Mile 407 to 430

Today is Todd’s birthday, so I give him one of my prized Starbucks VIA instant coffees. We have been hiking together the last couple of days. Hiking together means you keep passing each other and you end up at the same camping/tenting area.

It is strange that there are hundreds of hikers in the same section, heading in the same direction, and you rarely see them. If they are faster than you, they pass and you may never see them again. If they are slower than you, you pass them and may never see them again. The person with the perfect pace for you maybe a few miles ahead, or a few miles behind, and you never even know they are there. There are some places where hikers bunch up, like Paradise Cafe, Cajon Pass McDonalds and at water sources when they are few and far between. Lately we have been bunching up at decent campgrounds.

Poodle Dog Bush

Today we face yet another trail reroute. This time for Poodle Dog Bush. For those that do not know, Poodle Dog Bush can cause extremely nasty rashes similar to Poison Oak, Poison Ivy, and Poison Sumac. You may notice those each contain a key word of warning. Whoever named this Poodle monster did so irresponsibly, almost encouraging you to pet it or at least let it brush up against your leg. I am not sure how many types of poodles there are, but the namer also felt compelled to clarify the “dog” kind. Then, as if required by legal counsel, added “bush”, so as not to mislead you into thinking it is an actual “dog.” I probably would have left the “dog” part out completely.

The official PCT routes around the Poodle Dog (not a real dog) Bush section. Todd and I, however, after surviving the dangerous Highway 2 road walk decide to take on these poodle puppies. We are after all, men. Yes men that got kicked off the trail by frogs, but men none the less.

After surviving the fierce poodles, we press on to Messenger Flatt’s campground, a popular bunching place. We catch up with Dish Cloth, Numbers, Hot Mess, and a bunch of other hiker names I fail to remember.

After dinner my smart phone goes completely dead. No problem. I hook it up to my charged external lithium battery. Problem. Still dead. I let it charge for about an hour. Nothing. Still dead. Maybe it does not like the cold. I tuck them in with me in my down sleeping bag. After another hour, still nothing. Panic. All my layers of stupidity rise to the surface. I am no longer carrying paper maps. They have to be mailed and picked up, and I never looked at them. I have no water report. I cannot blog. I cannot communicate with Terri regarding Sierra resupply shipments. I cannot even call Terri on someone else’s phone because I do not know her number. It is on my dead phone. I do not know my son’s number, my dad’s number, my sister’s number. I am a complete idiot. The number I do know is our old land line that, after a zillion years, we just got rid of.

As I wallow in my stupidly, I start thinking about the lithium battery in my sleeping bag, frantically trying to charge my stubborn phone. Aren’t these the batteries you cannot take on airplanes because they overheat and burst into flames? PCT News headline: Retard burns to death trying to charge lithium batteries in a down sleeping bag.

Mile 384 to 407 (plus reroute)

Too Late!

Many AT hikers claim the PCT is easy because it is graded for horses, and therefore not as steep. Today I am hiking a portion of the trail that would piss off any horse. The grade has to be 30%, and I am pretty sure that is not a passing grade.

Most of us have experienced a reroute. We are driving along following our GPS when the road is blocked and we have to find another way. The GPS, clearly miffed at our insubordination, says “recalculating” and suggests another route.

The same thing happens on trails. The most common closure is caused by a fire, either one actually burning (reasonable) or a previous one that so damaged trail it is no longer passable (this really should have been fixed by now).

Endangered Species

Today’s trail closure, however, is caused by endangered frogs. Now before you say anything, I know what you are thinking. If enough endangered frogs can actually blockade the trail, then perhaps they are not as endangered as we think. Further, if a lack of frogs in this area is the problem then why can’t thru-hikers be part of the solution? Give us handfuls of endangered pollywogs to plant like Johnny Appleseed. Like most of my ideas, this one goes no where, and we have to deal with a reroute.

Last year’s official reroute was a 2.5 mile road walk, then about another 3 mile hike down the Burkhart Trail to the PCT.  Because of the book and movie Wild, this year’s number of thru-hikers could approach 2,000. A road walk of even a couple miles would look like a million homeless man march. Jessie Jackson would show up, stand in the front and protest the underrepresentation of people of color.

To avoid a road walk, this year’s official reroute is over 20 miles long, on multiple not well maintained trails, to get around a tiny three mile section of PCT trail closure. Suffice it to say I have not met a thru-hiker yet opting for the extra 20 miles. We walk the 2014 official route.

