Sporting Thoughts and Outdoor Adventures: Pacific Crest Trail

I started off the Pacific Crest Trail hot. Like a bat out of hell. Like a ten year old sprinting the first 100 meters of a road race. And it was hot. About 90 degrees in the SoCal sun. I charged through the first 20 miles in 7 hours carrying a pack heavy with a week's worth of food. I passed a lot of people, most of whom woke up that morning with the goal of hiking to Canada. Some of them, myself included, went to sleep that night second-guessing our lofty ambitions.

The trail starts near the Mexican-American border, about 30 feet away from a corrugated metal fence that marked the boundary. I wondered how it would look if the fence were made of adobe instead of metal sheets fitted together. I envisioned a Great Wall of the Southwest. There was a border patrol cop near the trailhead. I asked him if anyone ever tried escaping from the US into Mexico. He scoffed and shook his head no. My friend Kaison drove me to the start. He seemed eager to join me, but he reluctantly got back into his mini-van, a fashionable ride for the recent college grad, and rolled back to San Diego where he works at an educational start-up founded by Williams students; Learn2Earn.

The Border

The Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) starts at a fence and ends in a park. On that first day, I began my walk away from that lonely fence in the desert towards that park in the distant northern forest. I heard many helicopters while I was near the border, either searching for illegal immigrants or stranded backpackers. A lot of the hikers in that first section were not in great shape and struggled with the heat and terrain. Most try to hike 20 miles the first day to reach Lake Morena, where there is a campground with water and hot showers. But, many did not make it there. There was a water cache filled with gallons of Arrowhead water, stocked by benevolent "trail angels," located about 5 miles before Morena in the hot Hauser canyon. Many weary hikers stopped here to spend the night. These water caches are vital in the opening desert sections where water is scarce.

The Trail Monument and Me

The first day is definitely the most dangerous of the whole trip. People don't know what they are getting themselves into. Even I, a seasoned backpacker, underestimated how hard 20 miles can be with a heavy pack and a hot desert sun. A couple days after I hiked into Morena, a 19 year old died, only a mile away from Morena. Apparently, many hikers passed him, but he motioned for them to keep moving. He was dehydrated and called his dad--you'd be surprised at the places you get cell service--who called 911. They choppered in, but not in time to save his life. This happened right before kickoff, a big party in the Lake Morena campground timed to coincide with the start of many people's hikes. The next night, a freak rainstorm blew over many people's tents and drenched belongings both in Lake Morena and points further up the trail. It was an auspicious start to the 2014 PCT season.

SoCal Desert

The next day I hiked up from Morena to Mount Laguna where winds ripped through the big pines. My feet ached and I counted the miles which dragged along with my feet. Halfway up Mount Laguna, tired, sore, thirsty, I heaved my pack down on the trail, in between the cacti and low desert trees. I heard a rattle and looked down at a snake not five feet away from my feet. I backed up and walked a wide "C" around the rattler, before continuing my way to Mount Laguna. I set up camp at a time that I thought late, around 7 o'clock, having covered 22 slow miles, less than the 30-mile-a-day aspirations that I entertained from the comfort of my home. About thirty minutes later, an older guy strolled in, talkative, cheery, in contrast to my beleaguered self. He introduced himself as Rags.

Gnarly Blister eww!

Perhaps the most immediate characteristic that distinguishes a thru-hiker from your normal backpacker, apart from the stench and mangy facial hair, is the name. Trail names are a time honored tradition on the PCT and other long trails that snake through America. At this point, on day 2, I didn't have one yet, and to be honest I was a bit circumspect about the whole thing. Some sounded a little forced to me. I could understand a truly awesome trail name that accurately nailed down a certain aspect of a thru-hiker's personality, but the ubiquity of the practice lessened the impact of each name. I didn't want to be forced into a name. I didn't feel the necessity to separate my trail self from my "civilian" self. But, for some people, their trail name becomes more meaningful than their real name. It is a name that while given to you by someone else, you can either use or discard. For some people their trail identity subsumes their real identity.

Mount Laguna

Rags, who I came to know through miles of hiking together, was a recent retiree, a Vietnam Vet with grisly gunshot and shrapnel wounds in his lower leg. Despite this, he puts in impressive miles while maintaining a stolid disposition. After the first day, hiking up Hauser Canyon, he began spitting up blood and flew back to Seattle before restarting the trail a week later. He is a a student of the ultralight philosophy, going so far as to cut all the tags off his clothing. He, like many others in Southern California, travels without a tent, but has a room dedicated to outdoor equipment at home, so getting one is just a phone call away.

