CHAPTER FIVE     (BIG BEAR MILE 266.1 TO AGUA DULCE MILE 454.5)

LESSON LEARNED: Beware of Bob from Berkeley.

DAY 34:

Arriving at Highway 18 near Big Bear in the early sunny morning of May 4^th, I unload my backpack and trekking poles from the trunk.

Across the road, two fellow hikers climbed out of a car. Jim was relieved to see I was not starting off alone. He had been reluctant to leave me by the side of the road. The two hikers were Horrible and Terrible. I somehow got ahead of them early in the day and did not see them again.

The morning was easy walking as the terrain included no long climbs or descents. The first portion of the trail allowed panoramic views down to Big Bear Lake. I was elated to be back on the trail on this sparkling clear day with enough tree coverage and altitude to keep the day from being hot.

At lunchtime, I stopped with several other hikers. The group formed a full circle on pine needles in the shade under a grove of tall pine trees. I met Luna, Ryan, and Pakabear.

Hikers filtered water from a nearby muddy shallow creek with limited results. I took a look at the creek and decided this water source was not to suitable for obtaining water. None of us realized a trail angel had left bottled water only 100 feet up the trail.

Hiker preparing cinnamon rolls for his friends for breakfast the next morning.

During the last four miles of the day, I changed from running shoes to flip-flops to give the new skin on my heels fresh air. The flip-flops slipped around on my feet on the downhill sections.  I was forced to tread carefully and took extra time.

At mile 286 I camped in a campground near a dirt road along with the hikers I had met at lunch. A couple of the hikers had slack packed from Big Bear. (Slack packing is arranging someone to bring your backpack forward to a prearranged destination.)  Smartly, Pakabear had requested a watermelon be brought in along with his backpack and graciously shared the watermelon with the rest of us. The cold watermelon was an unexpected and delightful addition to my dinner.

After so many days off the trail, I realized I needed to hike 20+ miles per day for the rest of the trip, calculating in a zero-day each week.

It became my habit to try to walk around twelve miles before lunch and try for a minimum of eight miles in the afternoon. Mentally, it helped to calculate I had only eight more miles to go when I resumed walking after my lunch break.

Day 35:

My target for the day was Splinter’s Cabin as there was no camping allowed within one mile of Deep Creek. It would be less than the crucial twenty-mile goal. I arrived at Deep Creek and the cut off to Splinter’s Cabin before lunchtime and decided I should keep going.

I climbed down the large rocks to the bank of Deep Creek to filter water. Spreading out the Zpad in the sand and gravel along the water’s edge, I enjoyed lunch and a brief rest.

Deep Creek

After lunch, I crossed the bridge and walked along the adjacent trail. Shortly, I met a group of people returning from a day at the hot springs. One of the men had a large knife under his belt. It was creepy and unsettling.

The trail along Deep Creek was cut along the cliff edge with sheer drops down a hundred feet to the water. It was a spectacular walk along the cliffs high above the swirling black water. There were several areas where the trail had given way into the creek below making footing uncertain and passage arduous. Being aware a thru-hiker previously had slipped to his death on the section, I was extra careful with my footing.

As the day wore on it became apparent I was to have limited choices to get off the trail. I kept moving forward rounding each bend with anticipation of finding a possible camp place one mile off the creek as required.

The map also cautioned camping was not allowed at the Deep Creek Hot Springs at mile 308 so I needed to camp short of the hot springs.  As evening approached, I became concerned there was no chance of getting away from the creek the required distance as I followed the creek along the wall.

Finally, a section of the trail cut back into a gully and away from the creek at mile 305. I was one mile short of my twenty-mile goal.

My tent went up right next to the trail, separated only by rocks lining the edge of the path.  At dusk from inside my tent, I heard the voices of Luna and Pakabear’s group passing by.

Someone had previously discarded orange peels on the rocks near my tent. The faint scent of the orange hung in the air as darkness approached and I settled in for the night.

Day 36:

I arrived at Deep Creek Hot Springs in the early hours of the morning, not an appealing time of the day to swim in the deep dark pools. It was surprising to see campers along the edge among the boulders ignoring the ‘no camping allowed’ rule. Trash littered the camping areas. People had hiked in with dogs and had not cleaned up after their pets.  I had looked forward to the hot springs and was disappointed to find the area dirty and disgusting.

I dangled my feet in hot water for a few minutes and hiked on.

After Deep Creek Hot Springs graffiti covering rocks along the trail. An old graffiti-covered outbuilding could be seen just in the distance. A bridge across the river was slopped over with a rainbow of colors. A place of beauty and harmony had been sadly desecrated.

As I gained ground and wound out of the xeric scrublands, the surrounding terrain became a rocky desert.

On the last couple of miles before the reservoir, I met many day hikers and trail runners.  Arriving at Mojave River Forks Reservoir Dam at lunchtime, I found a place in the sun on top of the large concrete structure to rest and eat.

In the afternoon the sky clouded over, and it rained intermittently. I leapfrogged with Luna and Pakabear and their companions. They stopped under trees to wait out the rain.   I kept pushing forward in the light rain. It was an annoyance.  Each time it started to rain, I had to stop and pull out my rain jacket. When the rain let up, it was immediately hot and I had to stop to remove my jacket.  The intervals of rain required many time consuming stops and starts.

The sky darkened and appeared foreboding ahead. However, nothing more developed other than the fine rain. I climbed upward toward the dark clouds. And then suddenly the sky began to clear.

The trail approach to Silverwood Lake was confusing. The trail passed through an industrial area with a series of trail-to-road and road-to-trail changes. At one point I looked up to see I was standing below a dam constructed entirely of rocks. I stood marveling in disbelief and wonder at the rock dam.

As the trail rose up toward the lake, Pakabear’s group steamrolled passed me at a fast pace. For some time, I could see the four ahead gaining distance.

Cresting the top, I had a full view of the lake.  Silverwood Lake is a large reservoir created by the Cedar Springs Dam. Far across the lake, I sighted the picnic area I had targeted as my stop for the night. I hastened my steps.

I made it to the Cleghorn Picnic Area at sunset and camped together with Pakabear’s group on Silverwood Lake at mile 329. The picnic area was right at the edge of the lake. The campground was designed for day use by boaters including a dock and covered picnic tables. We each chose a covered picnic table and put our tents under the shelters fearing it would rain in the night.

From my tent, I had a view out over the small sandy beach and the water beyond.  It was a beautiful place.

Day 37:

When I hiked out in the morning, the other hikers were still sleeping. The young hikers could sleep well past nine and still manage to catch up and pass me in the afternoon.

It started as a lovely day of hiking. The trail passed up and out of the Silverwood Lake area with views back toward the lake. The morning air was fresh and inviting as the trail wound up and around a series of tree covered mountains. It was a beautiful day to be on the trail, I thought, as I made my way upward in the morning sun.

Looking back down to the Cleghorn picnic area.

The trail came out of the trees and crossed a ridge looking toward the Cajon Pass and Highway 15. Crossing over the ridge, I found myself caught up in gusts of extremely high winds.

The trail stayed up along escarpments with ravines falling away on both sides of the spine. The cross winds whipped at my backpack keeping me off balance and gripped by fear of falling.  It took every muscle in my body to stay upright.  Several times I had to brace my legs to keep from being knocked off the trail. I was shaking and relieved to make it down into Crowder Canyon and out of the wind.

Just off the trail at Cajon Pass is a McDonalds at mile 342. The walk from the trail to McDonald’s and the Chevron mini-mart gas station is along a section of the historic Route 66.

There had been much discussion among the thru-hikers about what to order upon arrival at the McDonalds as this was a favorite stop along this portion of the trail. All day I dreamed of different menu items. By the time I arrived in mid-afternoon, I was happy to eat anything. Just hand me food. I ended up with a cheeseburger and French fries. I wrapped the meat, cheese, and condiments in a napkin and holding it together with my hands consumed the entire bun-less burger in a few hasty bites.

Pakabear’s group arrived at the McDonalds shortly after me.

“So what made you decide to hike the PCT?” In the women’s restroom of the McDonalds Luna stood facing the mirror, smoothing out her short cropped brown hair. She was small and her sparkling smile made her cute. She was wearing a mini skirt, a sensible option for young female hikers.

“Been on my bucket list since the 1970’s,” I answered as I leaned forward to wash my face.  We talked for a few minutes.

After McDonald’s, I crossed over the overpass to the Best Western on the other side of the freeway for my resupply box. Luckily they had a room available for the night.

