Day 18

For once I woke with the dawn and was out of camp by 7, a great victory for me, though I was nevertheless still passed by a few hikers, including the sisters from Portland, who said hi as they hiked passed me.  I put on my pack and soldiered on after them, happy that, with less food, the weight on my shoulders was finally somewhat manageable.  Smeagol, cold and barely moving, lay snug in his bed of toilet paper high in my pack, I feared he wouldn't make it, but if I could get him to my dad that evening, there was a chance.  I had to get to Big Bear that evening.

Bee on a Yucca
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In Flight
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Yucca Pollination
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The sun crested the eastern edge of the canyon quicker than I would've liked, and the heat of it was beating down on me already.  My calves and arms had been heavily burned from the previous two days of desert hiking, and I had an open, blistered sore on my right hand, where the skin had peeled then been burned anew.  It hurt, and looked terrible, so at my first stop, the true last crossing of Mission Creek, I filled my water and wrapped my hand with a gauss bandage, looking like I'd taken a grievous wound.  A few other hikers had camped alongside the creek here, including Nails and Butt Plug, and they all commented on my injury, worried that I'd severely hurt myself.  I shrugged it off, but secretly entertained the idea of playing it up to make myself seem cooler.  It was sad, and I wasn't proud of myself.

Once I'd filled my water, and downed a liter for good measure, I started uphill along what to that point had been the toughest incline of the trail, a 4 mile, 4000+ foot climb to the high ridge leading to Big Bear.

As I left the creek I encountered several stands of Poodle Dog Bush, a notorious and dangerous plant that was all the buzz on the trail up to that point.  Several hikers I'd talked to were worried about the plant, with rumors and stories of its extreme toxicity bolstering everyone's fears and feeding them to a ridiculous level.  I'd heard stories of whole hands and arms blistered and ruined by a single glancing touch of the plant, of its similarity to poison oak, though more extreme by a measure of exponential degrees.  There were a few hikers who shrugged it off as nothing, I was not one of them.  I danced around every shaggy, smelly bush I came across.  There is a sickly sweet scent to Poodle Dog, distinct and pungent, and the first mile of the up climb was absolutely thick with the stuff.

My legs burned from the exertion of the uphill, but I took the Belgians words to heart and told myself that the mountain was only that from the bottom.  I made concerted pushes, eyeing upcoming ridges and forcing myself to reach them before stopping for a breather.  Along the way I was passed by Speedy, who I'd not seen since Paradise Valley Cafe, and chatted with him for a time.  His knees were sore, he said, and he was planning on a light day, which for him was still close to 20 miles, further than I'd hiked yet to that point.  He left me in his wake, hurt knees and all, and I soldiered on, huffing and puffing and forcing myself up and up, my quadriceps and calves burning, my shoulders and back aching.

The desert canyon transitioned out of the scrubby sagebrush and junipers to gnarly oaks, the twisted trees offering blessed shade from the pounding heat of the morning.  As I climbed, I felt like I was slowly leaving the desert behind, and it spurred me on.  I was ready for the change of scenery, longed for it, and as the pine covered ridge ahead loomed ever closer, I felt buoyed onward, forward, ever upward.

The climb seemed interminable.  I stopped for breakfast under a large oak, the shade welcome, the breeze coming off the mountain cool.  I pulled Smeagol from my pack and looked at him, he was barely alive, it was looking dire for the little guy.  I gave him a little more cheese, and put him back in my pack, hoping that he'd be able to at least suck a little sustenance from the morsel.  He needed milk, I knew, but I had none, and it was the best I could do.

Some two miles into the climb I hit the last spring for the next twelve miles, and filled my bottles, watching my steripen die as I finished sterilizing the water.  There would be no more filtering of water for me before Big Bear, increasing my need to make it there that evening.  I had to reach a road and signal my parents, who were arriving that evening, to come and pick me up, for my sake now as well as my little hitchhiker's.

Everything was hurting as I crested each successive uphill push, only to see more and more up ahead of me.  The ridgeline was blessedly closer, but seemed so much higher than where I stood.  I checked the elevation chart frequently, and saw myself progressing, albeit slowly, but it didn't make the climb any less daunting.

Lone Sentinel
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I passed through a wide burn area, and then the oaks transitioned into pine forest, the smells of the trees, the carpet of needles and cones on the ground, the cool air of elevation, all signaling the impending conclusion to the accursed climb.  My calves and hips ached mercilessly, each step was laborious, painful, exhausting.

I reached Mission Flats campground around noon, and collapsed in a heap under the pines.  Speedy was there, had been for an hour or more, similarly resting and eating his lunch.  There was supposedly water nearby, but I still had several liters, and no way of sterilizing it, so I contented myself with a few trail bars and pleasant conversation.  Speedy was hurting, and debating staying at Mission Flats, but I offered him a ride into town if he could push on ten more miles, to the spot I'd arranged for my own pick up.  He was thankful and we agreed to meet up in ten miles so that we could both get a ride into Big Bear.  I was glad to help.

We both left, Speedy quickly overtaking me despite me leaving before him, and I pushed along the now fairly even trail, lined by pine trees and huge boulders, and it seemed I'd stepped into a place completely different from the one I'd started that morning.  Gorgonio loomed over it all, it's snowy pinnacle poking through the trees around each bend, behind me now, but ever present, the looming reminder of my hike with Susan now just two days away.  Beautiful vistaend, edees greeted me at each turn, San Jacinto and Palm Desert stretching out in the distance to the south, Joshua Tree National Park and Thousand Palms off to the east, and to the north, the rolling San Bernardino Mountains, covered with trees and blocking from sight the town and eponymous lake of Big Bear.

Still Standing
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Along the way, I ran into Nails and Butt Plug and several other hikers, taking a break beneath a large pine, eating and joking.  As I rounded the bend they stopped me and asked me, out of nowhere, where the most interesting place I'd had sex.  I was not expecting the question, but I answered as well as I could in the moment, though my answer, on a picnic table in my favorite national park, paled in comparison to others, including a gas station bathroom, on top of a fast food restaurant, and several other decidedly seedy, unappealing propositions.  It was funny though, and the topics of conversation flew quickly.  I offered my most unfortunate encounter, one involving poison oak in places poison oak should not be, and was quickly beaten there too.  I left the conversation feeling decidedly unadventurous sexually, and wondered if I was too much a prude for my own good.  Of course I hadn't been completely honest and open, and had held back some important and racier details, so I decided maybe I wasn't as saintly as I feared.  All in all, it was funny, and one of the better interludes I've had on the trail.

The trail rose and fell, but mainly stayed level the rest of the way to the road where I would meet my parents.  There was a minimal uphill, and corresponding downhill, right before the road, but I was making good time, and hit the road around 6:30, with half an hour to spare before my ride was to get there.  Speedy was there, laying on the side of the road, and greeted me as I arrived.  I left my pack near where he lay and decided to wander up and around the "private zoo" just off the trail.

