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.

Day 8

I woke in the canyon I'd stopped at the night before and broke camp, climbing a small distance to take my morning constitutional and loading up all my gear as the sun peeked over the crest of the ridge above, bathing the canyon in the gold light of early morning.

My primary goal for the day was making it to mile 91, where the promise of a massive water cache offered a chance to refill my water for the final push into Warner Springs the next day.

Leaving camp I met a hiker named Rasputin, who'd grown up not far from my former home in upstate New York.  We marveled at the small world nature of the trail, and talked of our favorite places to eat in the tri-state area.  It was a brief moment, but exciting, and got me out on the trail in a rather good mood.

I hiked for a few miles, taking breaks as I could in the few shady patches along the ridge line.  It was mostly flat up there, and I was glad for my late night push the night before, though the sun quickly began to assert itself.

I began to feel the tortoise in the race of the PCT.  Early in my hike I was passed by Ranger and Bubba Gump, setting a fast pace for yet another 20 mile day for them.  I watched them race off into the distance only to pass them as they rested a mile or so later.

A few hours into the morning I met two sisters from Portland, Rebecca and Marisa, nice girls who were very open to conversing, and who would suffer an unfortunate turn a week later, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The landscape was bleak, to say the least.  A fire had swept few some time before and the dusty brown hills were devoid of nearly any plant life.  Blackened skeletal bushes and burned husks of cacti greeted me around every turn, and the oppressive heat beat down on me with no shade to be found.

It was around this time that I became keenly aware of the blisters forming on my hands and forearms.  It wasn't the first time I'd dealt with sweat blisters, but I knew it to be a sign that I was doing serious damage to my skin out in the blazing sun.  I popped a few, to make sure they were in fact sweat pockets built up under the dead skin of my sun burn, and the salty squirts of sweat felt cool on my roasting skin.  It was gross, but it entertained me as I walked through that barren, desolate landscape.

I found a lone juniper in a small valley around mile 87 before a large uphill section, and crawled underneath the scant shade that it offered.  I ate lunch, my new favorite meal of applesauce and chia seeds poured into a peanut butter jar, and napped for nearly an hour to pass the time during the hottest part of the day.  The juniper, barely a shrubby bush, proved popular in the heat, and soon two other hikers had joined me, Spectrum, who I'd seen the previous few days, and Rick, a former merchant marine from southern Washington.  

After I'd worked up the courage to tackle the uphill, I pushed forward, fighting the heat as I climbed ever upward along seemingly endless switchbacks.  The wind picked up, massive gusts slamming into me as I reached the high point of the section, and blowing away a kerchief I'd carried with me on innumerable hikes throughout the years.  Bill and Jennifer from Ashland, who id hiked with the previous morning, were up near the top, and I hiked with them again, talking cacti and animals with them as we fought the high winds.

After another hour I finally reached the water cache, and was greeted by the sight of nearly two dozen other hikers, and dozens of huge jugs of fresh water.  I lay at the cache and watched hummingbirds sip at cholla blossoms, and luxuriated in the shade provided by the trees that encircled the stash.  It was a gloriously peaceful moment after a very hard day.

As I lay there the hikers from the Warrior Hikes group showed up, and I happily reintroduced myself, thinking they had left me in their dust on day three, and shocked that they had ended up behind me somehow.  This time, meeting them seemed more solid, and in the coming days I would find myself running into hem repeatedly, and forming friendships that I've learned to truly value since.  But that is a story for another day.

I filled up with 8 liters and drank nearly two more by the time I left the cache, eager to get a few more miles in before the sun went down.  I pushed on, signing the trail register and camped two miles up the trail, catching the sun as it went down over the hardest section of the trail is faced to that point.  I slept well that night, buffeted by the desert winds, excited to be in position to hit Warner Springs the next evening.

Day 7

I have discovered an amazing meal, and I'm not sure how it took me so long to devise it.  A squeeze packet of applesauce poured in a peanut butter jar, sprinkled with chia seeds and graham cracker crumbles.  It is special, well and truly, and it is my lunch of choice since discovering it on the afternoon of Day 7.  But I digress...

