddity. Let that be the only lion we come across.
We descended into camp close to seven, wearied from dealing with more snow and 22 miles of a constant grade one way or the other. To our surprise, there was already a fire going! Two other PCT Thru-Hikers that we had been following in the logbooks ahead of us were there, Spitfire and Rehab (All PCT Hikers use trail names. Ours are GameTime, Juggernaut, and Fresh Prinz.)! Rehab gave us some Bratwurst because we were low on food, and we all talked and kept the fire sparking in that damp valley late into the night.
We will meet them again, no doubt about that.
We pressed the pedal down today to get to Big Bear Lake. We had our first views of the Mojave Desert, before passing Baldwin Lake, named for Ernest 'Lucky' Baldwin, the San Francisco millionaire who started a gold stamp mine on Gold Mountain here in 1875. Past Highway 18 one can see modern mining operations underway. The midsection of the day was a bit taxing. The past few years of low rainfall killed a lot of trees, and subsequent wind storms and lightning has blasted trunks and branches all over the trail. We cab only hope that our trailblazing and twig snapping has made the path to Big Bear a little easier for those behind us.
We came into town with empty stomachs. They were filled.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Maintenance Note
First off everybody, I had no idea that the blog was being posted in Impact font the whole time, it was coming up normal on my iPhone. When I brought up the blog on an actual computer, I was shocked at how unreadable it was. This has been fixed, but please post a comment if something like that happens again. We want to make this a pleasant reading experience! It sounds like it comes up differently on different devices, so we'll try to streamline it.
Secondly, I'm working on moving everything to the Yushu fundraising website, www.storyinthesoil.com. The old blog posts will be there, and so will the new ones. I'm working on posting photos from the hike as well as pictures from Yushu and other parts of Tibet. My latest Yushu movie should be up there soon as well. This could be an intermittently slow process, but we'll get there!
Thanks for all of your support everybody! There will be a real blog post soon!
Secondly, I'm working on moving everything to the Yushu fundraising website, www.storyinthesoil.com. The old blog posts will be there, and so will the new ones. I'm working on posting photos from the hike as well as pictures from Yushu and other parts of Tibet. My latest Yushu movie should be up there soon as well. This could be an intermittently slow process, but we'll get there!
Thanks for all of your support everybody! There will be a real blog post soon!
Monday, April 4, 2011
Wanting for Warner Springs, Middle of Nowhere Mike, and the Coachella Valley
The walk into Warner Springs was relaxed and full of excitement. We crossed paths with an experienced thru hiker who was headed south to bounce back north. He was definitely old school, and we were amazed that someone would want to go through that previous patch twice, especially for what seemed to be a time killing procedure.
There's not a lot to Warner Springs as a town, but it sits in a green, paradise valley, literally an oasis in the desert. On the north end sits a reservoir, the rest consists of grassy fields, blooming with noxious yellow flowers, all owned by Warner Ranch. There's a spattering of rock outcroppings, including Eagle Rock, which resembles a magnificent bald eagle lifting up its wings, about to take flight. We climbed onto its head, huge lizards were scurrying in and out of its cracks. The surrounding environment was such a departure from the dry and barren landscape we had just passed through.
Following a stream into town, we had one more obstacle in our path before we reached town. A rattlesnake popped up along side the trail, Chris just happened to be leading again, and he jumped backwards abruptly like a marionet. The snake held ground along the trail, which seemed to narrow to tiptoe across without passing into the strike zone. We yelled at it and slapped our hiking poles on the trail in front of it. Chris was able to get past on the slope down towards the stream, but when I started along the same path it turned its head towards me and started moving. I backed off, and it slithered across the trail, down the slope, and over the stream, rattling the whole way.
Warner Springs is a town of just over 200. They have a high school, which serves a wide area, a golf course, and a spa resort with a naturally heated hot spring pool. The resort actually had very generous PCT hiker rates, so we opted to stay a couple nights to get a healthy rest day in. From the sounds of it, we're waiting for the snow to melt in the Sierras either way, so we might as well not push ourselves unnecessarily the first 600 miles. 111 miles deserved some celebration and relaxation.