Once the door closed behind me and I was safely in the room, I quickly headed for the shower. I wanted to crawl into bed, but I had laundry to take care of and gear to clean up.

Day 38:

In the morning, I enjoyed breakfast at the hotel with the other hikers.   Sharing a table with Cat-Dog, a 62-year-old hiker from Bend, Oregon, I wolfed down helpings of scrambled eggs with sausage and bacon. I ate so many pieces of sausage and bacon it brought to mind Homer Simpson’s ‘butter your bacon, bacon your sausage.’

“My daughter is coming later to pick me up for a zero,” CatDog explained. I had met Cat-Dog briefly earlier on the trail when we had taken a brief break at the same location. She had hiked the Appalachian Trail 7 years earlier. CatDog was single with two adult children. She had moved to Bend a couple of years earlier to live closer to her children. When she had decided to hike the trail she had put her belongings in storage and given up her apartment. A friend was keeping her truck.  Hiking the PCT meant major sacrifices for many hikers.

It was a late start back to the trail.

Leaving Cajon Pass required walking under two sets of rails and over another two sets of railroad beds. I timed the trains as coming through every two minutes. I could see the trains passing and hear the train’s whistles for many miles as made my way across and out of the valley. I was fascinated by the train traffic and in awe of the amount of cargo passing through this mountain pass.

Shortly after the rail crossings there was a warning sign indicating the crossing of the San Andreas Fault line.

I knew from the map I had a major climb ahead with the trail rising from 2,995 feet to over 8,300 feet.

Climbing upward, I met Mandie and Josh, a couple from San Diego full of life and giggles. We took several breaks together.  They were two peas in a pod as they sat laughing and eating snacks.

I met Buttercup, who was leading a group of war veterans on the PCT under “Walk off the War” by Warrior Hikers. We stopped to talk, and he said the other three vets were on the trail ahead. Buttercup, a handsome man in his fifties, hiked with a red checked shemagh wrapped around his neck.

Determined to get to the top of the climb before camping, my resolved faded as the sun disappeared below the horizon. As the desert scape turned to pine forest, I searched for a place to stop. It was steep terrain. When I finally arrived at a suitable spot, three tents of other hikers filled the flat space.

Up the trail a bit, I decided to cut into the hillside with a flat stick and pitched my tent in the soft dirt. Unfortunately, the cut I created was only the width of my tent. During the night the tent kept sliding off the cut and slipping down the slope. I had to get out several times during the night, replace the tent and reset the tent stakes. Lesson learned.

Day 39:

Early in the morning, I passed Mandie and Josh’s tent a mile up the trail. One of the other vets, Whiskey, had made it to the top and was camped in one of the many beautiful open flat areas. I looked around and wished I had kept going the extra mile last night. I stopped and ate my breakfast with Whiskey. Whiskey was a vet recovering from burns on his back and hands. We talked about the war and his service while we ate.

Whiskey

It was a bright sunny day with high gusts of bitterly cold wind. The wind whipped at my face and hands. For the first time, I hiked with gloves and a baklava. The trail passed along the top of a couple of ski areas. Baden-Powell loomed in the distance.

I stopped at Guffy Campground for lunch. In the morning hours, I had been leapfrogging with two older male hikers. We arrived at Guffy’s at the same time and ate together at a picnic table. The sustained wind made it difficult to keep our food from blowing away. We dined hurriedly, holding down our food and gear as the wind wailed through the surrounding pine trees.

The two were brothers-in-law from the Bay area on their second attempt at thru-hiking the PCT. Our conversation was like staccatos in the wind.

“We each missed a section on our last attempt.”

“So here we are again.” Added the other.

They were not stopping in Wrightwood meaning I was unlikely to see them again.

In the afternoon as I stopped at a trail junction to plug in my phone recharger, I was passed by Josh and Mandie as they headed down the Acorn Junction trail into Wrightwood rushing to make it to the post office before closing time.

My own plan was to hike on six miles farther to Highway 2, mile 369.4, then hitch back toward Wrightwood giving me the better option to hitch back to this same crossing of Highway 2. Hiking up the Acorn Trail to get back to the PCT seemed an unnecessary difficulty.

I made it to Highway 2 at the same time as the four vets. They were expecting a pre-arranged lift into town.  I was on my own to hitch into Wrightwood.

Trying to hitch a ride along Highway 2 (my backpack).

The vehicles whizzed passed as I stood by the road with my thumb out.  After 30 minutes, I decided on another tactic. Inspiration Point was nearby with a parking lot and lookout point. I waited for a car to stop at the look out area and then approached a young woman driver and asked if she would give me ride into Wrightwood.   She was traveling with her mother and her young daughter. She was interested in my trip and asked questions on the ride into Wrightwood and took me directly to the Wrightwood hotel I mentioned to her.

After her car had pulled away, I telephoned the hotel only to find there was no rooms available. The owner, to whom I spoke with on the phone, drove over and gave me a lift to another nearby motel with an available room. It was an amazingly friendly gesture and much appreciated.

Day 40:

I took a zero in Wrightwood, a charming small town with quaint local restaurants serving a variety of food options.

The other guests at the motel were thru-hikers. Pakabear was there with his girlfriend. She was leaving the trail at this point to return to work. A Japanese hiker named Tin Cup was staying. A fifty-year-old man named Shamrock was there also taking a zero.

I was to see Tim Cup several times over the next few days. Each time, I tried to start up a conversation, but he seemed unwilling to talk. I was curious to hear his story since he had traveled from Japan to hike the PCT. Later, I learned he left the trail in Northern California because he was too lonely.

Loneliness on the trail is probably the most challenging aspect facing any solo thru-hiker. The younger hikers seemed to have no difficulty finding other young people to join with. After a certain age, this is tricky. Finding another hiker willing to hike the same miles per day and who happens to be compatible company can be challenging.

Late in the day, I ran into Shamrock as I walk toward the local pizza restaurant and we decided to eat dinner together.   While we were queued up ordering pizza, CatDog walked in. She had just arrived in Wrightwood.

CatDog

“May I join the two of you?” CatDog looked exhausted as she placed her pizza on the table.

CatDog was planning to hike out on the High Desert Trail Alternate in the morning bypassing the trail up Baden-Powell and would not be hiking out with the rest of us.

Day 41:

Early the next morning, the owner of the motel delivered Shamrock, Tin Cup, and me to the trailhead at Highway 2, back at mile 369.4. It was freezing cold with temperatures in the low 30s. The wind chill brought the temperature much lower. After a mile of hiking, I was ready to put up my tent and crawl in my sleeping bag for relief from the cutting cold wind. For the first time, I seriously considered quitting the trail.

After the trail had crossed Highway 2 again at mile 374, the ascent of Mount Baden-Powell began. It was an ascent from 6,582 feet to 9,390 feet in a little over four miles. Shamrock and Tin Cup soon were ahead.  I did not see them again until Little Jimmy Spring.

The chilling wind made climbing up the mountain bitterly cold. To keep my mind off the cold, I tried counting the switchbacks at each turn but soon lost track. It was a long climb. I leapfrogged Josh and Mandy a couple of times on the ascent.

By the time I made it to the top of Baden-Powell, I was too cold to enjoy the view for any length of time. A freezing squall caused me to quickly hurry on.

The trail up Mount Baden-Powell.

As I started down along the ridge, it warmed considerably.  The wind dissipated.  I stopped to have a leisurely lunch in the sun. A large group of hikers gathered about sitting on the edge of the embankment resting and eating. It was a surprise to see such a large gathering after the mostly solitary hike up.

The first water on the trail for the day was at Little Jimmy Spring right before Little Jimmy Campground at mile 384. I had to make it there for the day to resupply with water. On the way to Little Jimmy, I met a young man named Wesley, trail name Crusher, who impressed me immediately with his tenacity. I had heard from Shamrock that Wesley had Cerebral Palsy. I was amazed he was out solo thru-hiking. It gave me the inspiration to keep going when all I wanted to quit and go home.

I made it to the campground early, around four o’clock in the afternoon. I found a camp spot with a picnic table in the sun. As the day wore on, it became a maze of tents as other hikers poured in tripping over my tent stakes and eating at my picnic table without regard for me or for my personal space. It was too noisy in the evening for sleep. I wished I had continued onward to find a quiet solo place for the night.