By the time I make it to Sulfur Springs camp I have walked over 24 miles. My feet feel and look like ground hamburger meat.

Mile 369 to 384

I have a great breakfast at a cafe, then head to the hardware store to be there when they open. I am told the truck arrived late and they have not had time to unload the totes, so my lithium batteries are somewhere in the mix, but who knows where. Four women proceed to rummage through all the crates, apologizing constantly, but never giving up. They eventually resort to turning crates over in the aisles and spreading merchandise all over the floor. This goes on for an awkward amount of time, when suddenly a woman cries out as if she has just found the final gold Wonka wrapper. This town is too hiker friendly to believe.

In the parking lot, before I can even raise my “To Trail” sign, a Prius pulls up and the driver says hop in. Don is a retired school teacher from Thousand Oaks where Terri and I once lived. He swifts me back to the trailhead. I am not sure if the nicest people in the world are drawn to live near trails, or if trails actually make people nice. When I get home I am going to build a trail through my backyard.

I have been fairly active in scouting. I was in a troop with my brother and our dad was the scoutmaster. In Pleasanton my three boys were scouts and I was the scoutmaster. Aside from a few political and social issues the organization has struggled with, I think it provides a great service to young boys. And it all started with Baden Powell.

Mount Baden Powell

Today I am climbing the mountain named in his honor, the 9,383 foot high Mount Baden Powell. The grade is extremely steep and there are a zillion switchbacks. I know because I count them. Halfway up I begin to think of other ways we could have honored the man. The Baden Powell National Scenic Prairie for example. Or the Baden Powell Gently Sloping Downward Trail.  Or the Baden Powell Water Slide and Theme Park. Instead I continue to climb the Mount Seriously Did You Want To Kill These Boys Baden Powell.

The view at the top is fantastic. I would love to be standing with Brian, just as I stood with my dad next to this very monument. I was probably all of 13 years old when we backpacked the Silver Moccasin Trail.

I push on to Little Jimmy campground, with pit toilets and picnic tables. Having gotten a late start this seems like a great place to crash. Besides, I am pretty sure I camped here before with Dad.

PCT / Silver Moccasin Trail

Mile 352 to 369

Morning View

To avoid getting stepped on, I rise early and get going. I was passed in the night by two hikers, whom I now find asleep next to the trail, in positions no better than mine. Sometimes the trail does not give you a place to sleep, but you squeeze in anyway. The vistas back on the pass are fantastic, but I earn them with a lot of up.

The tread of a trail is sloped outward so water will run off in sheets, decreasing damage from erosions. On a meandering trail, the slope changes often enough that you hardly notice it. This trail, however, hugs the same side of the mountain for miles and miles. The 1 to 2 inch out slope, usually so innocuous, is now out right tortuous. It is like walking with a limp for hours and my muscles protest formally, possibly in a letter to the UN. I fantasize about a hydraulic heel, which automatically adjusts to the topo contours. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but right now she is just a mother.

To distract my mind from the pain I remember a story from Deep Creek I forgot to mention. I stop to pull some Peanut M&Ms from my pocket (which is not the part worth mentioning) when I hear a blood curdling cry for help from a girl. I quickly drop my pack and flip into certified Wilderness First Responder mode. I spin around trying to locate the girl. She cries out again and I realize it is coming from a bush high on the upside of the trail. She must have fallen from a higher switchback and though exhausted I am trying to figure out the best way to reach her. There is yet another desperate wail, when a bobcat quickly darts out of the bush and goes back in. Suddenly it is all becoming clear. The bobcat is already rendering assistance. No, no, wait, wait. Is that really the sound of a bobcat in heat? The wailing continues.

Resigned to a new role, I quickly switch from Wilderness First Responder to wilderness videographer and pull out my camera. The second the camera is out the wailing ends. After an inordinate amount of time, I give up and put the camera away. The wailing begins immediately. I pull out the camera and it stops. This continues back and forth until I realize whoever the participants are, they do not want the event videotaped, not even just for the audio. As I walk away I wonder why bobcats in heat so clearly mimic a crying little girl. This role playing must be working for at least one of them.