I'd seen the marker on the map for the zoo, and my trail guide promised a chance to see lions, tigers, and bears, and I thought "Oh my..."  I walked up to the animal cages and bore witness to the single most depressing thing on the trail, either before or since.  The "zoo" was a circular enclosure, surrounded by high fences, with several small cages, though small is a generous term in this instance.  There were bears, two large, sad looking grizzlies, who barely moved as I approached, and at least two lions, who seemed to be sleeping.  I circled the enclosure, taking pictures and thinking of ways that I could save the poor creatures from their imprisonment.  When I reached the far side, a large tiger stood watching me from his cage.  He was active, pacing back and forth in a cage barely large enough to allow him three steps in any direction, and watched me expectantly, as if I offered him something.  I took a picture of him, and said goodbye, before walking back to the road.  It was depressing, and part of me wished I hadn't gone to see them in the first place.

Sad Tiger
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When my parents arrived, Speedy and I loaded in, and my parents cracked the windows.  We both smelled like hikers, that is to say, bad, but it was good to see my family again, and as we drove to Big Bear, I handed Smeagol over to my dad, who took him out, identified him as a her, and a pocket mouse, and then held her the whole drive in.  She was alive, though barely, and in good hands finally. I'd done my job.

Day 17 - the Taming of Smeagol

I woke up with a start in my sleeping bag alongside the whitewater river, the sounds of other hikers leaving pulling me awake.  The Germans were packing up their tent, but KC was crossing the river and waving goodbye as I rose, the sun already cresting the hills to the east.  I had hoped to beat the heat of the day up over the next series of up hills before my descent into Mission Creek, but I'd failed miserably.

Still, when I'd finally packed up and filled my water bottles, I was not too far behind the crowd, and still ahead of the major heat for a time, so I made good progress.  I crossed the river and made may way through the gravelly wash to a small ridge, which I climbed relatively quickly, despite the still significant weight on my back.  As I crested the rise I got my first clear look at Mt. San Gorgonio, the tallest mountain in Southern California and the target of my next adventure with Susan the following weekend.  There was a scattering of snow on its rocky summit, and it didn't look too imposing, though it towered over the surrounding mountains, but I knew it would be a beast to climb, but that was still four days away, I had to get to Big Bear first.

Whitewater Wash
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I descended from the ridge, enjoying the downhill, and was watching the trail when I almost stepped on a baby mouse, it's eyes closed and gait wobbly.  It was clearly helpless, driven from its burrow by some disturbance, and was sure to die either from the heat of the upcoming afternoon, or by the jaws of some passing snake.  I dropped my pack and pulled out the plastic tub I'd eaten the applesauce out of the day before, and scooped the little guy up.  It's eyes were closed, and it was too skinny, but I hoped, if it could survive the next few days, I could bring it to my Dad, who had a long history of caring for animals, particularly mice and rats, through his career as a behavioral researcher.  I pored a little water in the tub, and some gravel for it to feel comfortable, and tucked the little guy away in the safety of my pack, where I hoped he'd be sheltered and protected from the heat and jostling the upcoming hike would undoubtedly bring.

Smeagol on the Trail
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I felt proud of myself, though I knew it was a long shot to get him to survive.  At my next stop, a mile or so in, I sat beneath a juniper and ate breakfast, tossing in a bit of cheese for my little hitchhiker and even showing him off to The Portland Sisters, who passed me as I ate and played with the little guy.  We chatted about their ordeal on the mountain, of which they seemed slightly and understandably embarrassed, and my little friend, who I had named Smeagol, because he looked like the character from Lord of the Rings.  They continued on, and I packed up my breakfast and followed a short time later.

Gorgonio Looms
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The trail led up another ridge, which offered beautiful views of San Gorgonio and San Jacinto, and even Palm Springs in the distance.  I took several photos, of course, and found cell service at the top, a welcome chance for me to check in with my family and look at the upcoming weather.  The temperatures were due to rise drastically over the next few days, and I was glad I would be in the mountains before the desert heat rose over 100 degrees.  I pushed down the other side of the ridge, into what promised to be a rare luxury on the trail to that point, a twelve mile stretch with regular flowing water.  I was beyond excited at the prospect.

Twin Summits
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I hit Mission creek and took a break under the welcome shade of an overhanging cottonwood, possibly my favorite tree, because of the life sustaining water it invariably represents nearby.  The creek was small, barely a trickle at some points, but it was clear and cool, and part of me wanted nothing more then to sit with my feet in the water and let the day pass me by.  I was passed by several hikers, most who I'd run into before, including The Engineer, Nails, whose name came from her multiple lost toenails, and Butt Plug, who got his name from an unfortunate case of constipation some days prior, and was dealing with some other unfortunate and uncomfortable issues that had him considering the name Butt Trouble.  I showed them little Smeagol and we chatted, and as soon as they moved on to find a shady spot of their own, I pushed on, knowing that I'd never make it to Big Bear if I didn't keep walking.

The trail wound along the creek for a several miles, occasionally climbing above it to show off the winding green snake of its riparian, tree lined banks, often dipping down along and sometimes in the creek itself.  It was easy to lose the trail at several points, and the rocks and mud made it slow going, as I slipped and tripped my way up the increasingly narrow creek bed.

The creek itself was vibrant and welcoming, and the narrows of the canyon u walked through was beautiful, white sandstone rising above the willow and cottonwood lined creek bed in gnarled and craggy outcroppings, the mountains in the distance towering over it all with their piney crests.  I kept ascending, but it felt an easy, if time consuming, walk.

Bend in Mission Creek
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I passed a trail crew as the afternoon grew long, and stopped and chatted with them, thanking them for their hard work to clear and maintain the trail.  I'd come to appreciate the efforts of the PCT trail crews to that point, from the experience on San Jacinto, where the side trail had been rocky and hard to make out in comparison to the easy to follow PCT, and my knowledge of other trails in Southern California, few of which I would consider to be immaculately maintained.  The hard work of the volunteers that help keep the PCT such a lovely and easy trail to follow should be commended, and I was happy to have the chance to thank these few in person.

Afternoon Light on Apricot Mallow
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The sun began to sink below the mountains to the west as I pushed further upstream.  I took a break and checked on Smeagol, and found him cold, wet, and lacking in energy.  I took him out and cleaned his tub in the creek, before building a nest of toilet paper for him and tucking him in.  I hoped he would at least be warm and dry in the coolness of the upcoming night, though I was starting to have my doubts.

Prickly Pear in the Canyon
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I pushed on, filling up my water bottles at what I was told by another hiker to be the last crossing of the creek (it wasn't), and kept walking until it got too dark to see where I was going.  I set up camp in a small wash, and put smeagols tub in a nest of my dry clothes inside my tent.  I went to sleep with the moon shining brightly through the fly of my tent, apprehensive about the impending climb the morning would bring, as I ascended over 4000 ft over the next four miles to the ridge line that would take me to Big Bear.

