CHAPTER TWO   (MT. LAGUNA MILE 42.8 TO WARNER SPRINGS MILE 109.5)

LESSON LEARNED: Hand sanitizer is likely to spill all over everything.

Day 5:

Eager for an early start on the trail, I stepped out of my room into snow dropping straight down in soft fat flakes. I looked up and down the road in frustration. On the far side of the highway, the snow was already settling on the path. I retreated to the warmth of my room.

After hanging out in my room trying to decide what I should do, I wandered down along the highway to the Pine House Cafe and waited for the restaurant to open. By opening time, a cluster of hikers stood outside the door.  Most of the hikers were cold from camping in the snow.  I felt lucky I had slept in a room.

The hikers ate breakfast together at one long table.

After eating, the snow ceased. The sun broke through the clouds and quickly dissolved the white carpet. What a difference a few hours made. I was learning sometimes the early bird gets the snow, sleet, and rain.

A section of trail running along an old roadway

The path led through open grassy burn areas and then high on top of a series of ridges. Frequently steep cliff edges had to be negotiated.  The green grassy ridge lines offered vistas of brown desert in the distance.

Keeping a good pace, I wanted to be off the ridges before the end of the day as Dave warned me it could become frigid and windy at night on the ridge.

I walked into the evening.  As the trail descended, I pitched my tent in the moonlight at mile 61 amid a stand of burro brush. With the late start, it was still an eighteen-mile day. I had not seen any other hikers along the trail.

This was to be my first solo camp. It was quiet, and I was mindful of being alone but not fearful. I slept soundly.

Day 6:

The cold air felt refreshing as I broke camp just at dawn. Mermaid and Bright Eyes came along the trail just as I was loading my backpack.

“Hello.” It was Mermaids happy greeting. “We were just a few miles back at the campground up off the highway.” She motioned backward and up the ridge.

The three of us hiked on together. I was the slower hiker. By mid-morning, they were both ahead of me. We met again when they waited for me to catch up at a water cache.

Mermaid offered to wait for me at the end of the day at Scissors Crossings, where the trail crosses Hwy 78, for the three of us to hitch together into the small town of Julian. Bright Eyes had a resupply package to pick up in Julian. It was a generous offer, but not wanting anyone waiting around for me, I reluctantly told Mermaid and Bright Eyes to go ahead into Julian without me.   I had not sent a resupply package to Julian and was not planning a stop.

Soon they were far ahead and I was alone again.

The day was spent hiking out of the mountains into the desert filled with cholla cactus, barrel cactus, and pink flowering beavertail cactus.

At noon, I stopped for lunch seated on top of a large granite rock with views across the dry desert valley.

As soon as I settle in with my shoes off, the pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoed up from a shooting range below. The sound of constant gunfire was unnerving.  It difficult to enjoy my lunch break.  I finished quickly.

When I jumped down off the granite rock, a sharp edge caught the seat of my pants and ripped a L shaped hole. I quickly applied duct tape to the gaping hole before I started out again.

The trail did not wind down near the shooting range but instead veered sharply left as it came out to a dirt road in the valley. It was a relief to observe the gun range farther down the road.  There were two old pickup trucks parked at the gun range; but I could not see how many people were target practicing.

I crossed the dirt road and ascended up the trail again; the sun became suddenly boiling hot. As the temperature climbed, I began sweating profusely.  Dust from the trail filled my nostrils. Mid-afternoon, I crawled under my sun umbrella and took a short nap. I discovered short trail naps can be surprisingly restful.

Resuming the way along the dusty, rocky path, I daydreamed of eating ice-cold slices of cantaloupe as I stumbled along. I imagined how luxurious the cold sweet orange flesh would taste in my mouth. My imagination could almost smell the fragrance of the ripe fruit.

Daydreaming of icy cold fruit became a daily and constant obsession. In the desert section, daydreams of cantaloupe or slices of watermelon were interspersed with thoughts of cold orange soda. I had never cared for the sickeningly sweet taste of orange soda, however, during these hot days this was the drink I most craved.

All afternoon, the trail traversed along the sides of a series of mountains, I could see Scissors Crossings surrounded by cottonwood in the valley below. The trail, however, followed along the mountains south heading east circling before turning west where I knew I would eventually end up. By the time I made it back around and down to the highway, the sun was setting. According to the water report, there was a water cache under the bridge at the crossings.

The trail followed along a series of mountain sides.

“Water…one mile. Water, water everywhere.” I encouraged myself aloud as I trudged along the sandy trail running parallel to the highway toward Scissors Crossings where County Road S-2 crosses Hwy 78. I was out of drinking water, hot, and exhausted.