Day 42:

Because it was crowded at Little Jimmy Campground, I started out before first light. Early in the morning, I was joined by Shamrock. We decided together to hike the Endangered Species Closure ahead by a combination of road walking Highway 2 and taking trails where available as allowed by the map. The PCT was closed to protect the Mountain Yellow-Legged Frog on the endangered species list. We hiked together through the closure and ensuing difficulty trying to make certain we were on the correct detour trail. Once we were through the closures, Shamrock hiked on. I could not keep up. It was good news to be hiking back into warmer weather.

At noon I stopped at Camp Glenwood, a Boy Scout Camp.   The camp appeared to be abandoned. There were water tanks and picnic tables. After obtaining water from the faucet of the tank, I took off my pack, sat it on top of a table and removed my shoes and socks. I placed my socks out to dry and spread out across the table top on my back warming myself in the mid day sun.

After a short rest, I unpacked my food and started eating lunch. It was such a pleasant day after the cold of yesterday. As I finished eating another hiker came by and sat at the next picnic table.

“Hi, I’m Bob from Berkeley,” he smiled and opened his pack.

“Hi,” I replied absentmindedly. I turned my socks over in the sun.

“Where are you from?” He asked without looking over.

“I live in La Quinta, in the Palm Springs area.”

“Do you golf?” a natural question.

“Yes. It’s a great place to golf. There are many courses,” I replied, “I enjoy being outside and the weather is perfect for golf all winter.”

“What’s your handicap?” we talked golf indexes and about the different courses in our area. It was a pleasant lunch conversation. After back and forth with the conversation, I pressed into another topic of conversation.

“The problem with our area is the valley sits on top of an aquifer and consumes more water than is accumulated back into the aquifer each year from the Whitewater River and a canal from the Colorado River. The Coachella Valley has been allowed to grow, allowing an unlimited building of houses and golf courses without considering where the water will be coming from. It is amazing the state and local governments do not better control development. Allowing additional development beyond the amount of water supply seems foolhardy.”

“Well, the lack of water is caused by global warming,” he sounded convinced.

“I’m not so certain I believe in global warming.” I started out tentatively, with a short laugh. “I lived through the 70’s when the media was trying to scare everyone with global cooling and the coming ice age. So I take this global warming stuff with a grain of salt,” I smiled, amused, and continued.  “We have hiked through many burned areas, and it seems California surprisingly does not replant the burned areas. I would think not replanting burned areas and letting formerly forest lands turned to desert would also lead to less rain and ultimately less water.”

“Well, I know global warming is a fact,” He flatly stated.

“Convince me then. Let’s hear your facts,” I countered with a shrug and a smile, wishing to be pleasant.

“I know it is a fact,” he restated, with emphasis, almost belligerently. “as I have a degree in Biology.”

Not much of a definitive argument. I stretched out my legs and started to put my socks and shoes on. It was apparent I was not going to learn anything from Bob from Berkeley. As I was climbing off the table, he stood suddenly, ranting, finger pointed at me.

“Well, you’re probably one of these religious types that think God is going to solve everything. You’re probably a racist on top of it. I bet you hate Muslims.” He was working himself into a state. I hurriedly packed up my backpack, feeling I had fallen into an MSNBC interview where personal attacks pass for facts. I left without looking back and left his wild rant unanswered.

By mid-afternoon, I had gotten off and somehow lost the trail and became uncertain how to locate the path again. I could see a stream in a valley below and knew if I was indeed lost I could at least have water. Pushing the heavy underbrush aside I bushwacked down the steep hillside. Losing my footing, I slipped and fell sliding downhill face first arms extended trying unsuccessfully to keep the brush from slapping my face.  I came to an abrupt stop at the bottom.  After I brushing myself off and looking around, I saw Shamrock setting on a stump making dinner under a tall pine tree nearby.

I had not planned to stop early. However, there was water nearby and a fellow hiker.

As I sat talking with Shamrock under the tree, I noticed I had pine pitch on the leg of my hiking pants.  I successfully removed the sticky pitch spot with Purell. This trick came in handy more than once on the trail.

Shamrock and I crossed the creek together and discovered an abandoned campground.

This was mile 407 by Sulphur Springs. It was a scenic camping area, and I was happy to have caught up with Shamrock. It was a relief to run into friendly hiker after my encounter with Bob from Berkeley. Hiking can be difficult without adding unpleasantness.

Shamrock had married his longtime girlfriend the day before leaving on his thru-hike.  It was an extraordinary story.

During the evening Mandie and Josh set up camp nearby. I did not actually see them, only heard their giggling from my tent as I fell asleep.

Day 43:

Shamrock was headed for camp at Messenger Flats Campground mile 430, and I was going to a campsite at mile 425. I said goodbye.

Most of the day was spent climbing over blow down and avoiding Poodle Dog bushes as the trail passed through previously burned areas.  It was windy all day. On the ridge lines facing extremely strong wind, I pushed my way forward.

There were many fallen burned and blackened trees across the trail. My pants and white shirt turned black from scrambling over the blow down. Where several trees lay across the trail together, I was forced to take off my pack and throw it forward before scrambling over the tree trunks.

The worst was the fear of Poodle Dog bushes.

Poodle Dog

blow down

Touching Poodle Dog can cause severe skin blisters, rash, and respiratory distress. There can be a delay of symptoms from two hours to two days after exposure. Exposure may also cause anaphylactic shock from the toxins. It can take up to a month to heal. With this in mind, I went to great lengths to avoid my body and clothing contacting the bushes. The oils can get on your clothing and then cause a reaction when transferred to your hands.

Many of the thru-hikers opt to road walk this section to avoid the Poodle Dog. As I planned to stop to camp at mile 425, I hiked the trail which was in poor condition from lack of foot traffic and lack of maintenance.  In some places, the sandy trail slid off the steep mountain sides leaving no trail at all.

When I arrived at mile 425, I could not find the camp area. It was too steep of an area for improvising a place to pitch a tent. I hiked on.

In the evening, I summited a high ridge and looking down into the distance and saw a forest island completely surrounded by acres of burned land and guessed it to be Messenger Flats. By the time I made it off the ridge to the campground it was nine in the evening and completely dark.

“Hey, HomeGirl, you’re here,” it was Shamrock, sitting in his tent without the fly, looking up through the screening.

I put my up tent quickly and in a rush did not bother to add the fly. It was a warm night. I enjoyed looking up at the moon and the stars as I went to sleep. I was too tired to make or eat dinner.

Day 44:

In the morning I lost a tent stake in the heavy covering of pine needles and was unable to locate it. Each time I broke camp I counted my tent stakes as a precaution. It was distressing to lose the stake; however, luckily, I carried an extra one.

The trail stayed on ridgelines and along the steep sides of desert mountaintops. On high open trail corners, the wind caught my backpack, and I had to grip the rocks to keep myself from being blown off the trail into the steep ravines.

The rumor on the trail was that Hiker Heaven (AKA The Saufleys) in Agua Dulce was turning away hikers because the number of hikers exceeded their capacity. There were no hotels in Agua Dulce and most hikers, including myself, had sent resupply packages to the Saufleys. Hearing Hiker Heaven may not be able to allow all hikers to stay, I planned to stay at Acton KOA campground at mile 444, wash my clothes and get a shower at the campground just in case I arrived at the Saufleys and was unable to stop overnight.

It was a long hot, dry descent into the road leading to the campground. As I came out onto a parking lot in the heat, sweating and tired, an older man jumped out of his truck. He was shirtless, wearing only swim trunks.

“Can I offer you a root beer float?” He smiled “I’m Coppertone. I thru-hiked of a couple of years ago. Now I meet hikers at trail crossings to offer trail magic.”

I was hot, tired and almost out of water. Coppertone’s offer was welcomed. I dropped my pack beside the camp chair and sat down to enjoy the treat in the shade of his truck. He handed me a crème soda and ice cream in a large cup. As I scooped the ice cream into my mouth, he kept up a lively conversation. As his trail name suggested, he was well tanned. In the summer months, he followed hikers along the trail by parking along major roadways crossing the PCT. He waited out the winter months by parking his truck in areas with warm weather, living full-time in his truck.

I finished the float, and he directed me to the KOA campground.

At the campground, I purchased a beer, a Gatorade, and a Coke and drank all of three while still standing in line waiting to pay in the small store.

Pakabear and Shamrock were already at the campground when I arrived. In the afternoon I met three German women. LapDog and Detour were hiking together. Sprinkle just happened to also be there at the same time. All three German women were in their early thirties, extremely friendly and outgoing.