Wrightwood Ski Resort

I push on past the snowless ski resort and eventually end up at Inspiration trailhead, where I hope to catch a hitch to Wrightwood. Good news. There is a crowd of people and three cars. As I approach they cheer and then fist pump the rare thru-hiker sighting. I think it odd that the three cars are identical, then realize they are all wearing Latter Day Saint pins. Suddenly I feel like the one making a cold call as I pitch the idea of giving me a lift. Apparently since I am not wearing a pin, the LDS insurance will not cover me. Luckily another car drives by and my good looks and charm stop her. She asks that I get in quietly because she has a sleeping baby in the car. What a country.

Wrightwood is extremely hiker friendly. The hardware store says the AAA lithium batteries are coming in and they will hold some for me. So all is right in the world.

Easy Way?

Miles 329 to 352

Train Tracks

Today I am headed to the Cajon Pass. According to a thru-hiker named Dish Cloth, something like 70% of all freight train traffic passes through this pass. It has to do with imports from Asia coming through ports in Los Angeles and Long Beach. As interesting as that is, it is not the reason thru-hikers are obsessed with Cajon. It is because there is a McDonalds right next to the trail.

Some hikers speed up or slow down in order to hit the breakfast menu. Others target the lunch/dinner menu. Dish Cloth, however, is determined to be eating from the breakfast menu when they roll over to the lunch/dinner menu, so he can keep on going. This is the reason we pack up in the dark and hit the trail by 6:00am. There are 13 miles separating us from indigestion.

The views looking down on the pass are spectacular. The 70% traffic rings true, as there are massively long trains going in both directions, on at least four sets of tracks. With all the honking, I think I am back in India. At least I wish I were, because I prefer Indian to Mickey D’s, but you work with what you got. Dish Cloth and several others are way ahead of me. I’d like to think the menu pulls them stronger, but in reality they are both younger and stronger.

Mickey D’s

When I arrive, Dish Cloth is finishing breakfast and starting lunch. After three sandwiches and a McFlurry, I go under Highway 15, and climb 10 more miles towards Wrightwood. On the way I hear from Terri that Brian and Bri are driving to Pleasanton to work on their game plan. Mine is clear. I keep walking. I never find a decent flat spot, so I drop right next to the trail. I hope night hikers do not step on me. I try to sleep, but the sound of the trains is constant.

Under Highway 15

Mile 308 to 329

Both my son Daniel and wife Terri mention that perhaps more than a couple of people are reading this blog. First I feel terrible that so many people don’t have cable. Then I feel even worse because I do not include a sports section or a crossword puzzle. I have, however, tried to provide entertaining word searches by randomly inserting spelling mistakes, punctuation errors, and grammatical crimes against humanity. I may even preposition the end of a sentence with.

Deep Canyon Mouth

Today I continued my hike out of Deep Creek canyon. The closer I get to the canyon mouth, the closer I get to a hardware store with an amazing sale on spray paint. At least it seems so based on the quantity and quality of LA gangsta graffiti. It is nice to know the inner city folks spend so much time in the wilderness. Past the Mojave spillway, I begin an amazingly beautiful lap around Silverwood Lake. It is windy, cold, and raining off and on, which is frankly preferred to the normal blazing desert sun.

As I walk, I have a vague recollection from my pathetic public education, about a poem that proclaims that so much depends on the red wheelbarrow. My wheelbarrow is green, has a flat tire and two broken handles. I am pretty sure not much is depending on my wheelbarrow. I do, however, like the sentiment but believe it requires a modernizing update. I believe so much more depends on the charged lithium battery. You can use that one if you like, even without proper attribution.

I need charged lithium batteries for my camera, my Ipod Nano, and my smart phone which includes maps, GPS, email, texting, and oh yeah, occasional smart phone phoning. So much depending do I do, that I carry an external lithium battery to recharge my rechargeable lithium batteries.

My Spot beacon, which sends my tracking location to satellites, requires charged non-rechargable lithium batteries. So I have to carry extras. Green lights flashing indicate the device is working, red lights flashing indicate the batteries are failing, and no lights flashing indicate just how much depends on a charged lithium battery. With the Spot hanging on the back of my pack, it is impossible for me to see the lights. It is also annoying, and perhaps frighting, when I approach a hiker to ask “Is my hanging thing flashing?” Today at a rest break I noticed a total lack of flashing. Bummer. That means those of you tracking my location may have been concerned. Perhaps both of you. Rest assured, on this trail it is far more likely to come upon a dead lithium battery than a dead hiker. Probably like twice as likely.