We had a nice meal at the clubhouse, picked up our resupply box, and did some laundry. The grounds of the resort were pleasant, and pretty sparse during the week. Everyone was real nice, and, getting the sense that we were in the middle of nowhere, we felt as if the whole valley was somehow lost in time. It had been many years since Warner himself fended off the Garra rebellion, holed up on the very same grounds until he ran out of bullets and took off on horseback with his young native servant. The rebellion was later squashed, and today residents from Los Angeles and San Diego flock out here to while away their twilight years on fun noodles in the sulphur pool, lapping at an imperceptibly slow pace, their faces drawn blank by the steam, their minds filled with no more than the good ol' days and the subtle, dated elevator music.
Once upon a time, Bing Crosby had took a liking to this place, so did the Manson Family, and, now, so did we, even if it gave us the creeps sometimes. The waitress at the restaurant muttered to herself about her boyfriend while pouring our water, and seemed surprised when we overheard her. Everyone treated us well for the most part, even though we didn't have any passable semi-formal wear for the perpetually vacant fine dining room. When it came time to leave, we had nearly forgotten what it was like to not live in the lap of decaying luxury.
We did 18 miles on Saturday, winding our way up onto the lip of the valley, where we had great views of a glider being towed by a prop plane. Chaparral was comically dense. The wind was really whipping up in the late afternoon, a storm system was moving in. We pulled off the trail near the Riverside county line and knocked on Trail Angel Mike's door. Mike lives in a desolate house in the middle of the desert. When he first moved out here five years ago he had no idea what the Pacific Crest Trail was, nor that its hikers knew his house to be a safe haven under the previous owner. Mike built a nice shack that hikers could sleep in, and had set up an old projector in his garage for movies. There were a few other people visiting his house when he arrived, he greeted us with eyes barely open, laughing and groaning, "nobody's home!". He pointed us to the shack to put our stuff down, and invited us in for chicken. Mike, who, when asked what he did out there, replied, "nuthin' man," had become very involved in the PCT scene. One of his guests was a fellow who went by Warner Springs Monty. They were organising food for the big PCT kickoff party in Moreno Lake later in the month, as well as the Cinco De Mayo event that Mike hosts here in the middle of nowhere. It sounds like doing the PCT on schedule consists of hiking from party to party, we were well ahead of the crowd. Mike is also a huge USC fan, and one of his prize possessions is a big Trojans helmet chair. We all watched Avatar in the garage, then helped check a gas line on a plateau away from the house that the previous owner had levelled for desert rave parties. All in all, the evening wasn't anything close to what we were expecting, and it just added to the awesome quirkiness and fascinating cast of characters of our adventure so far.
We crossed the Riverside County line early the next day. The hike took us along a rocky slope, with clouds pouring over the ridge above us and descending into a soupy mist in the valley. Through a few patches we could see Mt. San Jacinto, our short term destination. The weather cleared up, and we had a pretty easy 19 mile day with nice little breaks next to streams and big rocks. We filtered water from another fire cistern, and ended the day by the Anza Hiker Haven, a little wooden shelf in the desert with water and log books to sign in. We were right by a dirt road, which led out to several ready to build lots overlooking Anza, we watched the sunset from there, making out shapes in the rock outcroppings, then made it an early night. The wind blew hard that night, and pulled one stake out from the rain fly.