Days 15 and 16

Following our unfortunate and aborted attempt to summit San Jacinto the day before, Susan and I took the following morning to relax and enjoy ourselves, eating continental breakfast and laying in the hotel room, talking and enjoying each other's company.  It felt good, it felt peaceful, it made me not want to return to the trail that afternoon.

We went to the store, and I bought my resupply for the coming hike to Big Bear.  I was due to meet my parents in three days near Big Bear Lake, where they were coming to spend time with me on the trail and get a taste of acting as trail angels.  I was looking forward to seeing them, but more importantly, I was eager to get into the mountains and away from the impending heat that was due to hit the Palm Desert in a few days time.

The storm from the previous day had passed almost without evidence, though the slopes of San Jacinto above Palm Springs were noticeably whiter than I'd seen them last.  A few clouds remained high above Gorgonio Pass and Cabazon, but largely the sky was clear and the wind blew clean.  We stopped for date shakes and In n Out burgers in Cabazon, I shuffled through my pack and figured out my resupply (I bought far more food than needed), and we picnicked underneath the infamous plaster dinosaurs alongside the freeway.

When it came time for me to return to the trail, and for Susan to return to LA, she drove me to the trail, and we said goodbye.  It was hard to do, even knowing we would see each other the following weekend for another summit attempt, this one up Mt. San Gorgonio, but I still had a difficult time as we hugged each other and she drove away.

Alone again on the trail, I walked the mile up to Ziggy and the Bear's, a trail angel house that offered a place for weary hikers to stay before heading to Big Bear.  My pack, heavy with far too much food, pulled at my shoulders, and though I debated pushing further past the house, the chance for a nice place to stay proved too alluring.

Their house stands a short distance from the trail, the American flag whipping above their yard and PCT emblem on their backyard gate beckoning hikers to join them.  When I entered I saw a dozen other hikers already there, and introduced myself to Ziggy, who asked me to wash my hands and then join her at the picnic table on the back patio.  Once I'd done so, she gave me a gatorade and set to outlining the rules of staying at her house.  It was very orderly, unexpectedly so, but I appreciated it, even admired it.  Given the sheer number of hikers each year that came to camp in their yard, I was certain that so many rules were necessary to keep the house intact, and to enable Ziggy and the Bear to continue helping hikers down the line.

San Jacinto
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Once I'd finished talking to Ziggy, I saw Rain Man, Dundee and Narwhal, and said hi to them.  They'd been caught in the storm the night before, and had horror stories to tell of hiding under rocks to get away from the rain, losing the trail, and dodging blocks of ice falling from overburdened tree limbs above.  They told me of the sisters from Portland, Rebecca and Marisa, who had, soaked to the bone and freezing, called search and rescue and spent the night in the nearby fire station.  There was talk of hikers lost on the mountain, day hikers, we were all told, not PCT hikers.  The sheriff even came by to ask us whether we'd seen one of them.  It was scary, and I was more and more certain, the more I heard, that Susan and I had made the right choice the night before.

I set up my sleeping bag and fell asleep under the stars, eager to get back on the trail in the morning, hopeful to get out early enough to avoid the heat of the day.

I had no such luck.  Though I was up and packed early, I loitered at Ziggy and the Bear's for close to an hour, chatting with people and thanking my hosts.  I ate an apple for breakfast, and drank orange juice, one of my chief cravings on the trail to that point, before setting out around 7:30 toward the Mesa Wind Farm.

This was one of the highlights of the trip going into it for me, a location I'd starred long before stepping foot on the trail.  Back in 2009, I shot my graduate thesis film under those very same windmills, and had often come back to them for photography purposes in the years since, not knowing that the PCT cut a path right through them.  It was an important place to me, but as I walked through them that morning, all I could think about was how hot it was, and how heavy my pack was.

I had packed too much food, I knew this, and as the elevation increased, and my will to continue decreased, I had to stop.  I crawled underneath a small bush and opened my pack, disgorging it of all my food.  I had set out with the intention of doing no-cook meals for the 3-4 days it would take me to reach Big Bear, both due to the presumed lack of water through this section, and the fact that my resupply box never made it to Idyllwild.  No-cook, I was finding, was significantly heavier than the dehydrated meals I'd been carrying to that point, with tortillas and cheese alone weighing over 2 lbs, and the homemade applesauce (raspberry honey, so tasty) that Susan had brought me probably weighed that much alone.  I'd doubled up on meals, I carried enough instant potatoes to feed me for a week, and snacks and candy that would last me close to two.  I'd overpacked, and I was now paying the price for it.

And so, sitting in the modicum of shade provided by the small juniper, I set to thinning out my load.  I ate a quart of applesauce, probably not the best idea, and half a pint of peanut butter.  I ate two Clif bars and an Epic Bar.  I shoveled trail mix into my mouth and when I couldn't eat anymore, I put the rest of my food away and downed a half-liter of water.  All told I cut down about 3 lbs from my pack, but I didn't feel at all good about my methods.

Out of the Wind Farm
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As I tackled the next uphill, a thousand foot slope that felt like 4,000, I felt the fullness of my stomach, the nausea from overeating, the still significant weight pressing down on my shoulders, and the oppressive heat from the late-morning sun, all wearing me down.  When I reached the top, out of breath and exhausted, I realized, with immense sadness, that I'd only gone 3 miles to that point.  It was sad, no, it was depressing.  How was I going to make it to Big Bear?

Desert Hills
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I pushed on, thankful for a downhill slope that lightened the strain on my aching knees and back.  The trail meandered through golden brown slopes and through a craggy ravine to the Whitewater River, and thankfully, to a flat stretch of trail that, though devoid of shade, at least enabled me to walk at an easy pace.  I stopped a few times, hoping to get another 5-6 miles in, but taking every opportunity for shade the meager foliage along the river offered.  I was hot, tired, beat up, and generally over the experience.

To Whitewater
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I reached the crossing of the Whitewater and took off my boots, plunging them into the cold water, vestiges of the minimal winter snowmelt, and leaned back against my pack.  The water was soothing, calming, and my feet were thankful for the reprieve from the hot sand and rocks of the trail up to that point.  As I sat there, I met a German couple, section hiking for the second year in a row, intending to hike the trail for a month at a time until they finished.  We chatted and soon another hiker, KC, joined us, taking the opportunity to soak her own feet before making camp.  We chatted about the trail, about our reasons for being out there, our pasts and the cougar prints I'd found not five feet from where we sat.  It was lovely.

Whitewater River
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Amidst the cool water, the good company, and the sinking sun, I decided to stop for the day, after only ten miles of hiking, and set up my sleeping bag for my first night of cowboy camping on the trail.  I gathered wood and built a large fire, and we all sat by it talking until it got too dark.  We turned in, the Germans to their tent, KC and I to our bags under the stars, and I fell asleep, once again thankful to be out on the trail.