I have determined that the primary reason thru-hiker’s hike is to get to a wall outlet to recharge their lithium batteries. It turns out, so much depends on the wall outlet.

Silverwood Lake

Mile 285 to 308

You have probably seen a movie trailer or a Twilight Zone where a creepy hitchhiker appears at the side of the road. The driver notices, but keeps driving. A few miles later this same hitchhiker appears again. And again and again, until the driver is totally freaked out. It is happening to me.

Yesterday I hiked in the snow. There were no footprints in front of me. Then suddenly footprints. They were clearly fresh, but there was no joining trail. Where did they come from? I followed the mysterious footprints for miles, and eventually caught up to a elf like boy and a girl. I asked where they came from, and elf-boy non-answered coyly. The girl said nothing. I raced ahead leaving them in my snow dust. I had not seen them for hours, and that was fine by me. When I finally arrived at camp, there was a corral, a picnic table and a solar toilet, which I used quickly and efficiently. When I exited the facilities, there was the elf couple, sitting at the table waving mockingly as they claimed the site. Resigned, I pushed on to find a flat dirt spot by the trail.

Today I leave camp before anyone else. As I go, I look back and see a tent by the picnic table. Damn elves. After hiking several hours, I turn the corner, and sitting on a log is the elf-boy and the girl. The elf-boy is actually smoking a pipe. Startled I ask how did you get ahead of me? He smiles and says they did a little night hiking.

Hot Springs

The rest of the day I hike along Deep Creek, which is spectacular, with no shortage of cascades and pools that Brian would love to swim in. I can’t help looking over my shoulder for elf-boy, but I realize how ridiculous I am being. Clearly he is ahead of me, I just don’t know how.

I arrive at the natural hot springs. They are beautiful. They are also clearly the hippie magnet of the PCT. Clothing is optional, and not enough are picking that option. The elf is surely here, I just don’t recognize him without his elf outfit. Right now, as I finish writing this, there is a debate raging between some of the campers. Should we hotbox in my tent or yours? As much as I love a good debate, I am not a participating in this one.

Mile 266 to 285

Trail Hail

I rearrange my backpack so the tent is not at the bottom, but in a plastic bag on the side. There is an 80% chance of precipitation, and I do not want to dump my dry stuff in the freezing rain to get to the tent. I shower, have a non Pop-Tart breakfast, hug my parents goodbye and bum a ride back to the trailhead from Susan.

It is sunny for the first part of the day, which gives me a nice jump start on miles. That turns fairly suddenly to a lightning, thundering, hail storm.  Each flash and crack makes me question the wisdom of carrying two metal trekking poles. I reassure myself with mental observations such as: “That bush seems taller than me, I am probably fine.” The hail turns to snow, and it is accumulating. I can still generally make out the trail, only having to backtrack a couple of times. Occasionally the clouds lift, and I enjoy spectacular views of Big Bear Lake.

After 19 miles of storm walking, I arrive at camp. It is raining very lightly as I setup my tent and toss everything I possess inside.

Cougar Crest

Zero Miles: Running Springs

I am fairly certain it was the Indians who first conceived of the zero. Or perhaps the Chinese. Or maybe the Greeks. The point is not that my knowledge of ancient history is completely lacking. The point is that I recognize and appreciate a good zero. And today is going to be a great zero.

I have seen my parents rebuilt-after-the-tragic-fire cabin, but I had never actually slept in the place. Last night was pretty good. I may have to sleep in this bed again, just to be sure. The thought of spending an entire lazy day with my parents and sister is very appealing. That plus trying to avoid at least one more night out in the forecasted freezing rain.

My Parents

My parents continue to stuff and stuff me with protein and fatty foods.  Eggs, sausage, bacon, cheese, steak, ice cream and more. I remember that the California courts have overturned the anti foie gras laws, and I am beginning to wonder if these are related.

The feeders on the deck attract an incredible quantity and variety of birds. With no exaggeration, in less than 30 minutes the following make appearances: scrub jay, Sheller’s jay, grosbeak, mountain bluebird, junco, finch, chickadee, nuthatch, flicker, acorn woodpecker, ringneck pigeon, and dove. Frankly, if a pterodactyl had landed on the railing, I would not have been the least bit surprised.