As has become my pattern on the trail, I woke up at 4:30 am, wide awake, staring up at the milky way above.  I've always had a fondness for the darkness of out of the way places, and most of my campsites along the trail have certainly qualified.  The stars are amazing at night, truly breathtaking, and one of my major regrets is that I've been too tired from hiking all day to fully take photographic advantage of them.  Perhaps as I grow more used to life on the trail I'll be able to accommodate a few late night photography sections.  I hope so.

I went back to sleep, waking at 6:30 and giving my girlfriend a call as she walked the dog and got ready for work.  Work has been tough on her and I could hear the weariness in her voice, the stress and sadness.  It makes it difficult for me to be out here knowing she's struggling back at home, all I want to do is hold her and help her make things better, but I know we're working out our own paths right now, and in the long run we'll be stronger for it.  Still, the caretaker in me finds it difficult not to want to be there.

No Trace and Unbreakable passed me while I lay in my tent, already four miles into their day while I talked on the phone.  It still upsets me somewhat that I'm not an earlier hiker, there are many advantages to doing so that I should be allowing myself to partake in, cooler morning weather in the desert, less direct sunlight, finishing my day earlier, but I haven't worked it out yet, though I'm sure I will.

By the time I got on the trail around 8, it was still cool, and I made good time hiking the two miles from my camp to the fire tank at the Rodriguez Spur road at mile 68.  As I hiked I met Bill and Jennifer, a couple from Ashland, Oregon hiking in support of the PCTA, and the constant revitalization and repair efforts being done by trail workers and volunteers all along the trail's length.  They had an easy pace, and we walked and talked amiably, about the cacti and animal life we saw, about our lives back home, about their reasons for doing the trail.  It was the first time I'd hiked with another set of hikers and had such a relaxed walk, and I definitely appreciated the conversation.

The Rodriguez Spur fire tank was yet another communal gathering spot for hikers along the trail.  Rumors had been flying for the past two days that it was the last water on the trail for the next 32 miles, and everybody was worried at the prospect, myself included.  Remembering the lack of water on my second day, and how dehydrated I got just in that 16 mile section, the prospect of 32 hot, waterless miles through the Anza Borrego desert had me petrified.



I filled my water at the tank, purifying it as I collected, and loaded up all 8 liters into my pack.  The weight of it, nearly 17 lbs of extra weight in my already heavy pack, brought back memories of the time before Mt. Laguna, unpleasant memories I was not happy to be reliving.  Still, the majority of the day's hike would be downhill, so I thought it would be a little easier at least.



The heat of the day caught up to me around 1:00pm, the cloudless sky blasting me with intense sunlight on the mostly shadeless downslope into the Anza Borrego.  I took a two hour break under the branches of a small tree, eating lunch and calling my family and girlfriend, and generally not exerting myself.

The whole way down I saw Scissor's Crossing, the intersection of Highway 78 and the Great Overland Stage Route at mile 77, and even watched as I seemed to walk past it, away from it.  The trail was designed by idiots, I told myself.  Why not cut straight across the desert from where I stood to the intersection and save 4 hot, merciless miles?  There was no logic to it.  It was a lesson in inefficiency.

I reached the bottom of the hill as the sun started to sit low on the western horizon.  Sunsets in the Anza Borrego are magical times, the two or three hours before the sun finally dips below the mountains casting an ethereal golden light across the whole of the desert, causing cholla and barrel cactuses to glow as if rimmed by halos.  It's always been one of my favorite times to photograph the desert, and this particular sunset did not disappoint.

I continued on, meeting a Vietnamese hiker named Half Slope that was doing a reverse hike for the first two weeks, starting in Warner Springs some 35 miles to the north, and hiking south to the Mexican border for the Kickoff celebration in a week's time.  He carried his pack not on his back, but on a small wheeled cart behind him.  As impractical as it looked, I was jealous, still feeling the weight of the 7 remaining liters of water on my own back.  We chatted for a time, and he told me of the water situation ahead of me.  A cache had been left at Scissor's Crossing, he said, and another at mile 91, enough water for everyone and then some.  I would be fine, I didn't need all the water I was carrying, according to him.

I frowned and moved on, stumbling through the flat trail like a staggering drunk.  I passed a sign as I approached the crossing with the number of a trail angel named Misty, who was offering rides to the town of Julian (where there were amazing pies and milkshakes to be had) or the equally appealing Stagecoach RV Resort in the opposite direction, which advertised swimming pools, electricity, ice cream, and beer.  The temptations were almost too much to bear, but I declined, and moved on.  At a small cooler left by Misty, I applied some aloe lotion to my blistering sunburns, and then turned down Misty herself as she drove by.  I thanked her for the lotion, but could not accept the ride.  I was foolishly determined to climb the next set of mountains before me that night, to escape the heat and set me up to reach mile 91 in the morning.