Day 14

I woke up at 5am, tucked away in bed in the house the warrior hikes team had rented, snug and warm, but restless for what the morning would bring.  It had been exactly two weeks since Susan had dropped me off at the southern terminus of the PCT in Campo.  I had pushed myself hard to make the 179 miles to Idyllwild because I knew that she was coming to meet me on this day, and we would hike Mt. San Jacinto together.

I was eager to start the day for a number of reasons.  First, the chance to see Susan alone had me giddy at the prospect, but more than that, the two years we'd been together had become defined by the hikes we did as a pair, the adventures we took on weekends to strange, off the beaten path locales, the ridiculous situations I got us into.  We'd often discussed hiking San Jacinto, often as part of her six summits goal to train for climbing Mt. Whitney, which we plan on doing the first week in June, and here was our chance.  It didn't matter that it would be cold, or cloudy, or raining.  We are going to climb that mountain if it killed us, though I prayed it wouldn't come to that.

And so I lay in bed, wide awake and eager, while the other hikers in the house slept soundly.  I got up, and put everything into my pack, then sat on the couch, ready to spring into action as soon as she arrived.  It was there the other hikers found me at 7am, awkwardly sitting on the couch fully dressed and booted, my pack loaded and ready to be slung over my shoulder.

It was 7:30 when Susan finally arrived outside the house, and I hurried out to the car to say hi.  I asked if she'd be willing to meet the other hikers and she agreed, laughing at my excitement to see her.  We took her dog and i introduced the pair of them to Mama Goose, Eric, Anne, and the others who were drinking coffee in the living room.  It was the first time my trail life and my life off the trail had come together.  It was a strange feeling.

We left the house and stopped by the bakery for cinnamon rolls and coffee, and tore into the gooey pastry once we got to the car before driving up to the trailhead at Humber Park.  Along the drive I saw several other hikers, Rain Man and Dundee, Narwhal, Rebecca and Marisa.  Miso Strong was also supposed to leave that day, as were several others, and I pointed each out in turn as we passed them.  I felt bad we had no room to help them get to the trailhead, but with the dog and our packs, the car was already quite full.

We parked and I lightened my pack, knowing we'd be returning to the car after summiting the 11,000 ft mountain.  It felt like cheating, and it was, in a way, but I wanted to have a good day hike with her, not lug all 40 lbs of my pack up several thousand feet of elevation gain if I didn't  have to.

We set out on the trail, under the towering pinnacle of Tahquitz peak, up switchback after switchback into the clouds that swirled up ahead.  The clouds were thick and white, and there were patches of blue sky, and I grew optimistic that we would have fairer weather than was predicted, enough so that I even put on my sunglasses on the way up.

That optimistic outlook lasted only a few minutes, however, until the dark grey storm clouds began to roll in, and the sun was lost to sight entirely.  We reached the junction of the Pct and Devils Slide Trail, which we had just climbed, and set off toward the summit some 5 miles on.

Heavy winds whipped at our jackets and drove wispy clouds across the trail.  We walked through a dense fog, the air damp and cold, pine trees lining the trail distant ones appearing as ghostly shadows amongst the gray of the clouds.

We made slow progress, talking and fighting the wet and cold.  Susan, just two days from donating blood and having not hiked in a while, set a slower pace than I was used to from her, but I didn't mind, it gave me more time to take photos and talk with her, catching up after our two weeks apart.

We hiked on, the dog leading the way, and eventually reached the junction where the summit trail left the PCT, and took it, ascending the mountain with each step.

The rain started a mile into the summit trail, and we hurriedly donned our rain gear, trying to protect ourselves from the icy drops that misted around us.

We walked through an erstwhile meadow, it's once vibrant ferns now wilted and browned, laying flat against the ground like spidery tentacles from some alien plant.  It all looked a bit like War of the Worlds, as if the Martians had been seeding the mountainside with the blood of the conquered humans.  It was creepy and eerily beautiful, and it was really starting to feel like a John and Susan adventure.

Blood Grass
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We passed a small grotto, and Susan noted the icicles that hung from the upper lip.  We took pictures and failed to process that we were still some two thousand feet from the summit, and that, if there were icicles here, what would it be like further up?

We continued, passing and being passed I turn by several pct hikers and day hikers who had come up from Palm Springs that morning.  Many of the day hikers wore shorts and tshirts, and Susan and I laughed how blatantly ill prepared they were, somehow ignoring our own lack of proper weather related attire.

As we pushed higher, the rain started to freeze, and we found ourselves hiking through compacted layers of snow along the trail that was in turn becoming increasingly difficult to follow.  Thin layers of ice coated rock and tree root alike, and thick ice crystals began to form on my hat and the ends of Susan's hair.  Even the dog had ice forming on her whiskers and along her back, though the way she ran through the undergrowth it didn't seem to phase her at all.

Freezing rain and hail pelted us and the air grew colder and colder.  We stopped to eat something, hoping the calories would warm us, but the act of stopping only made us colder.  When we tried walking again, our steps felt leaden, our pace inexorably slow.

We only made it another two hundred yards when I turned to Susan and voiced my concern that, should we press on the final half mile to the summit, we might find ourselves in serious trouble.  My rain gear, meant for far lighter conditions than this, had failed, and my down puffy coat and wool base layer were soaked clean through.  I had started to shiver uncontrollably, and saw that Susan had too.  We had threshed a point where our adventure had turned to legitimately dangerous, and I insisted we turn back.

"Sometimes you beat the mountain, sometimes the mountain beats you," I said, though neither of us liked that the latter had happened in this instance.  We walked downhill, trudging through the cold and the rain.  It was already 1 in the afternoon, and we had eight miles back to the parking lot at Humber Park, so I set a fast pace, insisting that we hurry to warmth and safety, knowing we didn't want to face the mountain at night.

It took us four hours to return to the car, and by the time we did we were both exhausted, freezing, and drenched to the bone.  We grabbed what clean clothes we could from her car and dressed hurriedly in the restroom in the parking lot.  We ran to the car and turned the heater to maximum.  I had always mocked her seat warmers, but as we drove back through Idyllwild I relished their toasty heat on my bottom, and vowed never to mock them again.

Idyllwild was awash with rain water, thick rivulets coursing down the streets and into gutters.  Nobody walked the streets, and few even drove in the downpour that assailed the small mountain town.  We agreed that neither of us wanted to get out of the car in such conditions, so we decided to head to Palm Springs for dinner and a warm hotel, off the accursed mountain and into the desert where I could pick up the trail the next day after drying my gear and taking a hot shower.

We ate that evening at a Japanese restaurant in downtown Palm Springs, in the shadow of the mountain that had just defeated us.  We slurped from huge steaming bowls of ramen and let the heat of the dashi warm our insides.  It was good, made all the better by the fact that it was warm and comforting.