Today, Monday, is my birthday. Not really much of a deal out on the trail. We had a real pretty hike today though, we climbed up a thousand feet onto a plateau where the Pines To Palm Highway ran through the San Bernadino State Forest. Ten miles into our day, and one mile off trail, we enjoyed a real meal at the Paradise Cafe, which is at the junction of the 74 and PTP Highways. The restaurant switched owners this year, and the waitress said she was a big fan of the hikers, she made sure we were well hydrated and fed. It was also frequented by bikers, and town gossip batted around just like anywhere. You could see San Jacinto's snowy peak out the window, it was getting closer. The hike picked up in elevation when we got back on trail, we passed by some big rocks, a rattlesnake that was more scared of us than the other way around, and a Russian couple who had left St. Petersburg when it was still Leningrad. Ryan said the trail reminded him of Eastern Oregon. We kept on climbing, up past 6,300 feet. We could see quite nicely into Coachella Valley, specifically Desert Hot Springs and Rancho Mirage to the East, and Lake Hemet to the West. It's been encouraging to follow our progress based on the Imperial and Coachella Valley. We could see the southern tip of the Salton Sea on the 28th, the northern tip yesterday, and now we'll be up by Palm Springs before we know it. We hiked down a bit to camp near small Cedar Spring so we could stock up on water for our 21 mile day into Idyllwild tomorrow.
There's not a lot to Warner Springs as a town, but it sits in a green, paradise valley, literally an oasis in the desert. On the north end sits a reservoir, the rest consists of grassy fields, blooming with noxious yellow flowers, all owned by Warner Ranch. There's a spattering of rock outcroppings, including Eagle Rock, which resembles a magnificent bald eagle lifting up its wings, about to take flight. We climbed onto its head, huge lizards were scurrying in and out of its cracks. The surrounding environment was such a departure from the dry and barren landscape we had just passed through.
Following a stream into town, we had one more obstacle in our path before we reached town. A rattlesnake popped up along side the trail, Chris just happened to be leading again, and he jumped backwards abruptly like a marionet. The snake held ground along the trail, which seemed to narrow to tiptoe across without passing into the strike zone. We yelled at it and slapped our hiking poles on the trail in front of it. Chris was able to get past on the slope down towards the stream, but when I started along the same path it turned its head towards me and started moving. I backed off, and it slithered across the trail, down the slope, and over the stream, rattling the whole way.
Warner Springs is a town of just over 200. They have a high school, which serves a wide area, a golf course, and a spa resort with a naturally heated hot spring pool. The resort actually had very generous PCT hiker rates, so we opted to stay a couple nights to get a healthy rest day in. From the sounds of it, we're waiting for the snow to melt in the Sierras either way, so we might as well not push ourselves unnecessarily the first 600 miles. 111 miles deserved some celebration and relaxation.
We had a nice meal at the clubhouse, picked up our resupply box, and did some laundry. The grounds of the resort were pleasant, and pretty sparse during the week. Everyone was real nice, and, getting the sense that we were in the middle of nowhere, we felt as if the whole valley was somehow lost in time. It had been many years since Warner himself fended off the Garra rebellion, holed up on the very same grounds until he ran out of bullets and took off on horseback with his young native servant. The rebellion was later squashed, and today residents from Los Angeles and San Diego flock out here to while away their twilight years on fun noodles in the sulphur pool, lapping at an imperceptibly slow pace, their faces drawn blank by the steam, their minds filled with no more than the good ol' days and the subtle, dated elevator music.
Once upon a time, Bing Crosby had took a liking to this place, so did the Manson Family, and, now, so did we, even if it gave us the creeps sometimes. The waitress at the restaurant muttered to herself about her boyfriend while pouring our water, and seemed surprised when we overheard her. Everyone treated us well for the most part, even though we didn't have any passable semi-formal wear for the perpetually vacant fine dining room. When it came time to leave, we had nearly forgotten what it was like to not live in the lap of decaying luxury.