All the birds are free to partake in the seed and suet, but for some strange reason one bird clearly experiences favoritism. My mother stands, shelled peanut in hand, with the sliding door part way open. She is waiting for the scrub jay.  When he arrives, she waits patiently until he is in position. She tosses the peanut such that he has total advantage. The Shellers jays and acorn woodpeckers lunge in vain. They squawk with pained envy, as if Joseph has just received yet another multicolored coat to wear. Why my mother displays this bizarre favoritism is never explained. Susan and I are beginning to understand why older brother Rob likes peanut brittle so much.

Susan picks up a voicemail from Brian. Bri is somehow in Murrieta, and Brian is pushing up to Big Bear alone, doing 25 miles in his first day. Bri will have a car and be picking up Brian at Highway 18. He is calling to ask if they can get a key to the cabin, presumably to relax and come up with yet another strategy. Whatever it is, it is none of my business. Tomorrow Susan will drive me back to Highway 18, to push on north.

Mile 248 to 266

Take Me Home?

I wake at 2:00 am. freezing. The forecast was in the high 20s, and I am feeling it. A backpacker’s stomach is like a furnace, you need to stoke it with calories to keep it warm. I reach instinctively under my head for a Snickers log, only to realize the Ursack is tied to a tree. Damn that bear!

I lie there knowing exactly what I have to do, but dreading all that is involved. I need to find a flashlight. I cannot untie the knot without one. I will have to take off my gloves for the same reason. I need to find my shoes. I need to get out of the sleeping bag. If I get up I am going to pee, because I am not getting up again. I order each step in my head. I then execute my military operation with maximum efficiency, minus the normal downed Apache aircraft. Once I have the Ursack open, I even manage to gnaw a huge chunk of parmesan cheese. In the starlit night, I must have looked like Smeagol from Lord of the Rings cooing over his precious. Back in my bag I load the furnace and sleep until 5:30 am, my normal wakeup time.

While making coffee at 6:00 am, I notice a hiker walking down the trail with his wet sleeping bag draped over his shoulder. It is either a strange religious ceremony, or a futile attempt at drying. I pack up my own soaking wet bag, not knowing he is the last person I will see until I meet my sister at the highway 18 trailhead.

The day of walking is a blur, interrupted occasionally by trail magic caches, which offer empty boxes where soda cans once were. Torture. Speaking of torture, I pass by animal cages for retired Hollywood stars from Predators in Action. I push on to Highway 18.

Hold out your hands. Go ahead, do it. If you are like most of us you will find 10 fingers. Now wiggle one of them. That’s how much of the trail I have behind me. When the trail is 2,650 miles, 266 miles is 10%. It is amazing how much and how absolutely little 10% can seem.

At highway 18 I am greeted by my sister and a glorious Arby’s roast beef sandwich. She takes me shopping for resupplies, then whisks me to my parent’s cabin. I shower, do laundry, sort food and eat, and eat, and eat. Can you say pork tenderloin sandwich? Ice cream with sticky hot fudge? How about warm soft bed? Goodnight.

Animal Cages on PCT

Empty Cache Boxes

Pork Tenderloin Sandwhich

Mile 229 to 248

San Bernardino

Today seems like a magic 18 day. It is day 18 of my trip and I am trying to make it to Highway 18. This requires that I average 18 miles a day. While hiking, my wife sends a text which simply says: “Yikes, 18% grade!” She occasionally tracks my location from my Spot, and calculates the elevation profile from her favorite application RidewithGPS. I am so glad she sends the text. How else would I know how much pain I am in? I look down and think my waistline is nearing 18, and I am pretty sure 18 is my new IQ. If only my legs felt 18.

As I approach my target campsite, I begin to notice fresh bear scat. Up to this point, I have been sleeping with my head on my Ursack food bag. Probably not a good idea in bear country. Tonight I find a tree and tie off my bear proof bag. Even if the bear cannot open the Ursack, I cannot really afford for him to carry it off. He probably doesn’t want my crummy food, but he could get $60 for the sack on EBay. I fall asleep knowing I have outsmarted a greedy bear.