The next day, it became clear that thirty miles a day was an arm chair fantasy and twice I nearly broke down. I called my dad from a picnic area near an asphalt road, overwhelmed with the pain and enormity of my task which was just sinking in. The arrival of Rags boosted my spirits and I continued up a dirt road to a water tank where I lounged with other thru-hikers.

The trail often hugged the mountainsides, weaving in and out of dried arroyos, those deserted creek beds that only flow during rainstorms. So, even if I could see the trail a mile away, it could take three miles of walking along the steep ridge walls to reach that point. Camping is also sparse on these steep slopes, and the trail angles downhill, which can cause knee pain and other problems.
The trail stays true to its name. The Pacific Crest Trail, emphasis on the Crest, seeks the spiny peaks and highest ridges on its way from Mexico to Canada.

Eagle Rock

After the relentless ridge that was the San Felipe hills, I chilled for a while at Barrel Springs, a cistern filled with cold spring water and equally cold Cokes and Beers. I was careful to avoid the Poison Oak that lingered in the shade of the thirsty oaks. From here the trail took on a greener aspect, a departure from the red sand that characterized the first 100 miles. I walked on mellow hills and descended into the Serengeti-like flats near Warner Springs, where I spied a lone tree that stood out from the grassland like an Acacia Tree in Kenya. A bit farther along sandy trails loomed Eagle Rock, perched on the top of a rise. You don't have to look closely at the picture above to see an eagle, wings outstretched, protecting her nest eggs. The resemblance was so uncanny I wondered if Indians had chiseled away at the rock to create such a likeness.

Early Morning Clouds

From Eagle Rock, I continued onto Idyllwild. Cold rain and fierce winds buffeted my tent in Warner Springs, but a cup of coffee and a meal of eggs, biscuits, and sausage warmed me up after a cold night. I charged over green mountains, the promise of Idyllwild and the trail famous Paradise Cafe burger fueling my ambition. An "easy" 18 miles into the trailer compound of Hiker Mike's, where I stayed the night, then 26 miles the next day, a marathon down from the windy hills to Paradise Cafe and a juicy burger. From here I hitched into Idyllwild. I stood on the side of Highway 74, thumb extended uncertainly, and my first attempt at hitching proved successful within minutes. The "Colonel," an authority on magneticss, and his wife drove me into Idyllwild, past the wildfire that ravaged the PCT a couple years ago and ruined the trail just north of the cafe.

In Idyllwild, I secured a inn room, and reflected on my accomplishment, 152 miles in 7 days. I felt good, but my feet did not. The next day I took four trips to the grocery store, agonizing over each food choice. My next stop was Big Bear, 100 miles away. All that sweat and pain, and now I had to do it again! I stayed in my room, watched the NBA Playoffs and the Donald Sterling saga unfold. One 'zero'-- a day with no trail miles--turned into two. Uncertainty and despair swirled within. In retrospect, I should have spent more time in the campground, with some of the other hikers, but I felt like my mood would bring them down.

They say yawning is contagious.

I woke up feeling better, and gathering my energy, charged up San Jacincto Peak, the second highest mountain in SoCal after San Gorgonio. Descending was not as fun. Over ten miles of switchbacks twisted down almost ten thousand vertical feet, but at least I was able to admire the flanks of the formidable peak as I threaded my way to Ziggy and the Bear's. Ziggy and the Bear are trail angels who host PCT hikers in their backyard and treat them to foot baths, free showers, and a Burger King run at 1:00. I power-walked across the valley floor to get there in time for fast food. Apparently, Ziggy and the Bear bought their house in Cabazon specifically because of its proximity to the trail, which makes sense because there isn't that much else to Cabazon. It is a small outpost huddled against the hillside, across from the interstate and dwarfed by tall spinning windmills.

San Jacincto Peak

I hiked into the night from Ziggy's. The trail skirted windmills and free-range pastures before curving around to Mission Creek, a cool stream that nourished large Cottonwoods and other plants along her banks; a green line carved in the desert valley floor. It was refreshing to encounter water after so many days without. Little Mission Creek was like the Mississippi to me, only more beautiful because of its refusal to submit to the arid desert. It cascaded down rocks in little waterfalls and pooled in sandy shallows perfect for foot baths. I took a nap, ate lunch, relaxed, ate dinner beside its banks. I found a nice walking stick, a charred branch from a burnt bush. It was remarkably sturdy despite its light weight and one end formed a perfect handle, especially when I wrapped my handkerchief around the notch. I developed a strange affinity for the thing and it was my companion for the next 100 miles.