Under the bridge, a cooler stashed with soda and beer welcomed me along with large jugs of water stacked along the concrete wall. This was my first experience of trail magic. Trail Angels leave soda and sometimes beer in coolers along the trail for thru-hikers as trail magic. It is such a heavenly sight for a hiker to come upon, indeed like magic. It is polite and customary to take only one and leave the rest for thru the hikers coming after. In this case, there was an envelope for donations; I left several dollars.

I was sitting in the dirt next to the cooler savoring the taste of the soda when Pacman and Mert arrived. I said hello, and after finishing my drink, I hiked out to locate the nearby campground. Stumbling along in the darkening dusk I could barely see the trail as it led up into the desert mountains away from the trees, I guessed I was headed in the wrong direction.  Suddenly, I realized I had left my trekking poles under the bridge.

Slowly, I picked my way along the trail back under the bridge. Pacman and Mert laughed at me and asked me to dance for my poles.

“I don’t have the energy to dance if my life depended on it,” was my honest answer.

As it was now completely dark, the three of us decided to spend the night under the bridge. None of us had any idea where the campground was and decided not to try to locate it in the dark.  Pacman and Mert decided to crash on the torn dirty sofa and chair someone had discarded under the bridge. I prepared to put up my tent.  They drank beer and passed a joint.

Two additional men hiked in just as I was getting ready to retire for the night. By the time I crawled into my tent, the four were passing a glass pipe.

“Don’t worry,” I offered, “You won’t keep me awake. Party on, guys.”

Listening to the cars and trucks intermittently rumbling across the bridge overhead, I began to think if only my friends could see me now. I am hiker trash.

Day 7:

In the morning Pacman, Mert, and I decided to hitch to a nearby RV park called Stage Coach Trails four miles east of the bridge. The guys wanted to go swimming in the pool. I wanted to take a shower and wash my clothes.

As we walked along the road waiting for a car to stop, Mert flossed his teeth.

We hitched a ride into the RV park with a local fireman who made an insightful comment.

“When I give rides to the thru-hikers here in Southern California the hikers are excited about their hikes. Later in the Summer, when I travel up to Oregon and Washington to fight forest fires and give rides to thru-hikers, all the hikers want is for the hike to be over.” Hiking and camping in Oregon and Washington I was to remember this sentiment.

We sat around drinking soda on the front porch of the store at the RV park while charging our phones. After a while, we decided to take a zero (a no miles day) and rented a camp spot.

Between Pacman and me there was a constant stream of conversation. Mert only grunted occasionally. I am not confident he completed an entire sentence in my presence.

We tried the swimming pool in our underwear. When the water turned out to be disappointedly too cold for swimming for any length of time, Pacman and Mert departed to hitch into Julian for the day.

I stayed and put up my tent. After showering and taking care of my laundry, I took a long afternoon nap. It felt good to lie still, flat on my back, arms and legs outstretched. A row of small trees provided shade. A light wind kept it from being hot. I felt warm and rested, occasionally slipping into a light slumber.  There were no other campers around and it remained a quiet day.

As the day drew to a close and the sunset glowed starkly outlining the mountains to the West, Pacman and Mert returned. They laughed about the fire burning in the fire ring.

“Everywhere we go, you always make it like home. Setting up your tent. Making a fire. We’re calling you ‘Homegirl.’ That’s your new trail name,” Pacman paused, “Okay?”

How could I turn down a trail name from Pacman who stood before me with a happy smile? I laughed.

“Homegirl it is.” I gave him a big hug.

He released my hug and added with hand and body gestures, “Remember, when someone asks your trail name, you must say: ‘Homegirl, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ DOWN….’”

Laughing and shaking my head I wished I could capture his verbiage and gestures and knew I would never be able to pull it off.

Pacman poured something in my cup. It was my first taste of Fireball. The whiskey was liquid cinnamon candy.

Over the campfire, Mert prepared steak purchase in town with fried mushrooms and onions for dinner for all three of us. I offered to share my instant rice, beans, and freeze-dried vegetables. There were no takers.

Day 8:

A woman, Sarah, working on the grounds around the camp the day before had asked about my hike. She was one of the several women of a religious organization preparing the park for a large church group scheduled to arrive some days later. The women wore long hair neatly braided and tightly encircling their heads. Each dressed in long skirts.

While I was washing my clothes, Sarah offered to give us a ride back to the trail in the morning. Promptly at 7, Sarah pulled up in a pickup truck, and we were soon returned to the bridge. During the ride, I explained to Sarah she was our ‘trail angel.’

I said goodbye to our trail angel, Sarah, and also to Pacman and Mert, who decided to hitch back to Julian for the day.

I began the long climb up toward the water cache at mile 91. At the first rise, looking back toward the bridge, I saw two hikers being delivered to the trail accompanied by a photographer snapping photos.