We did 18 miles on Saturday, winding our way up onto the lip of the valley, where we had great views of a glider being towed by a prop plane. Chaparral was comically dense. The wind was really whipping up in the late afternoon, a storm system was moving in. We pulled off the trail near the Riverside county line and knocked on Trail Angel Mike's door. Mike lives in a desolate house in the middle of the desert. When he first moved out here five years ago he had no idea what the Pacific Crest Trail was, nor that its hikers knew his house to be a safe haven under the previous owner. Mike built a nice shack that hikers could sleep in, and had set up an old projector in his garage for movies. There were a few other people visiting his house when he arrived, he greeted us with eyes barely open, laughing and groaning, "nobody's home!". He pointed us to the shack to put our stuff down, and invited us in for chicken. Mike, who, when asked what he did out there, replied, "nuthin' man," had become very involved in the PCT scene. One of his guests was a fellow who went by Warner Springs Monty. They were organising food for the big PCT kickoff party in Moreno Lake later in the month, as well as the Cinco De Mayo event that Mike hosts here in the middle of nowhere. It sounds like doing the PCT on schedule consists of hiking from party to party, we were well ahead of the crowd. Mike is also a huge USC fan, and one of his prize possessions is a big Trojans helmet chair. We all watched Avatar in the garage, then helped check a gas line on a plateau away from the house that the previous owner had levelled for desert rave parties. All in all, the evening wasn't anything close to what we were expecting, and it just added to the awesome quirkiness and fascinating cast of characters of our adventure so far.
We crossed the Riverside County line early the next day. The hike took us along a rocky slope, with clouds pouring over the ridge above us and descending into a soupy mist in the valley. Through a few patches we could see Mt. San Jacinto, our short term destination. The weather cleared up, and we had a pretty easy 19 mile day with nice little breaks next to streams and big rocks. We filtered water from another fire cistern, and ended the day by the Anza Hiker Haven, a little wooden shelf in the desert with water and log books to sign in. We were right by a dirt road, which led out to several ready to build lots overlooking Anza, we watched the sunset from there, making out shapes in the rock outcroppings, then made it an early night. The wind blew hard that night, and pulled one stake out from the rain fly.
Today, Monday, is my birthday. Not really much of a deal out on the trail. We had a real pretty hike today though, we climbed up a thousand feet onto a plateau where the Pines To Palm Highway ran through the San Bernadino State Forest. Ten miles into our day, and one mile off trail, we enjoyed a real meal at the Paradise Cafe, which is at the junction of the 74 and PTP Highways. The restaurant switched owners this year, and the waitress said she was a big fan of the hikers, she made sure we were well hydrated and fed. It was also frequented by bikers, and town gossip batted around just like anywhere. You could see San Jacinto's snowy peak out the window, it was getting closer. The hike picked up in elevation when we got back on trail, we passed by some big rocks, a rattlesnake that was more scared of us than the other way around, and a Russian couple who had left St. Petersburg when it was still Leningrad. Ryan said the trail reminded him of Eastern Oregon. We kept on climbing, up past 6,300 feet. We could see quite nicely into Coachella Valley, specifically Desert Hot Springs and Rancho Mirage to the East, and Lake Hemet to the West. It's been encouraging to follow our progress based on the Imperial and Coachella Valley. We could see the southern tip of the Salton Sea on the 28th, the northern tip yesterday, and now we'll be up by Palm Springs before we know it. We hiked down a bit to camp near small Cedar Spring so we could stock up on water for our 21 mile day into Idyllwild tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Coyotes, rattle snakes, and horny toads
I'm laying in the tent with Chris right now. The bushes and trees outside are alive. There's a little spring nearby where the frogs are harmonizing, up on the slope it sounds like a scene from a Redwall book with warring racoons and who knows what else.
After Moreno Lake on the 27th we hiked through unexploded bomb territory, rose up into Pine Valley, crossed Highway 8, and worked our way around into Long Canyon. The views from Thing Road and the trail beyond it were spectacular. Chris caught his first horny toad of thr hike. We put in 17 miles that day and camped by Long Canyon Creek. On the 28th we hit our first patches of snow heading up to Mt. Laguna. It started out as just a little, but pretty soon I was high stepping, trying to avoid getting my socks wet. I found a red pack spoon in the snow. The tiny town of Mt. Laguna was only a quarter mile off trail, at the general store we got some good trail info from Jon, one of the brothers who owns the place. We ate as much fresh fruit, hot pockets, and chips and salsa as our stomachs could handle. Our SPOT GPS signal from the night before didn't go out, so we had a slough of worried messages from our parents when we turned on our phones. The snow subsided as we broke out of the trees and came out over the Anza Borrego Desert. We saw the many biomes of the Cleveland National Forest all in one day. At our camp, the end of a 16.5 mile day, we met our first Trail Angels, Ole Miller and his wife, who had a trunk full of water for us, and tips on where other stashes were down the line. A former professor and school teacher, Ole Miller now spent time enjoying the local scenery and lending valuable aid to all of us crazy PCT hikers.