At the crossing I saw about a dozen other hikers, including Bill and Jennifer, all camped out for the night and looking comfortable, at ease with the dozens of gallons of water left by some enterprising trail angel there.  I waved but moved on.  I would not be tempted.

I climbed out of the desert and up the switchbacks to a spot where I could sit and watch the sunset from a high vantage point and made dinner.  I ate and rested my feet, and when the sun had gone down, continued onward and upward.  At mile 80 I finally stopped, a hot, miserable day behind me, a nice cool night in a small box canyon immediately ahead of me, and just 29 miles to Warner Springs, and my next resupply.  It was all going according to plan...

Day 6

My sixth day on the trail began with the most beautiful sunrise I'd seen to that point, a brilliant orange band of light stretching out across the Anza borrego desert to the east.  I woke early and sat on the edge of the Granite Peak cliff face where I had camped and spent half an hour taking pictures before the cold sent me crawling back to my tent.

I finally roused myself after the warmth of the sun started to penetrate my bones, and broke camp enthusiastically.  The high of the previous day at Mt Laguna had yet to wear off, and for the first time I was eager to get some walking in.

Shortly after I started walking I passed my fist literal milestone, a clumping of rocks spelling out "mile 50."  The sense of achievement and excitement I felt made me giddy, and I pushed on, reaching the Pioneer Mail picnic area, about two miles away, in under an hour, my best time to that point.  I utilized the bathroom, a welcome find, and even came across a new inflatable pillow which fit snugly in the bottom of my pack.  I added two liters of water from the cache left by some benificent trail angel, and signed the log book, steering clear of the algae and dead insect ridden waterhole that had been described as a source of water in the guide.

I hiked on a way, past a monument erected in stone to accident victims on the Sunrise Highway along which I walked, and decided, upon reaching a point where highway and trail merged briefly, that it would save me considerable time to walk the road to my next stop rather than the trail, as I was concerned at that point that I was too far off schedule (about a half day off where is wanted to be).

I walked the Sunrise Highway to Sunrise trailhead at mile 59, the last point where the Pct got close to the road, and stopped for the last water for the next 10 miles.

There I finally caught up with another hiker, Stacey from Seattle, who I'd been trying to catch up with since starting the trail.  A coworker of a friend from my college days, it was nice to finally meet her, and made me feel like I'd made ok progress, given that she'd left some two days prior to me.

I lay in the tall grass watching the other hikers fill up their water bottles and platypuses, and though it was interesting how we all congregated around these tiny oases, little communal watering holes.  In many ways it reminded me of animals gathering around pools in the African savannah.

I gathered my pack and pushed on.  I had a big downhill leg to mile 64 ahead of me, but I had plenty of water and was making good time.  I walked through hills littered with agate and saw my first coyote of the trail.  I descended quickly, meeting a hiker from Washington calling himself Spectrum along the way, and kept moving after exchanging pleasantries.

As I pushed downhill, I saw the large uphill climb on the other side of the ravine, and despite my sore feet and knees, committed myself to pushing all the way up that night.  I worked up all my remaining energy for the last push and moved forward undaunted, stopping only once the trail had leveled out around mile 66.

I made camp in a dry stream bed and cooked dinner, and went to bed happy with the first 16 mile day I'd had since day two, and the first I hadn't felt defeated by that 16 miles.  It was a good day.

Day 5

I woke to the rhythmic patter of a woodpecker in the pines above my head.  The morning was chill, 38 degrees before the sun broke through the trees, and windy.  Further along the trail, I later found out, 35 mile per hour wind gusts were buffeting hikers.  I cared little, snug in my sleeping bag and secure in the knowledge that there would be no hiking for me today.

I rousted myself eventually, taking my time packing, making phone calls, generally in no rush.  The stores in Mt. laguna would not open until 8am, and my first resupply shipment wouldn't be available until noon, when the post office opened.  In short, I had nothing but time.