Poodle Dog Bush

Trail Heart Art

Mile 210 to 229

Trail Up

I get up before the sun and start to make instant coffee in the dark. When you are unsure if you have shaken in enough, and hear yourself saying too much is probably better than too little, stop! Or like me, you will end up putting in an entire weeks worth. Trust me, this coffee concentrate will NOT end up as a happy chapter in the book Mistakes That Worked. Ziggy turns on the patio lights and announces she has made coffee and poured orange juice for us. The day is looking up already.

My sister Susan and I play cell phone tag, trying to arrange a little Trail Angel “pick-me-up” at Highway 18. I think she is competing with her husband Mike, who took care of us in Anza. If it works out, I will end up seeing my parents who have a cabin in nearby Running Springs.

Today I get to test my legs on the uphill. My resupply is Big Bear, so in 56 miles I need to go from the desert floor at around 2000 feet, to the San Bernardino Mountains around 9000 feet. There is also a storm threatening in a few days and I prefer to be in a warm bed in Running Springs when it arrives.

It turns out this section has gotten extremely more difficult than in 2013, at least according to the failing memory of the young guy at Ziggy’s who told me it was a “piece of cake”. Even the snakes seem to be struggling up the trail.

I encounter my first significant water at Whitewater River. Although not enough to run a kayak down, it is enough to soak my feet in and filter to drink, but preferably not in that order.

Eventually I drop not far from a campsite set up by a trail maintenance crew. All I have managed to do is walk and I am totally exhausted. They, however, after slaving all day with picks and shovels in the sun, are laughing and playing Frisbee. I curse their youth and fall asleep.

Whitewater River

Selfie

Mile 188 to 210

Point of No Return

It is not unusual for week-long backpackers to believe thru-hikers are trading off miles for smiles.  I ought to know, I was one of them. When thought of as a completely different sport, however, I see this as a false dichotomy. I personally plan on doing both. Just not today. Today I am missing Brian. Today I have to settle for miles only.

With nothing holding me back and facing a ton of downhill, I am determined to test my legs. Highway 10 is 21 miles away. Ziggy and the Bears 22. I set my sights on the highway. I quickly run into a hiker going south, who stops to tell me his silver Mercedes is parked at the campground. He says if I have any trash, I can leave it on his car and he will take it out. I am confused. The campground l am thinking of is 14 miles ahead and it is too early for him to have come that far. I start to think he just knows where his ex wife’s car is parked, but it turns out he has driven to a campground much closer than I thought.

I continue to descend.

Whenever I visit the Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC, I have the same emotional reaction. As I first enter the memorial, the lists of names are short. As I descend, the lists grow. The further I descend the more overwhelming the lists become. It is as if I am figuratively and physically over my head with emotion. After a respectful amount of time feeling like I am drowning, I pass to the other side and begin to ascend. The lists begin to shorten. Slowly at first, then faster. Feeling like a free diver short on breath, I race for the emotional surface.

200 Mile Marker

In the same sense that Russell Brand is a bit like Ghandi, I feel my descent towards highway 10 is a bit like the Vietnam Memorial. Every step down I take, feels like a step away from Brian. Why couldn’t it work? I come upon three deer traveling together. Great. Why can they do it? Perhaps they are not headed to Canada. I allow myself to descend into a pathetic emotional abyss, but promise that the ascent to Big Bear tomorrow will be my break for the emotional surface. After all, he is doing what he wants, and I need to move on.

I hit 21 miles and my feet are burning with hot spots. As I enter the tunnel under Highway 10, I encounter a crazy cracker who says something that sounds to me a lot like “I am going to stab you.” Another mile to Ziggy and the Bear’s suddenly seems doable.

Ziggy and the Bear are trail angels who open their home to PCT thru-hikers. They are so dedicated to their cause that when the trail was re-routed away from their home in Anza, they sold and bought a new house not far from where the trail crosses Highway 10. I am offered drinks, fruit, a shower, laundry, charging station, WIFI and a place to sleep on a carpeted backyard. It is amazing. After cooking a quick meal, Ziggy asks if we would like some ice cream. I ask her if she has flown here straight from heaven. She smiles and hands me an ice cream sandwich.

I fall asleep in my sleeping bag, on a soft patio couch.

View from San Jacinto

Car with Trash

Idylwild to mile 188

Hike Your Own Hike

Hike Your Own Hike (HYOH) is a common thru-hiker philosophy. It simply means do what is right for your hike, without judging the decisions others make for theirs. It is a great philosophy for solo hikers, but makes painfully obvious the challenges of hiking as a group. This is especially true if the skill levels and goals are significantly different.