I sat down at the picnic table just in time to hear Pakabear relate a story.

“As I was hiking down into the valley this morning, I was met by a man running toward me completely naked, well, except for his shoes and his iPad. I mean, why an iPad?”

“Oh no, who was it?” several of us wanted to know.

“Coppertone, the root beer float guy.” Pakabear chuckled, “I actually first met him right after the Mojave River Forks Reservoir. He came running up the trail towards us naked, root beer floats in hand.”   Pakabear shook his head again. “I mean, who runs with an iPad?”

Nice to know, I thought to myself as I listened to Pakabear switch the subject and begin another humorous story.

The campground featured an open flat lawn with trees shading most of the area. I sat up my tent in the shade and went to bed early. Shamrock and I planned to get up and hike out at 3am in the morning by headlamps so that we could arrive early to Hiker Heaven. I had another reason. Having seen the dark red rocky cliffs of the mountain out of this valley, I knew I probably could not make it up and over in the heat of the day. I sat the alarm on my cell phone and went to sleep looking up through the mesh of my flyless tent to the stars above.

During the night I could hear the howls of the big cats, including lions and tigers, from the Shambala Preserve nearby. It was an extraordinary experience. Luckily, I had known the preserve was nearby. Otherwise, I might not have known what it I was hearing in the distance.

Day 45:

In the morning, I was surprised Pakabear had already packed up and left camp. He must have had the same idea. Shamrock and I were underway by 3 am. Shamrock hiked along with me until daybreak shortly before we crossed the Highway 14 freeway. Once it was light, I encouraged him to go ahead at his own pace. He had been holding back and waiting for me to keep pace.

Just north of the freeway, I passed slowly along through the Vasquez Rocks County Park featured in many Hollywood films. The morning sun and shadow on the various rock formations made me wish to slowly take it all in. Trails intertwined through the rocks. The signage was confusing, soon I was headed in the wrong direction. A local woman, out for a stroll, sent me back to the right trail. Luckily, I had not gone far in the wrong direction.

I arrived at Agua Dulce in the morning and was happy to hear “Hiker Heaven” had space for me to stay the night. I collected my resupply package from their well-organized garage and was invited to pick out whichever unoccupied sleeping cot I wished among the cots spread out over their large backyard. I located an empty cot in the back portion of the yard for privacy and pulled it under mesquite trees for shade and placed my gear on top.

Shamrock had arrived an hour ahead of me and had chosen to sleep in one of the screened shelters. He had signed up to take the van in the morning to the bus stop to catch a bus to Los Angeles. He was planning to take a week off the trail to spend time with his new bride.

Saufley’s Hiker Heaven is an amazing place.   In addition to allowing hikers to stay in their yard each hiking season, the Saufleys rent a van to make two trips each day to the REI store in Santa Clarita allowing the hikers an opportunity to purchase needed gear. It was a well-oiled operation.

For hiker’s use, a row of blue port-a-potties lined the end of the backyard before the horse pasture. A kitchen, bathroom, and gathering room separate from the Saufley’s house was available for hikers.   A line of bikes were available for riding into the town of Agua Dulce to eat at the restaurants or shop at the store. It was hiker heaven. Generosity bestowed upon the hikers with such unselfishness. I was in awe of the Saufleys and the volunteers who helped run the place washing and folding the laundry and driving the van.

Upon arrival, hikers handed over their laundry to be washed and returned before the day was over. The shower sign-up sheet already had an extensive list of hikers. I added my name and found a chair in the shade of a tree to wait my turn.

Staying at the Hiker Heaven was No Go who had been there several days nursing blisters on his feet. I avoided him not wishing to hear another lecture.

Mandie and Josh arrived, collected their resupply boxes and hiked out. Approximately fifty hikers stayed at the Saufleys each of the two nights I was there.

Trina, one of the women I passed at the very beginning of my hike at mile one on the very first day was staying there. She had hurt her ankle on the trail into Warner Springs and had taken a week off. Afterward, Trina hitched rides up the trail and was now waiting for a lift to Kennedy Meadow. She had been hitching rides (yellow blazing in trail lingo) all the way up the trail from Warner Springs.

As Shamrock and I sat resting at the shaded table, Trina pulled up a chair and joined us.

“It’s a shame I am having such trouble with my ankle as I was getting in 25 mile days until I got hurt.” And she was off talking, this time about her 25 mile hiking days. After listening for some time, Shamrock and I politely excused ourselves.

“How was she getting in so many 25 miles days when Warner Springs was only a little over 100 miles on the trail?” Shamrock wondered aloud with a laugh. I rolled my eyes and suggested we walk down to the store in town.

I purchased supplies at the store to augment my package.

Later Shamrock and I rode bikes down to have dinner at the Marie Bonita Mexican Restaurant.

That night I was happy under the stars on my cot far away in my corner of the yard. I could hear the partying of the younger hikers. Let them have their fun, I thought to myself with a smile. All I wanted was sleep and rest.

In the middle of the night, I was awakened by gasping and heavy breathing. I sat up and looked around confused.  Right next to my cot, a couple were having sex on the ground. I had purposely sought privacy. I rolled over annoyed, covered my head with a flap of my sleep bag and tried to sleep again.

Day 46:

In the morning, I biked down into town and ate breakfast at Mon Ami, a quaint local coffee shop which I found made excellent omelets. There was a small outdoor eating area in back the shop, and I shared my table with a couple of other hikers.

On my zero day at Hiker Heaven, I took the van into the REI store in Santa Clarita. I didn’t need anything, but it was something to do that did not include hiking. Shamrock rode as far as the bus station on his way to Los Angeles to be with his wife. I did not see Shamrock again on the trail.

On the ride in the van, I was seated next to Pakabear and learned he was an emergency room doctor from Bellingham, Washington.

“Look at what I found.” Pakabear happily displayed the nailbrush he purchased at Walmart, one of our shopping stops. I certainly was not concerned with the dirt under my nails. Doctors, perhaps, are trained to be more fastidious with their nail hygiene.

Pakabear, in his mid-30s, was tall with blue eyes and a mass of light brown hair the sun was beginning to turn blonde. He was a cheerful person, always ready with a good story.

On the return van ride, Pakabear was telling of his experiences hiking the Appalachian Trail. One evening he had taken up an offer to stay overnight at a trail angel’s house. After dinner, the trail angel droned on for hours about his own youthful hiking experiences to the point the hikers listening felt they were hostages. The trail angel was trying to recapture his youth by taking in hikers who had no choice but to listen to him reminisce.

“I guess it was his way of extracting payment,” I suggested.

“Exactly.”  he laughed and continued, “It’s like having to sing for your supper.”

We were seated directly behind the driver who evidently may have over listened our conversation. I was surprised when shortly afterward the van drive made a request all the hikers riding in the van learn the lyrics of “Hail to the Bus Driver” and sing it to him. The irony was too much for me. I giggled.  Soon Pakabear and I both succumbed to fits of suppressed laughter.

In the early evening, I biked down to eat dinner alone at the Sweetwater Café. I already missed Shamrock although I had spent little time with him. Shamrock was good company.

That night I was awakened again by noise. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. A very drunk young man stood facing the fence a couple of feet from my cot singing and peeing through the wire. For-goodness-sake, I thought. I should have placed my cot in the middle of the yard.

CHAPTER ONE     (CAMPO 0 MILES TO MT. LAGUNA 42.8 MILES)

LESSON LEARNED: Toilet tissue is best sealed in a plastic bag.

April 1, 2014

In the early morning hours, we traveled south by car and turned westward toward Campo, California. Raindrops splashed the windshield. Rain, the least expected weather for my first day on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The car bumped down the dirt road toward the wall separating the USA from Mexico, I remained elated, excited to finally begin the hike after so many months of preparation. Eager to be on my way, I touched the wire fence, looked across the dirt no-mans land to the wall, signed the register behind the monument, and bid my husband a hasty goodbye.

A mile down the trail at the edge of an open field, I encountered two women I recognized from photos on the PCT Class of 2014 Facebook page. For the last several months both Trina* and Tess* had posted daily comments. Clearly, they were in the middle of a crisis as their gear was spread about getting soaked by the rain. I introduced myself and quickly hiked on not wishing to get caught up in whatever drama was taking place.