We stayed that night in a holiday inn in Indio, one of the few available rooms in the area due to the influx of people for the Stagecoach music festival.  We laid out our wet clothes to dry and took a hot shower, and I slipped and fell in the slick tub, hurting my knee, wrist, and finger in so doing.  We went to bed and talked for a time, until we both were too sleepy to stay awake.

When we finally fell asleep, her nestled into my arms for warmth, I thought to myself, today was a good day...

Day 13

We all woke as the cloud-covered sky lightened outside the restaurant porch, and packed our bags before hanging out to wait for the cafe to open.  With the rain coming down and the trail ahead closed due to a fire several years back, we'd all decided to hitchhike into Idyllwild rather than walk 17 miles along the road.  It was to be my first "zero day," and I looked forward to a day of eating, laundry, and wandering the town.

Paradise Valley Cafe opened at 8, though it took a little time to get the kitchen up and running.  We all took seats, and I sat with Mama Goose and Tony who had lucked into sleeping in the bathroom the night before instead of braving the elements like the rest of us.  I ordered a massive breakfast burrito and hot chocolate and devoured it shortly after it arrived.  The hike had already increased my appetite, it seemed, and I don't remember much of the meal other than that I liked it.

We talked for a time, and Mama Goose invited me to join the Warrior Hikes group at a house they'd rented in Idyllwild.  With enough people, it would cost far less than a hotel, and would be considerably dryer than the campground.  A shower and warm bed would be a welcome change from the trail, and I was looking forward to meeting my girlfriend in the morning for a day hike of San Jacinto.  I accepted gladly.

We finished our food and arranged rides.  A trail angel named Stacey offered myself and Supertramp, a Warrior Hiker, rides into town, and we jumped at the opportunity.  She drove us in, telling us her story along the way.  It was my first real face to face encounter with a trail angel, and one which I was most grateful for.  Several years retired, she spent her Springs helping hikers around Idyllwild, showing them around and driving them to and from the trail heads.  We talked for a time and she drove us around town once before dropping us off at the Warrior Hikes house, showing us the post office, laundromat, and grocery store, in addition to other local places of interest.

At the Warrior Hikes house we met up with Mama Goose, Tony, Eric and Ryan, Joel and Anne, and I took a room with Tony and Joel.  I plugged in my electronics and readied my laundry, and we all walked back into town, me dressed only in my rain gear, as all my other clothes were going to be washed shortly.  The thought of clean clothes was exciting, dry socks, no smelly shirt...it was almost too good to be true.

Tony, Ryan, and I split off from the main group and attended to our laundry.  I ran into Stacey, who I'd last seen at Warner Springs, and chatted for a bit with her.  She'd taken the name Miso Strong and was looking at leaving the next day, despite the impending snowstorm.  I wished her luck and we went our separate ways, but it was very good to see her.

After the laundromat we wandered to the gear store where Ryan stopped to get new shoes, and Tony and I went to a bakery next door owned by a pair of former through-hikers.  There we got massive cinnamon rolls and hot chocolates, and separated, Tony returning to the house for a nap and I going to the Post Office to collect my resupply.

Sadly, the U.S. Postal Service failed me and my resupply box had gone to the wrong post office.  With no food for the upcoming 6 day leg up to Big Bear, I grew concerned, to say the least, but opted to go with a no-cook solution for the coming hike.  It would save water through the heat of the desert pass, and potentially weight down from San Jacinto and then up to Big Bear.  I also was looking forward to trying it out for a leg, as I'd heard many positives about doing so.

I went to the library and blogged for a bit, then bought food for dinner.  The Warrior Hikers were planning a pasta meal, and loving to cook, I thought it would be nice to make up some sausage and peppers to accompany the spaghetti.  It was the least I could do for the kindness they showed me, and I was looking forward to the calm that cooking would bring me.

I walked back to the house and arrived as everyone was settling in, and set to cooking.  Though others offered help, I declined, and took over the entire operation.  I made a huge pot of spaghetti bolognese, and sausage and peppers that had the whole house smelling of garlic and sauteed onions.  This would prove to be the topic of conversation for some time about me, it turns out, as there was a debate it started about whether I was a professional chef in disguise.  Apparently my vegetables were perfectly cut, though I felt I could've done better.  Either way, it was good food, and great company, and we laughed and joked and ate until we were beyond full.

After dinner, I showered and we all sat in the living room, telling jokes and chatting, and I felt completely at home.  I felt I belonged with those people, there at a rental house in Idyllwild, with the trail both ahead and behind.  I went to bed happy, and happier still for what the next day would bring, a hike in the rain with my girlfriend to the 11000 foot summit of Mt San Jacinto.

Day 12

I woke with the sunrise, and climbed out of my tent to see the sun kissing the thick clouds that enveloped the peaks to the north.  San Jacinto was obscured, but the other mountains along its southern edge toward over the surrounding hills, and I spent a good 45 minutes taking pictures when I should've been breaking camp.

It was 7:30 before I got back on the trail, shortly after being passed by Morningstar and Cookie Monster.  They had made up the 3 miles I'd added to my day the day prior before I was even out of camp, but I didn't let it deflate me.  I was 15 miles from Paradise Valley Cafe, an average day's hike, and with the promise of the burger at the end of it, there was no way I wasn't going to make good time.

I walked down to Tule Spring half a mile down the trail and filled my water bottles for the coming day.  Set in a verdant canyon and drawn from a large concrete fire tank, the water tasted clean and cool, after the requisite sterilization, that is, and I drank a full liter before hitting the trail, to start my day hydrated and ready.

On the way up I saw Mama Goose, of the Warrior Hikes group, airing out her tent fly.  The dew from the previous day had apparently got the thing wet, and she was waiting for the rest of her group to catch up to her.  We chatted for a while, and I shared my new name with her, which she latched onto immediately.  I said goodbye, knowing she'd catch up to me shortly.  A veteran of the Appalachian trail and a seasoned hiker, her pace was strong, and never failed to make me feel slow by comparison.

I continued on, along rolling hills and through fields of boulders.  The storm which we had all grown to fear was due to hit around 1:00pm, so I pushed forward doggedly, taking small breaks each two miles, as per the Belgians' schedule, and eating small snacks at each stop.  I was eventually passed by the Warrior Hikers, and two Swiss brothers, Michael and Marcus, who moved like machines up the trail, their steps rhythmic and in sync, their outfits duplicates of each other.

At the top of the first uphill I was passed by Speedy, Wall Street and Snow White, and we chatted a bit about the storm.  Everyone was racing for the opportunity to eat burgers and take shelter from the coming rain, and everyone was going far faster than me.

Dark clouds loomed all around me, but the sky above was clear, blue, and the sun beat down hotly on my shoulders.  I felt lucky, that the storm had thus far encircled me but not come down on me, but I worried I would jinx myself if I exalted too much, so I kept walking.