We had to really put the miles on on the 29th. We hiked 25 miles, all in the heat of the desert, having to make a few frustrating and excruciating detours around private land. At one point we hung down into a fire reserve cistern to filter some precious water. Finally we dropped down from Granite Mountain into the valley, three miles West from Julian, a town famous for its apple pies. Although we each could have had a pie to ourselves, six bonus miles were not in the works. We camped in the middle of the valley, between two roads and another PCT water stash. The night was nerve-racking. The coyote yips first started from the north, then more came in from the south. We pulled in whatever we could to our tents, and kept our headlamps pointed at the bushes. The yips got closer. Soon there were some coming from the west and the northeast. Coyotes were seemingly everywhere around us, and we couldn't gauge how many there were. They aren't naturally aggressive animals, and don't often exceed 40 pounds, but the sheer numbers put us on edge. When dawn broke, all was well. The coyotes never got closer than the other side of the nearest bushes.
This morning we had to tackle Grapevine Mountain and cross over into the next valley where the town of Warner Springs is located. The camp spot we aimed for wasn't that far as the bird flies, but on trail it was a grueling 24 miles of steady rising and falling switchbacks under the cruel desert sun. We had to dig deep today. At first the trail design seemed sadistic, as a short, steep switchbacks over the ridge would have saved a dozen miles on the mountain slope. I realized that this stage is meant to be a test. Of the people who quit the hike early, most do so in Warner Springs, a total of just over 100 miles into the trek. If you can deal with the heat, the insensibility of the trail, the desert, and all of the treats that come with it, then you can and should keep on going. We were all hurting today, the blisters on our feet are fresh, backs hurt, sunburns sting, and we even encountered our first rattlesnake. They sound just like they do in the movies. Chris passed it first and caught it's attention, and Ryan and I had to slide down the skree a bit to pay it a wide enough berth. We came across another PCT hiker, Free Range, she's from Davis and is just section hiking from the border to Warner Springs. We made it the 24 miles we intended today, finishing in exhaustion and near delirium, but, save for the possibility that we get picked apart by foxes in the next five hours, we should make it into Warner Springs around noon. We'll have hamburgers. We will have beer. And, the next day, we will keep on walking. We passed the test today.
After Moreno Lake on the 27th we hiked through unexploded bomb territory, rose up into Pine Valley, crossed Highway 8, and worked our way around into Long Canyon. The views from Thing Road and the trail beyond it were spectacular. Chris caught his first horny toad of thr hike. We put in 17 miles that day and camped by Long Canyon Creek. On the 28th we hit our first patches of snow heading up to Mt. Laguna. It started out as just a little, but pretty soon I was high stepping, trying to avoid getting my socks wet. I found a red pack spoon in the snow. The tiny town of Mt. Laguna was only a quarter mile off trail, at the general store we got some good trail info from Jon, one of the brothers who owns the place. We ate as much fresh fruit, hot pockets, and chips and salsa as our stomachs could handle. Our SPOT GPS signal from the night before didn't go out, so we had a slough of worried messages from our parents when we turned on our phones. The snow subsided as we broke out of the trees and came out over the Anza Borrego Desert. We saw the many biomes of the Cleveland National Forest all in one day. At our camp, the end of a 16.5 mile day, we met our first Trail Angels, Ole Miller and his wife, who had a trunk full of water for us, and tips on where other stashes were down the line. A former professor and school teacher, Ole Miller now spent time enjoying the local scenery and lending valuable aid to all of us crazy PCT hikers.