My Sturdy Companion

I slowed my pace, just as others increased theirs, and I hiked along Mission Creek with many others, who like me, savored this oasis in the desert. Mission Creek took us to Big Bear Hostel, a laid-back house claimed by hikers for the PCT. An all-you-can eat Chinese Buffet and a large meal at a Sports Bar provided nourishment for my next section. I only spent one night in Big Bear, careful not to repeat the mistakes I made in Idyllwild.

Foot Bath at Mission Creek

The next day, I followed the hills that skirted Big Bear Lake to the headwaters of another stream, Deep Creek, which lived up to its name. It cleaved the rocks and gathered in dark pools before continuing down the valley. I hiked into the night, eager to reach 30 miles for the first time. But, despite my effort, I was only able to hike three miles over the last three hours, and at 11:00, I picked a spot near the trail and was nearly asleep before unfolding my sleeping pad. Not ten minutes later, I awoke out of a light sleep to a flurry of movement and a noise that registered somewhere between a scream and a roar. I looked over through the darkness to Apache, a fellow thru-hiker who had joined me in my late night push.
"Dude, was that a mountain lion?" I asked.
"I think so" he replied. After a few minutes of tense silence, Apache put up his tent, a sturdy barrier between man and beast.
I was so tired, I didn't bother to follow suit. Instead I lingered in half-sleep with my walking stick in immediate arm's reach to my right, my small pocket knife near my head. I remained in this position, drifting in and out of sleep until early morning light filtered through the darkness and I relaxed into sleep.
Apache is an interesting character. Last year, near the start, he nearly died. He wandered off trail and survived three days without water, subsisting on cactus flesh, before finding his way back to the trail where he passed out. Someone woke him and he recovered for two weeks at home before starting again. He blamed his hiking boots for his near death experience and now favors the open-air Teva sandal. Last year, he met Anish, the women who broke the PCT speed record. She hiked the trail in under 60 days, averaging 44 miles a day. Apache met her in Tuolumne Meadows in the High Sierras, and described her as shrunken and shriveled, a raisin in the sun. She survived on goo mixtures that she would squeeze into her mouth.
Apache hiked most of the trail last year only to fall 150 miles short of Manning Park and the Canadian border. Apparently he spent too much time in town along the way, and when the choice came to buy snowshoes or a ticket home, he opted for the latter. He hikes wearing a wide-brimmed bowler hat studded with feathers he has accumulated along the way, hence the badass name "Apache".

Deep Creek

I hiked onto Deep Creek Hot Springs where I relaxed in the restorative waters and saw naked people of both sexes and every body type. There were a few woman, but even I, a 24 year-old manboy, was more concerned with the nourishing water than the female form. Maslow's pyramid proves especially true in the back country; food, water and comfort take priority over sexual desire.

I didn't follow suit and kept my shorts on when I joined the mix of thru-hikers and revelers in the springs. The water eased my sores. At this point, my body ached. My feet were sore and blistered and the areas around my shoulders were red from where backpack dug into flesh. It was an improperly sized pack, one salvaged from my basement, and along with digging into my shoulders, it cut into my hips, sending pins and needles down my lower back and butt. Wolf, a thru-hiker from Denmark, remarked on my red shoulders. I was a bit self-conscious, but I knew it was time for a new pack. Luckily, I was scheduled to meet my Uncle Henry in two days at Wrightwood.

Mile Marker 300

I left Deep Creek and walked through desert past the dammed Silverwood Lake, which was beautiful despite its artificiality, and finally underneath the Golden Arches and into the sanctum of McDonalds. I spent $20 and ate more of Rags' food when he joined me. Next time, I'll stick to the dollar menu. We spent that night sandwiched between a highway and a railroad, not the most pristine of backcountry campgrounds. From there, 27 more miles up some more mountains, a 5,000 foot ascent narrated by Ira Glass of This American Life. I was careful to avoid the nefarious Poodle Dog Bush, a plant we had all been warned about down the trail. I walked underneath large conifers and through grassy ski runs, down to a forgotten highway with no cell service.

Map of the PCT until Wrightwood

Luckily, a pickup dropped off another thru-hiker and I jumped in the back down to Wrightwood, a small mountain town two hours from LA. My Uncle Henry picked me up and shuttled me down to LA. In LA, I walked the Venice Boardwalk and picked up some gear, a new stove, the efficient, light JetBoil, an Osprey Pack, a huge upgrade, and two trekking poles. I spent three days in LA, and like my long stay in Idyllwild, I found it hard to get back on trail. I had stashed my walking stick earlier and I picked it up one last time before placing it carefully back among the bushes. Trekking poles stabbing the dirt, I marched into the fading light, half man, half machine. 360 miles down, only 2,300 to go.