I stopped for lunch, peanut butter, applesauce, and chia seeds shortly after a water cache which I had no need for, and ate quickly.  I pushed on, ignoring the scenery, the promise of hot food and cold beer pushing me forward relentlessly.

I reached a fire road, and looked down, somewhat defeated, at a large canyon ahead.  I could see the trail dip down into the canyon before climbing up the far edge, a deflating dip of over five hundred feet that I did not look forward to climbing out of.  I'd grown to hate uphills in the past few days, but I took Morningstar's words from the previous day to heart and pushed forward.  By the time I was out of the canyon there was just a scant two miles to highway 73, and the long awaited burger at the cafe just down the road.  I was so close.

I called my parents and texted my girlfriend, having reached cellular service for the first time in almost two days, and pushed forward, up one last uphill to a ridge overlooking the highway below.  Ravens circled and played in the air above me, and thick grey clouds enveloped the mountains all around.  The sun, partly obscured by the clouds to the west, cast golden light all around, but the beauty of it was of secondary importance to me.  Only the burger mattered.

I raced downhill and walked a mile down the highway.  When I hit Paradise Valley Cafe I dropped my pack outside with everyone else's and walked in.  Inside, Mama Goose and Tony sat at the counter, and Wall Street, Snow White, Rain Man, Dundee, Narwhal, and Speedy sat at the tables.  They all greeted me as Shutterbug, and said they were worried I wouldn't make it.  I felt like Norm walking into Cheers, and took an offered seat next to Tony.

I ordered a Harley Davidson burger, a delicious choice, with roasted green chili and guacamole, and bacon, which I added as an extra.  I drank a beer, and let the cold alcohol wash the weariness from my legs and shoulders.  Tony and Mama Goose were more than happy to share the counter, and we chatted for several hours until the restaurant was ready to close down.

We were offered a place on the porch to sleep, and I took the offer gladly, not wanting to attempt a hitchhike into Idyllwild after dark.  The air was cold, and damp with mist, but under the roof of the porch, it was dry and comfortable.  I found a place between Rain Man and Speedy, and we spent an hour chatting and joking, listening to the cars race by in the night.

I went to sleep with a full belly and a full heart, and though the three beers I drank would wake me up at several points, it was still one of the better nights sleeps I'd had on the trail to that point.

Day 11

It was around 8am by the time I returned to the trail.  My pack felt lighter, the result of having finished most of my water from the day before, and eating most of my excess food, and I started out well, making good time for the first two miles.  I knew that this day would bring me some more uphill climbs, but I felt well rested, and I was determined to push far enough that I'd be able to make Paradise Valley Café outside Idyllwild the next evening.  There had been rumors the past few days that the roadside cafe offered the best burgers along the trail, and I was not about to miss the opportunity to test that claim.

Two miles into the trail I met a through hiking couple from Belgium, Andre and Lian, who had just been given the names Morningstar and Cookie Monster the day before, for their proclivity for being the first ones out of camp in the morning, and their love of snacks.  They said hello as I walked by, and I stopped to chat, for a while, making cursory introductions before they offered to let me hike with them.

They proved to be lovely hiking companions, their conversation continuous and varied, their pace matching my own, their schedule regimented but easy to follow.  Morningstar explained their hiking schedule when we first started.  Every hour, they would stop for a 10-15 minute break, to eat snacks and rehydrate as needed, which as they put it, allowed them to recover before they got tired, thus keeping their energy consistently high.  Each snack was defined, each hour kept track of diligently.  Compared to my haphazard schedule of hiking until my hips or knees or feet couldn't keep going then resting too long and getting stiff or too cool, their schedule seemed a revelation, and I gladly found myself adapting to it quickly.

We talked for a while, stopping once to try climbing a boulder which proved too sketchy for Cookie Monster and I, but not for Morningstar, and talking about such diverse topics as filmmaking (Morningstar had wanted to do a documentary on the trail himself, and had lifelong aspirations of being a filmmaker) to our personal histories and lives off the trail.  We stopped for breakfast and discussed nature, and their love of the diverse ecosystems along the trail.  We talked of native americans and our mutual fascination in native culture throughout the US.  It was a thoroughly engaging walk, and with all their lovely conversation, I didn't even notice that we had gone nearly 8 miles until we arrived at Mike's Place, a house near the trail owned by a local trail angel, dedicated to providing through hikers with reliable water, shade, and a place to relax during the heat of the day.

There were nearly a dozen other hikers at Mike's Place, though Mike himself was absent that day.  It was there that I met Wall Street and Snow White, Dundee, Rain Man, Speedy, and Narwhal, hikers who had started the same day as the Belgians and had traveled together since Campo.  We hydrated with the water Mike provided, ate lunch and washed socks, talked sports and weather, and generally relaxed for a few hours.

While there Joel, one of the hikers I'd hiked into Kitchen Creek with, arrived, and asked if I'd gotten my name yet.  When I said no, he suggested the name Shutterbug, and since my camera is the first thing everybody seems to notice on the trail, I gladly accepted it.  I had waited for a name eagerly since before starting the trail, debated giving myself one on several occasions, happily avoided several, including Porn Star.  Now that I'd accepted Shutterbug, I somehow felt more a part of the trail, like I'd stepped across a line and joined the PCT community.  I felt more complete, somehow.

Around 1:30, Morningstar and Cookie Monster were ready to leave, so we packed up and walked out.  On the way out I said hi to the Warrior Hikers as they arrived at Mike's Place, and then pushed on, up the trail for the final uphill of the day, a thousand foot elevation gain over the next two miles to a ridge that looked out north toward Mt. San Jacinto, and across the hills to the east toward the Salton Sea.

Fully loaded with water once more, I found myself struggling with the uphill, and Morning Star offered the following piece of wisdom, which oddly helped, and I've used ever since when facing a climb.  "A mountain is only a mountain from the bottom, when you're halfway up it's just a hill, and then it's not even that," he said, and I laughed, and took mental notes.

We talked some more at the summit, I told them of my plans to hike Mt. San Jacinto in two days, despite the storm that was on its way in.  We talked of the Salton Sea and I explained the disaster that created it, and that led to an in depth discussion of climate change, dykes in Holland and Belgium, and other environmental issues.

We headed downhill, and I finally was forced to say goodbye to the Belgians around mile 134, after they had overextended their normal schedule to pull off a 20 mile day.  I continued on to 137, near Tule Spring, and made camp, the 17.5 mile day for me my longest to that point, and my feet felt the strain of it all.  I went to bed early, and slept restlessly, my legs and feet sore, but happy with the day, and in perfect position to get a burger the following evening.