It was soon to become another hot, dry climb, crossing through burned areas blackened from forest fires.  There was stark beauty in the burned trees like black skeletons against the blue sky.   Occasionally, purple flowers grew in the blackened earth.

The fire left little shade. When available, I found shade from rocks or ledges in the places where the trail cut steeply into the mountain. A couple of times I crawled up under burned out trees in the black soot and dirt; so desperate for a small amount of shade. My umbrella offered some shade but minimal relief from the stifling heat.

I spent the mid-day leapfrogging with a woman called Rock Bottom. We were both struggling with the heat.  We exchanged a few words each time we passed.

Struck with the idea I would reach mile 91 and find the water cache empty, panic and fear kept me desperately moving forward and upward all day.  I took only quick rest stops; long enough to catch my breath.  It seemed I would never reach mile 91 and water. I consumed all four liters of water.

It was late in the afternoon when I reached the sign for the trail to the water cache. I descended the side trail quickly. In a small glen cardboard boxes were stacked high, each box containing multiple plastic jugs of water. I sat down in the single white plastic chair and drank and drank. It was hot water, but it was water. I wanted to pour water over my head. However, I did not dare waste one tiny drop.

As it was late, I located a flat area back uphill near the main trail. It was surrounded by scrub brush allowing my tent to be tucked away. No other hikers passed by and it was a quiet night.  Exhausted, with my last bit of remaining energy, I changed into my base layer.

I lay on my sleeping bag utterly fatigued. Yet again too tired to make dinner. Loneliness washed over me, an overwhelming sense of bitter loneliness. Loneliness as I have never experienced before made my heart ache.

I missed my husband.  I missed my friends.  I missed my life.

Day 9:

I woke with the daylight and sat up in my sleeping bag, pulling the plug on the neo air mattress.  The air hissed as it deflated under me.  I reached for the stuff sack of personal items.  From the travel size tube, I pushed a small amount of toothpaste onto the dry toothbrush and brushed my teeth.  Taking a towelette from the blue packet of face wipes, I washed my face and hands and made use of a Wet Wipe towelette to freshen the other parts of my body.  My hair, which I had grown out for the trip, was matted from salt and sweat.  I tamed my hair into a ponytail.  Next, I applied deodorant and added sunscreen to my face and the backs of my hands.

Finished with personal hygiene, I stripped off my base layer, which doubled as my pajamas and put on hiking pants and shirt.

Opening the tent door, I looked out at the day that was forming and reached for my kitchen, a bag containing the Jetboil, gas canister, cup, and spoon which I had left just outside the tent door with my water bottles.   My food was at my feet inside the tent and I reached down and pulled the food bag forward.

Still reclining, my feet tucked inside the sleeping bag for warmth in the cold morning, I prepared breakfast in the open tent vestibule.

The JetBoil began to gurgle as water suddenly boiled up.  Quickly, turning off the fuel, I pour a small amount of the hot water over a mix of oatmeal, powdered milk, and freeze-dried fruit.  I added Starbucks coffee grounds to the remaining water in the JetBoil and left it to percolate cowboy style.

After eating, it was time to put on my shoes, roll up the air mattress, pack up the tent and backpack, collect my trekking poles and get going.

On this morning, preparing for the day, I realized to make it through the desert section, I must start earlier in the mornings to be able to hike before the heat and take full advantage of the cool crisp morning air.

It was taking me about an hour after waking each morning to get on the trail. I needed to reduce the time by half.

In the future I must be up by 5:00 am and be on the trail by 5:30 am just as it became light enough to see the path without a headlamp.

I could cut morning preparations by eliminating eating oatmeal for breakfast. It was time-consuming to eat and clean up. Also, I decided to leave the Jetboil behind on my first out and exchange the NeoAir for a Zpad that folded away quickly. With the neoAir, I had to get the air out and roll up to stow each morning. At Kennedy Meadows, I would reclaim both for the additional warmth required for colder temperatures.

Underway with the zeal of the new plan and with thoughts of making changes in my gear, I kept up a robust pace in the cool of the early morning.

It soon turned into another sweltering hot day.

Ocotillo grew along with the desert cactus. The beavertail cactus added splashes of brilliant pink to the otherwise brown landscape.

As I passed the 100-mile marker along a rocky section, I heard the distinctive sound of rattling. Slowing and listening carefully, I could plainly hear more than one rattlesnake. Having grown up in rattlesnake country, it was a familiar sound and I quickly hastened my steps to get away.

The water source at mile 101 was a pipe from Barrel Springs into a water trough. It was a cattle trough containing dark green water in the shade of an overhanging tree. Tadpoles darted around in the water. After filtering water from the incoming pipe and wetting my handkerchief to cool my face, I looked around for a shady spot to rest in the welcome stand of trees. I laid down in the shade with my head on my backpack and stretched out my legs.  It felt good stretched out, resting in the shade.