After a nero and a full zero, Bri is not able to hike more than about one mile per hour. Clearly she has done more in the past, but right now while we are needing to ramp up the miles, she is struggling. It is frustrating to everyone, especially Bri. The more days it takes between resupplies, the more food and water we have to carry. The extra weight makes everything more difficult.

Brian sends me to wait at the next water, which is 1.7 miles ahead. This gives them time to rest and discuss strategies. When they finally catch up to me, they tell me they have made a decision. If we keep pushing for the miles it takes to get to Canada, Bri will quit. Brian clearly does not want that. They have decided then to go slow, enjoy their time on the trail together and not focus on completing. If they get stronger and get to the end great, but it is no longer a priority.

Our goals are now incompatible. Although I respect their decision, I am determined to get to Canada. After a hug and a hard goodbye, I press on northward.  As daylight fades, I find a place to camp. For the first time on the trail, I am completely alone.

Zero Miles

Today we are taking a full zero, which means we are enjoying Idyllwild rather than the trail. We hope the break will give Bri the energy to push on towards Big Bear City. In the mean time I thought I would describe a typical day on the trail, with the hope I can avoid repeating these tidbits everyday. By now we are seeing a pattern. It goes something like this.

Getting Up

Wake to the morning sun, in a cold and slightly damp sleeping bag. It is time to get up, but it is so cold. It really is time to get up. Get up! Isn’t it amazing that being in bed for well over 10 hours is not enough.

Fire up the tiny stove to make instant Via coffee, which tastes surprisingly good with Pop-Tart crumbs. Pick five random snacks to enjoy on the trail: Cliff bar, Peanut M&Ms, Kind bar, peanuts, cheese crackers, corn nuts, or if you are lucky a Snickers bar.

Pack everything you possess in your pack. Yes it will fit, you had it in there yesterday. How is this stuff expanding? It must be the dirt. Check your maps and PCT apps for the next potential water. Okay, now start walking. Every few hours stop for a quick break and a snack. Will it be the Snickers? No, save that one for later. Now get back up and keep walking. Where should we camp? Can we get in a few more miles? No? I guess this is it then.

Once you stop, rip open your pack and put on all your warm clothes. This really just means all your clothes. Put out your Tyvek tarp and inflate your insulation pad with the awesome Instaflator you found on the internet for pool toys.

Quick make dinner, which may be Pasta Sides, instant mash potatoes, Indian curry and instant rice, instant stuffing with instant gravy, or maybe just globs of sun butter spread on flour tortillas. The sky is the limit. Well that plus what you still have left in your bag. Now clean up. This actually means put more water in your dirty pans, slosh it around and drink it. I like to think of this as my final course of the day, very weak mystery soup.

Now settle down, make notes on the day and sleep. Then, as it says on the shampoo bottle: rinse and repeat. Oh, except in the desert, you are gonna have to skip the rinse.

Cooking Stove

Cowboy Camp

Mile 149 To Idylwild

With Trail Angel Mike Hein

After a quick breakfast of coffee and Poptarts, we attack the trail to Paradise. We make excellent time, then road walk to the cafe where we order more food than we should. Although it is only around 9 am, Brian gets his burger patty with eggs and hash.

Even better than the food is word that my brother in-law, Mike Hein, is on his way to carry us on his wings to a shower and laundry. His father Woody has a place in Anza, which for us is now a hiker heaven. We even take a quick spin on the ATV, just to remember what speed feels like.

We then race shopping carts up and down the aisles of a market in Idyllwild, creating ridiculous meals from the limited selection available. Mike all the time mumbling, this is what you are eating? We take another meal at a local Pizza joint, and Mike drops us off at the trailhead to Devils Slide, bypassing the fire-closed portion of the PCT. Angel Mike takes a few pictures, waves and flies off as mysteriously as he arrived… in his 4-cylinder Camry. We attempt a climb back up to the PCT, but Bri is not up for it. We retreat back to the trail head while there is still time to hitch back to a campground in Idyllwild, a town apparently not quite done with us.

Woody’s Hiker Heaven

Brian on ATV

Mile 134 to 149

Guzzler

On Tuesday Paradise Cafe closes by three. There is no way we can make it. Trail rumor has it the burgers are to die for, so we set our sights on a campsite three miles short. Our hunger attack on Paradise will commence on Wednesday. Yes, we will try to have burgers, even if for breakfast.