Day 10

Once again my 4:30 alarm set off my day, though this time I took the opportunity to take a shower behind the Warner Springs Community Center, and wash away the dirt and grime from the previous week of hiking.  It was the thing I looked forward to most from this stop, that and the promise of a hot breakfast, and despite the cold outside, the warm water felt so good on my burnt and dirt-caked skin.

I went back to bed after my shower, and slept until 7 when the community center began to come to life. A heavy layer of dark grey clouds had swept over Warner Springs over night, and there was a layer of dew over everything, including my socks, which I'd hung outside my tent to dry, ironically.  All around though, other hikers were stirring to life.

Some 30 or 40 hikers had assembled outside the Community Center, tents dotting the yards anywhere there was grass or soft dirt to be found.  The Warrior Hikes group was there, as were several other hikers I'd shared the trail with during my first ten days, and all of us were eager for the doors to open, so that we could warm up and dry off after the cold night before, wash our clothes, charge our phones, and eat our first warm breakfast in days.

Before we could fully indulge in all the offerings of the Community Center, however, we had to wait for the monthly food bank to finish up.  Every third Tuesday of the month, I was told, the Community Center opened its doors to those who couldn't afford or needed assistance in getting food.  It was a good cause, so none of us chafed at the delay in getting our own food.

As the food bank handed out its boxes of provisions, it became apparent to several of us that the older patrons would need help carrying their groceries to their cars, so we started lending a hand, chatting with the elderly citizens of Warner Springs and pushing carts or hefting large boxes full of tortillas, chicken, dog and cat food, and other supplies out to their waiting vehicles.  One such gentleman, slow of foot, but quick of mind, apologized for his dirty truck, to which I assured him that I was nobody to judge dirt on a vehicle.  It was Dirt of Honor, I explained, a term my father and I used to refer to dirt earned on back roads and through adventures far afield.  The man laughed, liked the term, and said he was going to use it from then on.

I helped carry food out until there was no more to carry, some two hours later.  When the fine people of the Community Center finally turned their attentions on us hikers, we enthusiastically ordered breakfast; simple plates of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and sausage links that we all inhaled as if the meal would be our last.  Later in the day the Center would serve burgers, though I left before they started serving those, and had internet stations, laundry facilities, even a small store to buy basic resupply items.

I stayed for a few hours until it was time to go to the post office and get my resupply, drying socks and charging my batteries, phone and camera.  One of the Community Center volunteers, a lovely white-haired lady, offered myself and Stacey a ride, and soon there were half a dozen hikers lined up to get a one-mile tour of little Warner Springs.  We packed into her sedan like clowns into a clown car, and when there were too many to go, I volunteered to wait for the next ride and hopped out.

I returned inside, checking the weather report and resting my feet.  A storm had been forecast for the days ahead, and the gray clouds above seemed the precursor to a much larger system on its way.  The mountain town of Idyllwild sat some 70 miles ahead, though the trail took a detour around some old fire damage around mile 151.  There, at Paradise Valley Café, on highway 74, there was rumored to be the best burgers on the PCT, a worthy goal if ever I'd encountered one, as well as an opportunity to hitchhike into Idyllwild and thereby bypass what promised to be the most stormy days on the trail that were to come.  In addition, I'd planned on meeting my girl there on Saturday, to hike to the summit of Mt. San Jacinto.  In order to beat the storm and get to Idyllwild on time, I'd have to push the 40 miles to get there on time.

Stacey returned, and had somehow talked her way into receiving my resupply packages.  I thanked her profusely and after we'd both stuffed our packs full of food and water for the next three days, we set out together around 11:30, eager to make some mileage before the day was through.

Once more we passed through the golden fields surrounding Warner Springs, though this time the gray above muted the landscape.  We passed through the remnants of picnic areas and parks, the vestiges of an old resort that had sprung up around the titular hot springs in the area.  It was a pleasant walk, and we chatted and got to know each other.  Neither of us hiked at great speed, nor did either of us care to push ourselves hard that day.  With the head start we were likely to make the cafe by Thursday night at the latest, and the storm wasn't due to set in until Friday.  We felt good about life.

Some 3 miles into our hike, the straps of my pack started to gnaw at my shoulders, and I took the opportune passing of a picnic table as a chance to eat lunch and clear some weight from my pack, water and food.  I ate uncooked ramen and trail bars, and called my dad to discuss the next resupply package I'd need to pick up in Idyllwild.  Stacey continued on without me, though I promised to meet her further up the trail.

I threw on my pack again and pushed on, through some rolling chaparral hills to a small creek bed.  The sun had come out during my brief lunch break, and already the heat was building.  As the trail followed the creek, I was more than thankful for the abundant shade the oaks and cottonwoods had to offer, and the sound of the water mixed with the birdsong in the air to provide a calming soundtrack to the day's walk.

I stopped for another small meal, mostly concerned with reducing the food weight in my pack, before the trail climbed out of the creek bed and up a series of switchbacks that had me struggling to push on.  Over the next three miles the trail would climb some two thousand feet, but the switchbacks seemed endless, the sun's heat blazing, the shade offered by the creek nonexistent.  I was passed by a few other hikers, and generally lamented my decision to hike out that day instead of taking a rest day as so many others had done.  By the time I reached the saddle I was aiming for, the highest part of the incline and the end of the switchbacks, It was nearly 6:30, and the sun hung low on the western horizon.  I had only gone 8 miles from Warner Springs, and would never make it to Idyllwild with such poor mileage days.

I set my target at a bend in the trail some 2.5 miles ahead, and forced my aching legs to push me forward.  I raced the sunset, making good time, though I of course stopped for several pictures along the way, and made it to the camp site an hour later, just as the sun dipped behind the mountain range to the west.  The sky was aflame with gold and orange, and I set up my tent and cooked dinner, and went to bed determined that the next day would be better.

I had gotten up the hill, that was all I could ask for.

Day 9

Oh what a difference a night can make...

I woke up at 4:30, to my natural alarm triggered by all the water I'd taken in the previous evening.  For some reason I have been waking up at 4:30 am every morning for the same reason, though on this fine morning, the call of the alarm was far more insistent.

It was not the worst situation, however, despite the cold on the hilltop where I camped.  The milky way stretched above my campsite in an amazing display, with only a little light pollution from distant Borrego Springs to interfere with its brilliance.  One of my favorite parts of hiking and sleeping outside has historically been taking photos of the night sky, and to this point, I'd been far too tired or sore or both to do so.  I propped my camera up on my boot and angled it toward the barren hills I'd passed through the previous day, and took one of my better Milky Way exposures.  Happy that I'd taken the opportunity to indulge myself, I curled back up into the warmth of my sleeping bag and went back to sleep.



I rose at 7, and quickly attempted to break camp.  Already the hikers I'd passed at the water cache were starting to make their way up the trail toward where I camped, and my rampant sense of inferiority at not being able to get an early start was starting to rise.