After passing Highway 94 and crossing railroad tracks, the trail ascended into the hills. From reading blogs I expected this first stretch to be boring. Unexpectedly, despite the light drizzle, it was beautiful.  The trail was frequently edged with colorful spring wildflowers and flowering yucca. White popcorn flowers, yellow desert pincushion, and orange poppies dotted small spots of color among the serpentinite rocks strewn across the hillsides as the trail wound upward.

An hour or so later looking up at a steep section of switchbacks I could follow the trail disappearing among gray boulders.  Through the drizzle and fog I caught a momentary glimpse of what appeared to be a woman in an orange poncho struggling slowly along.

A few switchbacks up I came upon the person lying across the trail under the poncho.

“Are you okay?” I quickly and cautiously jumped over the person onto a flat rock.  It was slippery. Thrown off balance, I reached out for a boulder to steady myself.

“Just resting,” came the reply. Surprised to hear a man’s voice, I turned and saw an overweight man huddled under the poncho.

“What’s your name?” I inquired, concerned.

“Santa’s Helper,” he sounded exhausted. His white beard did look a little like Santa’s. After his assurances that he was only resting and indeed fine, I continued upward.

My footsteps were quick and eager. How different this day unfolded compared with my anticipation. I had imagined struggling through the desert hot and dry. Two liters of Gatorade and four liters of Smartwater remained almost untouched in my pack keeping my backpack heavy on this chilly morning.

Mid-day the sun made a tentative appearance. As it began to warm, I stopped to shed my rain jacket.

On top of a large rock with a territorial view back down-valley, I paused for a lunch break. In what was to become a habit, I removed my shoes and socks and set them out to dry in the sun while enjoying the break.

Lake Morena, at mile 20, is the common goal on the first day for most thru-hikers. I planned to stop at Hauser Creek, mile 15. At this point of the day, I was secretly hoping I could miraculously make the twenty miles all the way to Lake Morena.  I ate my lunch with feelings of high expectations. I had Halfmile maps and the Halfmile GPS on my iPhone. I felt confident and prepared for my adventure.

Mid-afternoon, cresting the highest point of the day, a wide, deep canyon spread out before me. On the opposite wall, steep switchbacks wound up and out of the valley. Immediately, with sharp disappointment, I knew I lacked the energy to hike down and back up out of this steep valley. There was just no way. I must be satisfied making it to Hauser Creek.

Passing under power lines, I arrived at the unpaved South Boundary road and started down the sandy dirt road according to my map. For safety, I checked my GPS: ‘not on the PCT.’ I turned eastward looking for indications of the trail leaving the road down into the valley.

My heart quickened to see the sun glinting on three tents set up in a copse of trees below along the dry creek bed of Hauser Creek. I felt a surge of relief I would not be camping alone on my first night.

From a distance, I noticed a white border patrol truck, trailing dust, moving quickly up the road.  The truck pulled up as the officer rolled down his window.

“What are you doing out here, Miss?”

“Hiking the PCT.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He queried.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Wanted to.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Canada.”

“Alone?”

The questioning continued for 15 minutes. The officer indicated I had set off a heat sensor detecting activity with the border patrol investigating all tripped sensors.

When he finished grilling me and seemed satisfied I was not an illegal crossed over from Mexico, he directed me to where the PCT trail cut back downhill in an obscure turn at the road edge. I thanked him, and he shook his head and drove away. I might have missed the trail had he not pointed it out.

Descending into the valley along steep switchbacks I heard a noise.  Startled, I let out a yelp. A fast-moving hiker managed to walk up directly behind me before I heard his footsteps.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He apologized with a smile. We spoke briefly and hiked down to the campsite together. It was early, around 4:00 in the afternoon. The other hikers had already claimed the choice campsites, so the young man and I settled into the only open area remaining and set up our tents. I had practiced setting up my new tent at home and executed the tent erection without revealing clumsiness.

Placing my gear inside my tent, I sat down on a nearby log. The man sat down beside me. He was spending three weeks section hiking on holiday from Germany. He was tall, thin and athletic with short neatly trimmed dark brown hair. His black eyes lit up as he spoke. He had traveled to California on business and had extended his stay to section hike. Since his English was excellent, without much of an accent, I guessed he had visited the U.S. frequently. His compact back-pack and smart gear led me to believe this was not his first rodeo. He had gotten a late start on the trail today, and when I mentally compared his start time with mine, I realized he had covered the 15 miles in half my time.

Nearby our camp, a small blonde woman, Ghost Angel, was eating dinner with tall lanky Zen Blue Sky. We exchanged hellos over the low growing bushes between our campsites. Zen’s hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and he already had a couple of days of stubble on his chin. I assumed they were a couple and not wishing to be intrusive made no further conversation.

In the opposite direction, under a tree, a chubby man with dark curly hair and large luminous blue eyes began his dinner preparations.

As we sat resting on our log perch, Bright Eyes accidentally overturned his Pocket Rocket stove and started a fire in the surrounding debris. He jumped around wildly stomping out the blaze. We were too surprised to react. Luckily, Bright Eyes trampled the fire out before our help was required. It was a humorous situation.  Nobody laughed.

Too tired to make my own dinner, I crawled into my tent, inflated my Neo-air and spread out my sleeping bag.

It was early. The air mattress felt narrow for my body and the sleeping bag much too warm. Tossing and turning, I lay awake worrying what I had gotten myself into.

Finally, it was dark. The temperature dropped as it began to rain. A couple of hours later, I put on my lightweight down jacket and snuggled further into the sleep bag and checked to make certain it was fully zipped up.

Later, still cold, I added my rain jacket, hat, and gloves.

As the night wore on, I pulled over me the foil emergency blanket I had packed thinking I might need it in the snowy high Sierras. By morning, every piece of clothing in my backpack was on my shivering body. I was tired from lack of sleep.

It was still raining.

Day 2:

I decided to pack up quickly and dash for Lake Morena, foregoing breakfast. The German hiker must have had the same plan as he was packed and already on the trail by the time I got out of my tent. I watched him ascended with his small pack and correctly guessed I had seen the last of him.

As I made my way upward out of the canyon tiny bits of sleet and rain hit my face as I leaned inward toward the rocky side of the mountain in the strong frosty wind. It was cold. The rain and sleet tore at my face and bare hands. Far below, another hiker, Ghost Angel, starting upward. Wearing her white Cuben Fiber rain-gear, she appeared as a ghost rising through the mist. It was thus Zen bestowed on her the trail name, Ghost Angel.

By the time I was out of the canyon, the rain and sleet abated, and the sky brightened.  The harsh chilling wind remained.  I kept my thoughts on making it to the small grocery store and café at Lake Morena. The anticipation of a warm breakfast kept me moving forward quickly over the wet and rocky terrain. I covered the five miles rapidly.

I planned to eat breakfast at Lake Morena, warm up and hike on.

Coming out at Lake Morena, I bee-lined straight down the paved road to the store.

Dropping my pack in the seat opposite, I slid into the booth by the window.

It felt warm and pleasant to be inside out of the cold.  I took my time eating eggs and slowly savored several cups of coffee.

It was a small cafe and store combination.  The booths for the cafe were in the front of the room along the windows.  Packed shelves and narrow aisles of the store took up the rest of the space.

Approaching the counter to pay my bill, I asked the man if he had pens for sale.

“30 dollars,” he handed me a glass object.

“For a pen?” I was incredulously looking at this strange object and wonder how I would write my notes with it. It must be some type of drug paraphernalia. I was still turning the strange object over in my hand.

“Here, take my pen.” He said kindly, handing me his ballpoint pen.

“Well, let me pay for it.” I exchanged the glass object for the pen he had been writing with.

“No, no, no.” responded the middle-eastern man with a friendly smile.

Reluctantly I left the warmth of the café, slung my pack over my shoulders and headed back down the road toward the park to catch the trail.

Stopping at the ranger station, I inquired where I might find the trail onward.   The thoughtful and unassuming ranger interrupted his work and stood up to approach the counter.

“The PCT ahead is covered in snow all the way to Mt. Laguna. I suggest you wait for the snow to melt before hiking on.” He paused, considered my gear and added, “There is an area here for hikers to camp.”

I paid for a camping spot, bought a packet of firewood, and located the thru hiker’s camping area. The area was across the interior road from the lake and slanted slightly downward toward the water. Directly in back of the site, the PCT continued onward. As I unpacked, I noticed my small roll of toilet paper had disintegrated inside my side pocket. I had not thought to protect it from the rain by placing it inside a protective plastic bag. Luckily, I carried an extra roll stashed inside the trash compactor bag lining my pack.