Our first objective is Tule Springs. We arrive and filter water for the long up. In a few miles we reach Gussler, a sketchy cistern, with a sign stating there are dead animals in the water. Thirst can make you pretty desperate, but to avoid the guilt of someone having to post a sign that there are dead thru-hikers in the water, we pass. On the way I notice garter snakes in the top of a bush, attempting to mate. It seems way too hot for that to me.

We eventually arrive at a real cache, with racks of bottled water, dedicated to the PCT Class of 2015. Brian also finds powdered protein, which he drinks against my normally sound advice. A rattlesnake drops onto the trail in front of me, making a great opportunity for video. He even displays his coil and rattling skills.

Bri bonks again, so we stop and rest at another cache with picnic tables, hiker box, shade and a library of books in a glass case. The library makes me nervous about how long we will be there. After all, I am a pretty slow reader. But with rest and some electrolytes, Bri storms up the hill to our campsite, where we crash with Florida and others waiting to pounce on Paradise.

Water Cache

Rattle Snake

Mile 119 to 134

Hiker Shack

Today’s start is rough. Bri is bonking and struggling to find energy. She is eating and drinking water, but the 2 mile/hr pace is getting close to 1.  I ask if she has had any electrolytes. Brian makes her some Propel and she becomes superwoman, making up lost ground.

We arrive at Mikes, a trail angel who provides water, shelter and all kinds of hiker amenities.  We filter water from his huge tank, then make our way down to enjoy the shade by his house. It has everything you imagine at a hiker haven: chairs, hammocks, outdoor cooking set up and a hiker box that is actually a room full of pay it forward supplies, gear and food.

Mike is not there and it is early in the season, making it a little like a hippie ghost town. We chat with some German hikers and eventually push on in the heat.

Filtering Water

Resting

Mile 104 to 119

Eagle Rock

We wake with bags soaking with dew. Some mornings, sleeping out under the stars, there is a price to pay. We hike mostly down hill towards Warner Springs. Brian texts Dave we are running a little late. We stop at the iconic Eagle Rock, for the obligatory goofy pictures. The lighting is quite favorable.

We press on to the Warner Springs community resource center, which now looks like a MASH encampment for PCT hikers. There are chairs, showers, toilets, trash cans, cooked hot meals, computers and a hiker box. I claim a half empty ISO-propane canister, just enough to tide us over to Idyllwild.  The center is associated with the school, and we are told the WIFI password is stayinschool. I tell them it is a great message, but a lousy password, as it does not work for any of us. We burst open packs and spread everything out to dry. Dave arrives with our mailed resupply boxes and breakfast sandwich treats from Starbucks. After sorting food, getting fire permits, and using all the facilities, we press on.

On the trail we encounter a large group from the Northern County chapter of the Sierra Club. When they realize we are thru-hikers, they form a tunnel with their hiking poles, and cheer as we go through, as if we are 5 year old soccer players. It was fun, but I would have preferred the normal juice boxes and orange slices. As we continue on, Brian starts laughing and says, “What just happened?”

It is hot as we try to take the hill. We find a creek, make an early dinner, then hike when it is cooler. Wearing headlamps, we finally make our miles, and collapse in the dark.

Bri and Dave

Sierra Club Salute

Mile 89 to 104

100 Mile Marker

We rise early to avoid some of the heat. We are determined to put in a full day’s miles. We leap frog a variety of thru-hikers. Day Dreamer has run out of water. Thumbs Up keeps calling me Dave. Grenade tells us his name came from the way his pack looks every time he opens it to find something. Based on what we have seen, we agree. We pass each other multiple times, pausing in various forms of shade. Many seem to be slowing to our speed because they will be trapped at Warner Springs. They have re-supply packages waiting, but the Post Office will not open until Monday, and it is now Saturday. Lucky for us, we shipped ours to Bri’s step dad, who will meet us Sunday morning.

Today we crossed the 100 mile mark, the furthest Brian has backpacked in one trip. At Barrel springs we filter water, relax, and prepare an early dinner of rice and bean burritos, which Brian declares his best meal yet on the trip. That should give a clear indication how low the bar has sunk.

We press on a few more miles, then drop to sleep in the trees at the edge of a pasture, coyotes singing in the not too distance.

We can still see you!