I waved to Erik and his son Ryan, two of the Warrior Hikes group I'd reconnected with, and finished packing by 7:45, feeling mildly triumphant to be out before 8 for once.  Immediately it seemed I was in a different place entirely from the day before.  Where I had been surrounded by hot brown sand and the skeletal remains of burned bushes and cacti just a few miles back, now I walked through comparatively lush greenery, junipers and thick chaparral that hemmed in the relatively flat trail on both sides.

A few miles up the trail I met Sarah, and her little dog Tofu, who was making a valiant effort up the trail despite the heat.  They were taking their time, resting when Tofu got overheated and drinking water as they could.  I was impressed they'd made it through the heat of the previous day, but the breeze was blowing cool that morning, and they had an easier downhill push ahead of them.  I wished them luck and continued on my way.

Around a few bends I caught up with a pair of Warrior Hikers, Tony, Erik, and Ryan.  Tony had caught a snake, a gray constrictor that I couldn't immediately identify (to my shame), but later discovered was a Coastal Rosy Boa, thanks to the internet.  He returned it to a bush before I could get a good picture of it, but it was free to go on, and so did we all.

Further on down the trail, I officially had the chance to meet Mama Goose, the de facto ringleader of the Warrior Hikes group, and a lovely woman.  A former Air Force combat medic, and a veteran hiker of the Appalachian Trail, Mama Goose had an infectious spirit toward the trail, and I found my steps accelerated just being in her presence and chatting with her.  She reminded me of a medic friend I'd had at my previous job on Jane the Virgin, and was a pleasure to talk to.  She was also the first person I'd met on the trail who knew what my job was when I talked to her, having worked as a background performer on the upcoming adaptation of A Walk in the Woods, an unexpected but pleasant surprise.



It was late morning when we all found ourselves stopping, sharing in a moment as we stepped across the 100 mile mark.  We took pictures of ourselves with the stone mile marker some hiker had arranged, and generally felt good about the experience.  For me, it was oddly and quite unexpectedly emotional.  For someone who had been ready to quit at mile 32, the experience of having walked 100 miles was powerful, thrilling and uplifting, and I tried not to hear the others as they joked that we only had 2500+ more to go.  It was not a time for dreading what was to come, but for being happy in the place where I was.

More than anything, that was the mindset that had helped me push forward after my initial breakdown.  Looking back on the way I was thinking those first few days, all of my mental energy was put toward trying to figure out how I was going to go six months and 2663 miles when I was struggling so mightily in the first few days.  I first stepped foot onto the trail with grand goals and big dreams, and even bigger worries, but all about the future.  How was I going to tell the story of my through hike?  What would I do after the trail?  Where would I live?  Would my relationships survive, be they friendly or romantic?  What if I failed, would those who supported me to this point look down upon me for not finishing what I'd talked so much about doing?  Who was I going to be when the trail was complete?

I let the future dictate my emotions and mental state those first few days, but after Mt. Laguna, with some much appreciated help from No-Trace and Unbreakable, I started to think of each day as an encapsulated journey in and of itself.  Leaving my camp site on the cliff surrounded by falcons, my goal was not to get to Canada, or to the Sierras, or to Big Bear or Idyllwild or even to Warner Springs, my next resupply.  My goal was to hike until I stopped, to put myself in position to get to Warner Springs on time, yes, but not to worry about the end goal.  The experience became its own goal, its own reward.

There, looking down at the stone 100 alongside the trail, I absorbed the experience, looking back on the week before, and ahead, but not too far, to the miles to come.  It was a powerful experience, one of the most powerful I've had on the trail, and one not to be forgotten soon.

I continued down, knowing I had 9 miles to go that day, but happy in my energy levels and in the approaching terrain.  Three miles of downhill slope lay ahead of me, and after that 6 more across Warner Meadows, which I'd been told were quite lovely, and I had been looking forward to for days.

I stopped at Barrel Springs for lunch, and ate in the shadow of a large oak.  The heat of the day was creeping up, and part of me wanted to lay there in the shade and let the sun pass on, but after an hour or so I roused myself and pushed on.  In Warner Springs there was promise of showers and food, and a welcome resupply that would bring with it a new solar charger (something I was in desperate need of, as my phone and camera were on their last few bars of energy).



The afternoon sun played golden on the sweeping meadows I found myself walking through a few miles later.  Vast expanses of grassland, grazing territory for local cattle farmers, were dotted with gnarled oaks and patches of datura plants, sadly not flowering, but exciting nonetheless.  I'd seen my favorite flower on the way north from Mexico, but to see it in such abundance, and dotting the otherwise golden landscape with little patches of green, made the place that much more special.

I made good time, though I stopped often for the many photo opportunities the meadows provided, and reached the Eagle Rock formation around 5.  There I ran into Rick from southern Washington, and Bat, a hiker I'd not met but who immediately found it amusing to try and make a trail name stick to me.  Earlier, at Barrel Springs, Rick had referred to me as Film Star, since I as trying to make a movie about the trail.  Bat, named for his poor vision, apparently had trouble hearing as well and thought Rick said Porn Star.  I played along, able to roll with the punches, but secretly hoping the name would not take root.  Again at Eagle Rock they tossed the name around, and I did my best to ignore them.



Bill and Jennifer showed up, and I told Jennifer about datura flowers and their significance to me.  There was a flowering datura on the back side of the eagle-shaped rock, and I told her how the plant was beautiful, but very dangerous, hallucinogenic but not in the fun kind of way.  Native americans had long used it for vision quests and tests of manhood, but the side effects were not only unpredictable, but potentially permanent.  I'd long loved the flower, from the first time I encountered it in Zion National Park, in Utah, and had even named my photography business, www.daturaphoto.com, after it, thinking the name lent itself to the idea of capturing interesting visual representations of the world around me.



I took a few pictures of the rock and continued on, as the sun began to sit low on the western horizon.  A mile or so after the rock, the trail dipped into a majestic oak-lined creek bed, the flowing water and birdsongs carrying me foreword down the last mile or two to Warner Springs.  I heard turkeys in the trees and ravens cawing from weathered logs.  I saw a jackrabbit hiding under a bush from a hawk that circled above.  The light of the setting sun filtered through the twisted oak branches and cast deep shadows on the trail, and I delighted in all the beauty around me.



I got to the Warner Springs Community Center around 7:00pm, my feet and legs sore, but my heart full.  I met Stacey there, and we had a long talk as the sky grew dark, and were soon joined by Bat, who proved to be a lovely man, full of stories of his own experiences, and profoundly insightful about the things he loved about through-hiking.  To him, it wasn't the prettiness along the trail, or the physicality of the hike, but the people you met along the way, and the experiences you had, either shared or alone, that would have a profound effect on the person you would become once it was all done.

For the first time on the trail, I had started to understand what he meant.  I went to sleep in my tent long after everyone else around the Community Center had turned in, and thought that this day had been the best day I'd had to this point.