I was almost asleep when Pacman hiked in. I was elated to see him again.

“Did you know that’s poison oak?” he pointed to brush behind me.

“Well, I’m not touching it.” I turned to look. I had no idea how to identify poison oak.

We talked as we watched other hikers arrive.

Gradually, the area around the trough began filling up as hikers rounded the bend, parched and hot. Each hiker took off their pack, made for the water, and found a shady spot under the nearby trees. No one gave the impression of being eager to leave the shade. Some hikers began food preparations.

In my belt pocket, the opened flip lid of Purell hand sanitizer had spilled over my paper maps rendering the maps useless and everything in my side pocket a soggy mess.  Store the small Purell bottle inside a plastic baggie, I reminded myself.

As Halfmile and his wife Deb came around the bend, a photographer jumped up and began snapping photos to record their arrival. A general hush settled around as everyone turned to see who had arrived. “Halfmile” could be heard, passed around on the lips of the onlooking hikers. He is famous to PCT hikers. Many hikers, myself included, carried his Halfmile maps and utilized his Halfmile GPS.

I recognized the photographer as the same man I had caught a glimpse of at Scissor’s Crossings when I turned to look back.

Pacman and I lounged in the afternoon, waiting for the heat to abate. We munched on snacks while cameling up with water and attempted to nap.

Pacman and I decided to set off again in the late afternoon as the air began to cool. We were planning to make it to Warner Springs at mile 109.5; however, by the time we were a couple of more miles down the trail, Pacman suggested we stop for the night and I readily agreed. Dropping down the bank to a small creek in the middle of a cow pasture, we made camp under the spread of a large oak tree at the start of dusk. It was mile 105. We cowboy camped in the middle of a cow path.  I hoped no cows crossed along the path in the night.

As darkness descended, a young couple joined us. I met this couple first at Mt. Laguna when I sat next to her at the breakfast table. She was a photographer and carried heavy camera equipment. She had just purchased a new backpack from Dave at the outfitter’s shop. The couple met on the Appalachian Trail a few years back and were now married and hiking the PCT.

Her husband was tall with a youthful appearance. When she spoke about photography, her brightened eyes erasing her tired look.

Now, as they prepared to camp, I noticed she appeared to be pregnant. Under her turquoise smock was a visible baby bump. Pregnant with the first child at forty-one years old and hiking the PCT? I was alarmed and then remembered to be less judgmental.

The married couples were usually the happiest hikers; satisfied in the company of each other. This pair was no exception, and I envied their shared comradeship.

Day 10:

I departed quietly making an effort not to wake the couple, giving Pacman a quick wave goodbye as I headed up to the trail.

The hike into Warner Springs was beautiful in the early morning light. The next couple of miles followed along more of a pathway than a trail.  The narrow path led through flat and open green grassy fields. I stopped at the famous rock formation called Eagle Rock and took photos from various angles making sure I had a good shot from the direction the rocks appears most like an eagle.

It was still early in the morning when I arrived at Highway 79 and walked into Warner Springs, a mile off the trail. There was no need to hitch. The Warner Springs Resort was closed; but the local senior community center had set up to receive incoming hikers offering meals, outdoor showers, and laundry services for a small fee. I bought breakfast, put my laundry in the queue to be washed and took a shower.

The two outdoor showers appeared to have been hastily constructed with rough-hewn lumber offering some privacy, if not luxury. The water was cold and refreshing.

I was seated outside drinking coffee enjoying the crisp morning air when Pacman hiked in. Shortly, Mert arrived. Both had caught up with me. Inside the community center, a couple of hikers named Spirit Fingers and Jambo played guitar and banjo. Their music wafted out to us as we sat around outside resting and talking.

Pacman in borrowed clothing from the community center while his own hiking clothes were being washed.

Mert

Spirit Fingers

As the morning wore on, many hikers came through. Most went off with Warner Springs Monty Tam, a local trail angel who invited hikers to stay at his home.

I opted to camp in the field behind the community center.   A visiting hiker’s spouse went off to the post office to fetch several of our resupply packages. It was a kind offer.  This saved my walking to the post office. It was my first resupply box.  I was happy to have new supplies of toothpaste, floss, hand sanitizer, maps, sunscreen, wet wipes and face wipes.

I was not in need of food because I had eaten so little of the meals in my backpack. The food contents of my resupply box went into the hiker box at the community center. Hiker boxes are kept at places hikers congregate. Hikers put whatever food and gear they do not need into the box, and hikers are free to take whatever they want or need out of the box. A sound system to avoid unnecessary waste.