We had to really put the miles on on the 29th. We hiked 25 miles, all in the heat of the desert, having to make a few frustrating and excruciating detours around private land. At one point we hung down into a fire reserve cistern to filter some precious water. Finally we dropped down from Granite Mountain into the valley, three miles West from Julian, a town famous for its apple pies. Although we each could have had a pie to ourselves, six bonus miles were not in the works. We camped in the middle of the valley, between two roads and another PCT water stash. The night was nerve-racking. The coyote yips first started from the north, then more came in from the south. We pulled in whatever we could to our tents, and kept our headlamps pointed at the bushes. The yips got closer. Soon there were some coming from the west and the northeast. Coyotes were seemingly everywhere around us, and we couldn't gauge how many there were. They aren't naturally aggressive animals, and don't often exceed 40 pounds, but the sheer numbers put us on edge. When dawn broke, all was well. The coyotes never got closer than the other side of the nearest bushes.
This morning we had to tackle Grapevine Mountain and cross over into the next valley where the town of Warner Springs is located. The camp spot we aimed for wasn't that far as the bird flies, but on trail it was a grueling 24 miles of steady rising and falling switchbacks under the cruel desert sun. We had to dig deep today. At first the trail design seemed sadistic, as a short, steep switchbacks over the ridge would have saved a dozen miles on the mountain slope. I realized that this stage is meant to be a test. Of the people who quit the hike early, most do so in Warner Springs, a total of just over 100 miles into the trek. If you can deal with the heat, the insensibility of the trail, the desert, and all of the treats that come with it, then you can and should keep on going. We were all hurting today, the blisters on our feet are fresh, backs hurt, sunburns sting, and we even encountered our first rattlesnake. They sound just like they do in the movies. Chris passed it first and caught it's attention, and Ryan and I had to slide down the skree a bit to pay it a wide enough berth. We came across another PCT hiker, Free Range, she's from Davis and is just section hiking from the border to Warner Springs. We made it the 24 miles we intended today, finishing in exhaustion and near delirium, but, save for the possibility that we get picked apart by foxes in the next five hours, we should make it into Warner Springs around noon. We'll have hamburgers. We will have beer. And, the next day, we will keep on walking. We passed the test today.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Kindness and Adventure with the Border Patrol
I'm writing this from a the Moreno Lake campground, powered by the shaver outlet.
We made it to San Diego yesterday morning and we were able to grab a pancake breakfast at Robert Walker's with my mother and Rod before they headed down to Mexico. We grabbed some last minute supplies in the city, and caught a the rail out to El Cajon to take the bus to Campo. We sat next to a perceptibly crazy woman who said she had died a million times and then 'turned into a fish.'
Our first experience in El Cajon was mostly pleasant, a fellow traveler accosted us for starting the PCT so early, but we got in some last second carb loading in down at the Main Tap Bar (credit: Wallace, Scott). A very helpful man named Antonio sat in the back of the bus with us and was very intrigued with our adventure. Everybody on the overloaded bus got off in Tecate except for us and one other woman. We got in with the driver, Israel, who gave us some good advice about Campo.
Campo, a town of 3,000 along Highway 94, butts up right against the border and is home to a fairly sizeable Border Patrol operation. We walked the 1.3 miles down to the border and celebrated reaching the Southern Terminus Monument of the Pacific Crest Trail. Just starting the adventure seemed like half the battle. The view Northward was beautiful, a few rolling hills and buttes in the desert sunset. Southward was a big red fence. It was just after 6 PM, so we figured we'd hike a couple miles before setting up camp. Border Patrol vehicles were running all over the place, and one agent stopped to ask us about our shoes. We were excited to talk gear, but it turned out he just wanted to see our tread so he didn't end up chasing us at night. After 2.5 miles we decided to set up camp right on trail. We were partway through setup when a big Ford pickup passed by on the dirt road below us, turned around, and parked fifteen feet away. We were dead silent, but waited to see what would happen. A door shut, another opened, and then a large, long haired German Shepard bounded up onto the trail towards us. My trust in dogs deteriorated greatly after living in Tibet, so I figured I was done for, two miles into the journey.