It was disappointing to camp after hiking only 5 miles on the second day. I was the first hiker to arrive. Throughout the day, other hikers came and stayed.

Zen Blue Sky, Ghost Angel, and Bright Eyes were the next to arrive. I learned that Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel had met at the trail angel’s house in San Diego where many hikers stay before heading out to begin the trail. They were, in fact, not a couple. He was a section hiker planning to hike only as far as Wrightwood.

Tall and blond, the arrival of Mermaid, a former model and actress in her mid-fifties, did not go unnoticed.  Her beauty was amplified by sparks of charisma. She was a person everyone noticed and remembered. She spoke amicably with the hikers gathered around the two picnic tables.

Mermaid was the soubriquet she was given later on the trail at Deep Creek Hot Springs. She introduced herself by her given name. We had the same backpack, ULA circuit, in the color purple haze; however, her backpack was almost twice the size as mine. I silently speculated she must have a kitchen sink in it.

She looked at our packs and turned to me, “Well, you seem like you know what you are doing. Have you backpacked before?”

It was an innocent question, and my answer just came out without thinking. “Yes, I hiked around Mt. Rainier on the Wonderland Trail and have done a trek in Nepal.”

It made me sound experienced. Our conversation turned to the discussion of gear. Mermaid’s husband had helped with her gear, and he had thought of everything. Nearby Ghost Angel sat listening.

I was to later learn Ghost Angel had climbed Mt. Rainier and Mr. Baker with her mountain guide husband.  Her niece, having hiked the PCT in 2013, had advised her on gear. She was a more experienced hiker. Had I known, I would have referred Mermaid’s gear questions to her and kept my own big mouth shut.

Mermaid and I were deep in our gear conversation when suddenly a pair of trekking poles slammed the edge of the table with a loud thud.

A woman in a red rain jacket hastily yanked off her blue knit cap to reveal short curly blonde hair.

“I am leaving the trail. I called my husband to pick me up. I miss my husband. I want to go home.” She announced to the assembled group. There were general and polite wishes of sympathy offered up by those who wished her well. I was too stunned to know how to respond to her announcement.  It was early on a thru hike to already be giving up.

In the twilight, Trina and Tess arrived. Trina kept up a loud running monolog dominating the fireside conversation.

“Tess tumbled right over like a reg’lar tumbleweed. Ha, ha. I asked the man at the store if he sold underwear and he gave me these Ha, Ha. Free. Ha, ha. ”.  Trina slapped the long white underwear she was wearing underneath her print polyester dress and without drawing breath in her rough voice continued, “I think I am goin’ ta hafta stay here a couple days to rest up. Ha, ha.” She rattled on.

I broke away from the gathering around the fire and headed for my tent.  Evidently, the store owner was now out a pen and long underwear.

Day 3:

It was a frosty night. Camping near the lake made the night air damp and cold. By morning a thin layer of ice covered my tent. I spread out the tent and fly in the sun to dry out before packing up.

I regretted not sticking to my plan to hike onward yesterday, away from the crowd of general chaos of everyone milling about in the morning. Fifteen Jetboils lined the table as many prepared breakfast. Another hiker mistakenly tried to pack up my tent fly. Luckily I kept an eye on my gear and was able to quickly reclaim it.

The dark, grimy shower at the campground was unappealing. I had not yet learned to take every opportunity to clean up and passed on taking a shower.  I thought of the missed shower later in the hike with regret.

By the time the tent dried and I had loaded my pack, it was past nine in the morning.  Late in the day to be starting. A mile up the trail, I realized I was overdressed and had to stop to take off my base layer, another unwanted delay.

Late morning crossing along a stand of cottonwood trees, I came upon Ghost Angel, Bright Eyes, and Zen Blue Sky taking a break on the bank of a small brook. Mermaid waded ankle deep in the stream.

“Stop and join us,” she happily called out, waving toward the grassy creek bank beyond.

“Yeah, take a break,” welcomed Bright Eyes as I jumped over the water using my poles for extra leverage.  Ghost Angel and Zen Blue Sky sat nearby talking quietly together.

When the four hiked on, I made a reason to stay behind sensing Ghost Angel’s reluctance to admit me into ‘her’ group. I watched the four disappear up the trail.

It was a pleasant sunny day. Warm, but not hot. I climbed up along scenic Kitchen Creek. Occasionally looking down to the creek as it tumbled over large flat granite rocks, I yearned to take a nap on the flat rocks lining the water’s edge. Unable to locate a suitable path down the steep drop off to the creek, I reluctantly kept to the trail passing along the hills among the big Berry Manzanita and chapparal.  I took my time and enjoyed the warm clear day.

I saw no other hikers along the way except the four hikers I had joined for the morning break.

I planned to camp at Cibbets Flat at mile 32. Mermaid and Bright Eyes were planning to continue on to Mt. Laguna. I anticipated Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel to be headed there as well.

In the afternoon, I arrived at the cut off to Cibbets Flat. The campground offered tables, toilets, and a fire ring. Heading down off the trail toward the campground situated in a glade of cottonwood, willow, and oak trees, it felt unsafe camping alone in a campground with road access. My fear of two legged animals was greater then fear of four legged animals.

I covered the extra mile down to the campground slowly, apprehensively. To my delight Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel were sitting up their tents.

In the early evening, Pacman arrived.  Pacman, Zen Blue Sky and I sat around the campfire talking late into the evening. Ghost Angel stayed in her tent.

Pacman, in his early twenties, tall, thin, with dark hair and a full beard, had the look of a Roman soldier with his regal nose and imposing height. He had hiked the Appalachian Trail (AT) the previous summer and relayed tales of his AT experiences. His lively and adventurous spirit infused our evening conversation with energy and humor.

Day 4:

It took all day to hike the long 11 uphill miles to Mt. Laguna. The trail rose to 5,042’ into pine forests with snow frequently covering the ground. I did not see another person until I reached Mt. Laguna as Zen Blue Sky, Ghost Angel, and Pacman all hiked on ahead of me first thing in the morning.

Mt. Laguna was completely covered in four inches of snow.

The Mt. Laguna campground was completely white with snow. No one was camped there. Surveying the white frozen snow in the chilly afternoon, I decided to try to get a hotel room. Crunching across the campground, I made a hurried beeline for the highway.

Mt. Laguna is a tiny hamlet at the high point along Sunset Highway. As I headed along the road toward the general store, I met Mermaid.

“You better hurry. There aren’t many rooms available.” She motioned toward the Laguna Mountain Lodge.

The room was small. The worn green and crimson printed drapes and bedspread added to the feeling of gloom. The dark brown carpeting had seen better years. A single little lamp stood askew on the small bedside table. The room was warm and offered a bed and running water and served as a much better alternative to camping in the snow.  I had rented the last room available for the night.

I spread out my tent to dry, washed the tent footprint in the bathtub, and cleaned up my backpack and gear. There were no laundry facilities. I hand washed my clothes in a bucket with the laundry soap provided.

I noticed Ghost Angel, Bright eyes, and Zen Blue Sky shared the room next door.

Later, Mermaid and I wandered over to Mt. Laguna Sports & Supply, an outfitter across the street. It was a small store loaded with an impressive selection of gear stacked floor to ceiling. Waiting my turn to purchase a small stuff sack and a lighter weight rain jacket, I witnessed hikers purchasing gear at an incredible speed. Dave, the owner, helped Mermaid go through and cull unneeded items from her backpack. An avid hiker, Dave advised me to load my sleeping bag in the bottom of my pack without the stuff sack to save space, then load everything else in for an even weight distribution.  It was good advice.  Henceforth, this is the how I stowed my sleeping bag in my pack.

“Hey, move over and let me sit here.” It was Pacman with his effervescent smile taking a seat across the rustic wood table.  Ten thru-hikers joined together at one large long table to eat dinner at the nearby Pine House Café, a rustic log building down the road from the lodge. We were a happy group. Mostly, we spoke of gear and food, hiker’s favorite topics. Bright Eyes, Ghost Angel, Zen Blue Sky, and Pacman were among the diners. I noticed Ghost Angel was wearing makeup. I marveled her pack must be light enough for her to stow makeup. Lucky woman.

*indicates it is not the actual name or trail name of person

CHAPTER THREE   (WARNER SPRINGS MILE 109.5 TO INTERSTATE 10 MILE 209.5)

LESSON LEARNED: Best not to over-think your choices.