The dog stopped, and his Border Patrol handler called him off. We introduced and explained ourselves, and the agent, Aric, not only greenlighted our camping, but showed us a much better spot! We got to talking with him, and he gave us permission to build a fire, so we learned about his job and the latest border action while collecting twigs. He noticed our wood selection was pretty poor, and said, "I noticed a good wood pile close to here a few years ago, I'll go get it for you". Sure enough, he returned in fifteen minutes and before long we had a nice blaze going. Aric had been an agent for 23 years, stationed in Campo and living with his wife and two kids in San Diego. He was an avid sportsman himself, and had even hunted up in Alaska in my hometown, Cordova, with Dan Nichols, the father of a fond classmate Jon from elementary school! I know it's a small world, but getting firewood from a Border Patrol Agent in the middle of nowhere who has been to your own middle of nowhere hometown and knows the same people you do is pure amazing. We shared stories into night, pausing intermittently to listen to ongoing pursuits nearby on his radio. There were two chases in progress, and when one seemed like it required Aric's expertise, he bade us farewell, and drove off with his trusty four-legged companion, Orion.
The next morning we started our first full day trek, destination Moreno Lake. It was only about eighteen miles, but we were all a bit humbled by our heavy packs. We either need to eat more or nothing at all! The day had spurts of wind and rain, but we decided we preferred cold to otherwise typically hot weather when we rounded the top of Moreno Butte. One patch of the desert was completely charred, making for a surreal landscape in the fog. We tested out Chris' fancy water purifier in two of the streams we crossed, it worked quite well, although the silty water still comes out a tad yellow.
We camped at the grounds by Moreno Lake and had our first freeze dried food dinner. We thought that would be the highlight when, for the second night in a row, a large Ford truck pulled up... Out stepped Aric! He was on duty, but the lake was within his zone, and by car we were only ten miles from Campo. He had taken his chainsaw up a service road and chopped up some firewood for us! He hung out with us while we made our fire and we swapped some more stories. His incredible kindness for three young fellas setting off on an adventure was something impressive and super inspiring as we face 2,600 more miles of trail!
We made it to San Diego yesterday morning and we were able to grab a pancake breakfast at Robert Walker's with my mother and Rod before they headed down to Mexico. We grabbed some last minute supplies in the city, and caught a the rail out to El Cajon to take the bus to Campo. We sat next to a perceptibly crazy woman who said she had died a million times and then 'turned into a fish.'
Our first experience in El Cajon was mostly pleasant, a fellow traveler accosted us for starting the PCT so early, but we got in some last second carb loading in down at the Main Tap Bar (credit: Wallace, Scott). A very helpful man named Antonio sat in the back of the bus with us and was very intrigued with our adventure. Everybody on the overloaded bus got off in Tecate except for us and one other woman. We got in with the driver, Israel, who gave us some good advice about Campo.
Campo, a town of 3,000 along Highway 94, butts up right against the border and is home to a fairly sizeable Border Patrol operation. We walked the 1.3 miles down to the border and celebrated reaching the Southern Terminus Monument of the Pacific Crest Trail. Just starting the adventure seemed like half the battle. The view Northward was beautiful, a few rolling hills and buttes in the desert sunset. Southward was a big red fence. It was just after 6 PM, so we figured we'd hike a couple miles before setting up camp. Border Patrol vehicles were running all over the place, and one agent stopped to ask us about our shoes. We were excited to talk gear, but it turned out he just wanted to see our tread so he didn't end up chasing us at night. After 2.5 miles we decided to set up camp right on trail. We were partway through setup when a big Ford pickup passed by on the dirt road below us, turned around, and parked fifteen feet away. We were dead silent, but waited to see what would happen. A door shut, another opened, and then a large, long haired German Shepard bounded up onto the trail towards us. My trust in dogs deteriorated greatly after living in Tibet, so I figured I was done for, two miles into the journey.