Day 11:

Pacman and Mert hiked out of Warner Springs in the evening. I waited until early the next morning. The day started easily enough, with the trail keeping to the valley across private property through pastures and skirting along a creek.  I came upon Mert’s campsite up against a tall rock wall across the creek as he was eating breakfast. I stopped to talk. I spoke, and he grunted. Mert never said much.

By late morning the trail began a relentless climb in elevation. The trail ahead and behind remained visible for great distances as I made my way over a series of boulder-strewn mountains with scarce foliage before arriving at elevation with trees.

In the afternoon I leapfrogged with Halfmile and Deb. They passed me during a break and introduced themselves. We discussed footwear.

“Are we ever going to get to the top?” I whined in frustration at one of our stops lying backward on the high side of the trail, looking up through the branches of a pink flowering desert ironwood tree.

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Deb’s response was grudgingly noted. Halfmile, a short, sandy-haired man with a mild manner was polite and quiet.  His wife, Deb, small and frail had a ready smile. They both wore sun hats with neck protection popular with many hikers. He had recently retired and this was his first opportunity to thru-hike the PCT after hiking the trail in sections in previous years.

The sun was going down behind the mountains by the time I reached the water tank at mile 127. At the tank, a yell reached me from far back across the valley and I turned back to see Pacman’s arms outstretched, waving wildly. I shouted and waved back like a little kid.

“Hello…hello…hello.” Echoed across the valley.

Hiker Trash Mike’s place was just off the trail near the tank at the edge of a pine forest.  Trail angel Mike made his home available for thru-hikers to crash. I was happy to stay. In exchange for being allowed to stay overnight at a trail angel’s house, it is understood hikers are to donate $20 per person per night.

I took off my pack and dropped it with the other backpacks and found a seat at the outdoor table on the covered porch. Halfmile, Deb, and Pacman arrived shortly. Mert came later.

It was a bleak place. The main house had a deep porch where the hikers congregated. Across the yard, two small outbuildings were outfitted with bunk beds for hikers use. A work shed across the yard overflowed with junk strewn about. The house was off limits to the hikers. There was no accessible toilet.  The property owner was not around and the place was under the direction of a caretaker.  Despite the limitations, it was a welcome and pleasant stopover.  Hikers were happy to find water, companionship, and enjoy the meager hospitality.

Approximately twelve hikers stayed the night and the bunk beds had all been claimed by the time I arrived.

The heat of the day disappeared with the sun and the evening quickly turned frigidly cold.

The caretaker offered the hikers heated frozen lasagna for dinner. I helped the caretaker serve the food to be able to get in and warm up my hands a bit each time I fetched plates of food. It was a welcome opportunity to talk with the other hikers. I have an allergy to wheat, barley, and rye called Celiac disease and must be careful not to consume gluten, in this case, the lasagna. I enjoyed the aroma of the food as I passed plates around knowing I must be satisfied afterward with my own dinner.

It started innocently enough.

“Why aren’t you eating the lasagna?” An older hiker called No Go* asked. This is a subject I prefer to not discuss. Usually I just simply quietly avoided food I cannot eat without making a fuss.

“I have Celiac,” I explained and turned to change the subject.

“Well, you know that is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head. It can be cured with the right therapist.”

Helpful, very helpful, I thought. No use explaining Celiac disease is an autoimmune illness and not something wished on myself. I made no response but quickly started a conversation with another hiker while thinking to avoid this person in the future.

Later, I prepared my own dinner of instant potatoes and freeze-dried vegetables and pitched my tent on a small space of grass. I fell asleep listening to the music being played around the campfire by Spirit Fingers and Jambo.

Day 12:

Places along the trail make it easy for hikers to get caught up in a vortex with other hikers.  It becomes difficult to leave the company of fellow hikers and get back to the trail.  I had to sometimes remind myself to stick to my purpose.

On this morning I jumped up after breakfast of eggs and coffee and chided myself for taking so long to get going.

When I hiked out, Pacman and Mert stayed behind. I expected they would catch up. I was to see neither again.

It was a steep climb in the morning through the pine trees up out of the valley.

Rock Bottom had partnered up with two guys and another woman. I took my rests and lunch along the trail with the four. I was learning the younger hikers are fun to be around. Their exuberance became infectious. These four teased me about hiking in a white shirt. Three of the four hikers were later to quit the trail. I ran into the remaining young man in Oregon. He teased me again about my white shirt. He said the two women of their group were envious I appeared fresh and put together while they struggled along hot, dirty and tired.  I could not imagine anyone thinking I was not also struggling with the heat; hot, dirty and tired.

The trail was sandy and hot but not as much elevation gain as yesterday making the hiking less strenuous. The trail passed in and out of several arid desert canyons and over several dry and barren desert slopes.

Late in the day, I arrived at a water cache with jugs of water lined up on a wooden shelf. Hikers are told to not rely on the water caches, but in reality, they are a happy sight to hot, thirsty hikers.

As I stood drinking water with Mr. Green, several other hikers arrived. We were standing around enjoying the water when a man came up who did not appear to be a thru-hiker. He avoided inquiries to where he was headed. His unkempt hair stuck out under his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead as he avoided eye contact. He wore pants and shirt that were not normal hiking clothing. He carried no trekking poles, and his small backpack appeared to be army surplus issue. I suspected he might be a transient.

Mr. Green

Homegirl

The campsites on the map at mile 144 were situated on a hilltop surrounded by enormous boulders.  The ground was sandy with little vegetation. When I arrived, the area was overflowing with fellow hikers. Everyone hiking in this section must have had this campsite designated as the target for the night. Tents and bivies filled all available spaces.

A helpful young man offered to let me camp next to him. There was no room for a tent. By necessity, I cowboy camped. It would be my second and last cowboy camp. After this, I accepted I preferred the privacy of a tent each night. A tent might not add to my security in any meaningful way, it took time and effort to put up each evening and take down in the morning, but it did give me an added sense of privacy and personal space.

Day 13:

The day before, I had phoned my husband, Jim, to let him know to pick me up at Highway 74 at 10:00 in the morning. The PCT north of Hwy 74 was closed because of previous fire and flood damage to the trail. The trail was closed all the way to the intersection of the Devil’s Slide Trail and the PCT above Idyllwild.

Most of the hikers were planning to hitch to The Paradise Valley Café from Hwy 74 and then hitch on into Idyllwild to spend the night. Since I was near home, it made better sense to go the other way on Highway 74 and home. Eager to get to Hwy 74, I quietly departed camp in the dark, using my headlamp.

In the darkness, I noticed the transient man on the trail behind me. This was odd. It was uncomfortable hiking with him following. I hastened my steps trying to add distance between us.

As dawn was breaking, I came across trail magic. It was a well-organized setup with coolers of soda, fruit, and food. Two large garbage cans, one for recycling and one for garbage, stood nearby with rocks on top to keep lids secure.

I stopped at the table provided and drank a can of rootbeer without removing my pack. As I wolfed down the drink, the transient man arrived. Neither of us acknowledged the other.

A few minutes later, when I resumed hiking, I felt a rush of relief as he stayed behind at the picnic table. I suspected he might be living off trail magic and hiker boxes.

In the early morning light, I could clearly see fresh cougar tracks on the trail. The cougar was headed nobo (northbound) same as me. I followed the tracks for several miles, cautiously not stopping to rest. Cougars usually attack from behind and often when a person leans over or sits down. I stood tall as a precaution.

Trail closure sign at Highway 74

I covered the eight miles to Highway 74 in record time arriving hours ahead of the scheduled pick up.

I stopped short of the highway and cleaned up the best I could manage with wet wipes.

Seated by the edge of the road on the dirt bank, I waited for Jim.

Later, Rock Bottom and the three fellow hikers arrived and met friends waiting at the highway to give them a lift to Idyllwild.

About one year before the start of my trip I had asked my daughter to make no plans for me from April to September in 2014. My daughter thought I had absolutely lost my mind when I explained my plans. She could not understand my wishing to hike at all, much less hike for almost six months. Slowly and grudgingly she came around and had purchased the backpack from my Christmas wish list.  Instead of the camo color ULA Circuit on my list, she bought the backpack in color Purple Blaze. I teased she must have had my granddaughter pick out the color since it was purple. No, she responded sensibly. “If you fall off a mountain I want you to be visible to the search and rescue team.”

I had talked of hiking the PCT for several years. Jim assumed it was all talk. Early Fall before my hike I told him I was making plans. When I said I was going, the news had not been well received.