The dog stopped, and his Border Patrol handler called him off. We introduced and explained ourselves, and the agent, Aric, not only greenlighted our camping, but showed us a much better spot! We got to talking with him, and he gave us permission to build a fire, so we learned about his job and the latest border action while collecting twigs. He noticed our wood selection was pretty poor, and said, "I noticed a good wood pile close to here a few years ago, I'll go get it for you". Sure enough, he returned in fifteen minutes and before long we had a nice blaze going. Aric had been an agent for 23 years, stationed in Campo and living with his wife and two kids in San Diego. He was an avid sportsman himself, and had even hunted up in Alaska in my hometown, Cordova, with Dan Nichols, the father of a fond classmate Jon from elementary school! I know it's a small world, but getting firewood from a Border Patrol Agent in the middle of nowhere who has been to your own middle of nowhere hometown and knows the same people you do is pure amazing. We shared stories into night, pausing intermittently to listen to ongoing pursuits nearby on his radio. There were two chases in progress, and when one seemed like it required Aric's expertise, he bade us farewell, and drove off with his trusty four-legged companion, Orion.
The next morning we started our first full day trek, destination Moreno Lake. It was only about eighteen miles, but we were all a bit humbled by our heavy packs. We either need to eat more or nothing at all! The day had spurts of wind and rain, but we decided we preferred cold to otherwise typically hot weather when we rounded the top of Moreno Butte. One patch of the desert was completely charred, making for a surreal landscape in the fog. We tested out Chris' fancy water purifier in two of the streams we crossed, it worked quite well, although the silty water still comes out a tad yellow.
We camped at the grounds by Moreno Lake and had our first freeze dried food dinner. We thought that would be the highlight when, for the second night in a row, a large Ford truck pulled up... Out stepped Aric! He was on duty, but the lake was within his zone, and by car we were only ten miles from Campo. He had taken his chainsaw up a service road and chopped up some firewood for us! He hung out with us while we made our fire and we swapped some more stories. His incredible kindness for three young fellas setting off on an adventure was something impressive and super inspiring as we face 2,600 more miles of trail!
Friday, March 25, 2011
Heading to the Trailhead
Chris and I got a ride from our dear friends Jordan Johnson and co-pilot Dan 'The Man' O'Hern from McKinleyville to Redding at 10:30 Wednesday evening. It's now 1:30 AM Friday morning, Chris, Ryan, and myself are on a bus in Anaheim heading to San Diego. We caught the Coast Starlight Amtrak train in Redding at 4:30 AM on Thursday. Ryan had already been on the train for twelve hours from Portland. The ride South was pretty relaxing, we went over our gear and enjoyed the fine cuisine in the dining car. We were also rejoicing over a bag of two dozen cookies that Maria McGoldrick made for us, however, a mystery caper stole them halfway through the trip. We walked the whole train, hoping to catch the culprit red handed, but to no avail. The train conductor had swiped one earlier in the afternoon, and paid her compliments to the baker. I suspect that, with the taste of peanut buttery goodness still reverberating on her tongue, she couldn't resist the impulse to abuse her authority and steal the rest of the cookies.
Shameful. When my body wastes away in a ditch on the side of the trail two weeks from now I will blame her selfishness for my demise.
We rallied from this setback. Our train was a little part of history when it rerouted away from the coast after San Francisco Bay and headed down to Bakersfield, and then up and over Tehachapi pass and it's famous Loop. It had been years since a passenger train had gone this way. We crossed over the PCT three times on Thursday. We'll reach Campo, and the trailhead, tomorrow afternoon.
The planning, supplying, and talking is over. The journey begins.
-Arny
Shameful. When my body wastes away in a ditch on the side of the trail two weeks from now I will blame her selfishness for my demise.
We rallied from this setback. Our train was a little part of history when it rerouted away from the coast after San Francisco Bay and headed down to Bakersfield, and then up and over Tehachapi pass and it's famous Loop. It had been years since a passenger train had gone this way. We crossed over the PCT three times on Thursday. We'll reach Campo, and the trailhead, tomorrow afternoon.
The planning, supplying, and talking is over. The journey begins.
-Arny
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)