“Who’s going to take care of me?” he angrily asked. We were seated in a California Pizza restaurant just off El Paseo in Indian Wells having a late dinner after a movie.   He was upset. It might have been a louder fight in private. He insisted, “I won’t let you go.”

We were seated next to a wall of windows. I looked up at the red EXIT sign reflected brightly, repeatedly, in the windows. Loud music filled the air covering over our conversation. A large group next to us added to the general noise of the restaurant.

A moth fluttered briefly outside the window and flew away. I looked across the street to the brightly lit display windows of the Escada store and sighed, not because I changed my mind but because I knew it would be an uphill battle.

Over time, as I forged ahead with preparations, Jim realized I was actually going to make the hike. He slowly came around and began to be outwardly supportive.

Our friends, on the other hand, when hearing of my plans looked at me as if I had fallen from outer space and quickly changed the subject. The topic was an embarrassment to be quickly glossed over as not a proper conversation topic.  I finally started not to bring it up.

In the months leading up to my departure, Jim learned to pay bills online and go to the bank for money using an ATM card in the cash machine. He learned how to handle our rental properties. He took it all on. Having someone at home, looking after everything, was an advantage for me. I felt my good luck as I waited Jim’s arrival seated on the dirt bank along the edge of the road happy to be off my feet breaking up dirt clods and counting the marching ants.

I dipped my hand into the ice of the small red and white cooler at my feet in our car and brought out a cold orange soda. I had requested Jim bring a six-pack of orange soda; and not the diet kind. I drank all six cans on the 40-minute drive home.

Day 14:

A zero at home.

At home I had the opportunity to clean up my gear and order new hiking pants to replace the pants ripped in the seat on the rough granite rocks on the hike into Scissors Crossings. As much as I preferred the comfort of my NeoAir UL, I order a Zpad replacement for the balance of the desert section. Not only would the fold up Zpad allow for getting on the trail more quickly in the morning, but it was also easy and comfortable to unfold for a mid-day nap during the heat of the day. I ordered the new gear online to be picked up when I arrived at Interstate 10 (the 10— in California speak) for the next visit home.

I was not yet having trouble with my feet. I had started the hike with Salomon Ellipse GTX Hiking shoes I had trained in on day hikes around the Palm Springs area. Also, I had the Brooks Cascadia running shoes preferred by most thru-hikers but did not care for the amount of dirt these shoes allowed inside the shoe. I opted to start in the Salomon, however, on this visit home, I decided airflow was more important and switched to the Brooks Cascadia running shoes with Superfeet inserted footbeds.

Day 15:

In the cold morning air, the climb up Devil’s Slide outside of Idyllwild was pleasant. I spent the morning enjoying the views of Suicide Rock in one direction and towering Tahquitz Peak in the other direction as the trail wound upward through the forest. I felt enthusiastic about getting back on the trail and enjoyed the sun filtering through the foliage.

When I reached the top at Saddle Junction, the trail rejoined the PCT at mile 179.4 heading north at the end of the closure. Patches of snow covered the trail. The snow was slushy and brown making it easy to cross over.

In the afternoon, I stopped to filter water at a small creek. Above the trail, the water cascaded down under an overhanging tree, right in the middle of the stream sat an extremely obese hiker. As we both filtered water, I asked him about his hike. He said he had decided to attempt the thru-hike for his fortieth birthday. I did not see him again, but I hope his hike was successful. It would take guts to attempt a thru-hike when one is in poor physical condition.

I left him perched like a Buddha in the middle of the shallow creek as he sat in the dappled afternoon sunlight, his large camera slung around his neck, water flowing around him.

As a treat, I stopped early and pitched my tent with breathtaking views westward. By four in the afternoon, I was resting inside my tent at mile 188. As there was snow on the ground surrounding my tent, I went to sleep with my coat and cap on.

Suddenly, I woke in the night, sweating.  Stripping off the coat and hat, I crawled out of the tent to cool down. The valley below was filled with distant lights possibly from the towns of Banning or Beaumont. The moon and stars filled the blue-black sky. It was magic. I stood looking up at the sky filled with bright stars, in awe of the beauty of the silent, cloudless night.

Day 16:

Knowing it would be a long hike down from the San Jacinto Mountains, I started as soon as I could make out the trail. In the early morning, the patches of snow were solid ice making it difficult to navigate across Fuller Ridge. In some places, I had to steady my foot against my trekking pole for footing on the hard slick ice patches.  Crossing steep stretches of ice felt treacherous.  My heart was in my throat several times; my hands shaking.

Happy to be off Fuller Ridge, I stopped at the Black Mountain campground to make breakfast.  My JetBoil would not light. At the time I did not realize the auto light does not function at altitudes above 7,000′. I thought the fault was with the stove or the fuel canister. Disappointed, I packed up and hiked on without coffee or breakfast. In time I would learn to light the JetBoil with a cigarette lighter at higher altitudes.

Halfmile’s map noted: As the crow flies, it’s 4.3 miles from the Fuller Ridge Trailhead to the Snow Canyon Rd Faucet (WR206). On the PCT it’s 15.2 miles. The trail descends 6,040 feet.

Mid-morning I overtook the camp of four college-age hikers.

Wish the trail was always this well maintained

Sign on the descent

I hiked out of the trees in the heat of mid day.  Leaving the forest for the descent, I was soon surrounded by desert.  Scorched and charred remains of tree stumps stood above the grass, brush, and cactus with clear signs this area had once been forested before fire turned the area into dry desert.

In the afternoon I leap frogged with the four college students from Ashland, Oregon. At one point after seeing a rattlesnake on the trail, they thoughtfully left a warning sign. Each time I passed the group they kindly offered to share their water and snacks as they were concerned with my hiking alone. I declined their generous offers but was grateful for their concern.

The trail bed was made of large sharp rocks. Adding to the difficulty, low growing brush covering the trail in many places. Hiking through the prickly brush, each step went down into the unknown onto rocks below. I had no idea where I was stepping. Luckily, long pants protected my legs.  The college students were in shorts and not so lucky.

At four in the afternoon, I could see Jim’s car parked by the road below. However, the trail wound from one valley to the next in relentlessly long switchbacks. It took a couple of hours to finally arrive at the car. I was exhausted. The bottom of my feet hurt from the rocky trail. I was out of water. I was ready to go home.

Days 17-18-19:

Waiting for my new gear ordered on my last visit home turned one zero-day into three zero days.

Somehow the package containing the Zpad from REI ordered for two-day delivery was lost in transit. The pants had arrived from North Face, but no package delivery from REI. I waited.

It was difficult sitting at home thinking of missing out on all the miles I should be getting in each day. With too much time on my hands, I began to second-guess my choice of footwear.

I was planning to wear sturdy hiking boots for the high Sierras to be able to kick step in the snow. I began to consider perhaps I should start out from Snow Creek in boots, to become accustomed to hiking with the boots before reaching the Sierras.

The bottoms of my feet were sore from the beating they had taken on the rocks hiking down the San Jacinto Mountains. My boots might offer better protection for the bottom of my feet. I really liked my hiking boots. I had worn these boots on a trek through Nepal. I had backpacked around the Wonderland Trail with these boots. I had history with the boots. I decided to hike out in my boots instead of running shoes.

This was to be the first of my two biggest mistakes of my trip.

In the summer of 2014, at age 65, I solo thru-hiked the 2,668 miles that make up the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT).  The trail crosses the length of California, Oregon, and Washington from the San Felipe Hills in Southern California to the wild, dramatic peaks of the Pasayten in the North Cascades in Washington State.

My hike began at the border fence with Mexico, south of Campo, California, on April 1^st and I crossed the Canadian Border at mile 2,660 at the northern terminus September 26^th before hiking on to exit the trail at Manning Park, Canada.

This account is a daily record of my journey while highlighting the randomness of encounters along the trail. These posts include the many people I met and how the generosity of others restored my faith in the essential goodness of individuals.

Included are the boring bits as the hike is not always an adrenaline rush.  Without embellishment, this account covers the joy, the pain, the challenges, and the loneliness of the hike.

A long distance thru-hike is life changing. There is much to learn about oneself and of others. It is a mental challenge as much as a physical challenge.  Roughly one in four hikers make it to Canada. If one wishes to quit, the reason can always be rationalized.  A life lesson.

A hiker’s net worth is in your backpack, and it is a very small pack.