I busied myself with sorting my gear into essential and nonessential piles.  In addition to getting new supplies, I'd decided, I would also be purging my pack of anything too heavy or useless.  If I were to continue walking, I decided, it would be at the expense of some of the items I'd been too foolish to leave at home.

First in the pile was my tripod.  I'd yet to use it, and at 3 lbs, it was a natural choice.  My sound gear followed, and any extra changes of clothes I could spare.  I would be continuing with the clothes on my back.  My camera case, a bulky saddlebag from Think Tank, and my go pro, an unnecessary energy hog, all went in the pile.  Lastly my Biolite stove and pot at nearly 4 lbs.  I felt like I was starting over again.

No-Trace and Unbreakable passed me on their way out of camp, saying they planned to stop at the store for the day and wait for their friend, who was some considerable distance behind.  They invited me to join them and I gladly accepted.

Packing my gear up again, the weight of it sinking my spirits momentarily, I trundled off toward town.  On the way I saw Big Fish and Firecracker, and pointed them in the right direction to the store.  They had met on the Appalachian Trail, they told me, and with no kids and the chance to try their hands at the PCT, they had jumped at the opportunity.

The town of Mt. Laguna, if it can be considered as such, consisted of a post office and general store, an outdoor supply store, and a restaurant, of which I sadly did not partake.

I met up with No-Trace and Unbreakable at the store, and stepped inside immediately to buy breakfast, a chicken salad sandwich (bacon ranch) and a jug of apple cider from the nearby town of Julian.  I sat on the porch of the store with half a dozen other hikers, interviewing a few, but just generally immersing myself in the PCT community.

One of the things I'd most looked forward to on the trail was the sense of community and togetherness that hiking such long distances engendered.  Here, on the porch of the Mt. Laguna store, we traded stories of how we came to the trail, listened to No-Trace dispense his learned wisdom, ate, drank, spent money, and tended to minor injuries (in my case a nasty bit of chafing caused by my decision to hike sans undergarments.). It was idyllic, it was exactly what I needed.

The post office opened at noon, and I hastily started putting my pack together.  New food, underwear (thank god), and glasses, including my prescription Oakleys that I'd been sorely missing, all went into my bag.  Into a large box went 20 pounds of gear I would be sending home.  I was shocked at the weight of it, but happy to see it off my back.  In its place went extra water for the desert ahead, peanut butter, cheese, tortillas, and Gatorade.  I was changing on the fly, adapting to my circumstances, I was quite proud of myself.

The other hikers, nearly 20 all told now, all laughed when I told them how much weight I had shipped away.  No-Trace smiled and said he'd done the same thing his first try. When I stepped away to buy a new stove, I left my lightened bag, and they watched it dutifully, sensing my trauma at picking it up again.

Once I was all set, I decided to move o.  It was only 3:30 or so, and by taking the road I could jump ahead almost 9 trail miles by the time I had to stop.

I hiked for a ways until I saw the craggy ridge of Granite Peak and rejoined the trail, selecting a spot along the cliff to pitch my tent.  I had service, happily, and watched the new Star Wars trailer beneath a large oak tree.  I cried, I couldn't help myself.  It was a good day.

As I made camp I noticed that somewhere on the cliff face below me were several peregrine falcon nests.  The residents were none too pleased with my intrusion and they circled and dove at me angrily in an amazing spectacle I will always treasure.  I watched the sunset and ate simply, and went to sleep excited, for the first time, for what tomorrow would bring.

Day 4

I woke up in my tent to the sound of nothing.  I had never before been in a place so utterly quiet, still...lifeless.  Oh there was life all around me, the spider crawling on the outside of my tent, the frogs I knew were there in the creek below, the dozen other hikers sleeping not twenty yards away, all blissfully unaware at the complete and implacable silence that hung over Kitchen Creek Canyon at 5am.  It was haunting.  It was terrifying.

I'd spent the last few years thinking I knew what loneliness was.  I'd chased it, embraced it, and yet here I was, on the morning of the anniversary of my best friend's death, feeling more truly alone than I'd ever felt before.

I forced myself to sleep.  I don't know how long, or how well I slept, but I slept.  I woke up with the sun just starting to peak over thehill behind me, painting the red rocks of the canyon a beautiful shade of scarlet.  Around me I could hear the other hikers breaking camp.  The marines had left before I even got up, and the pair I'd walked in with the night before were about to go.

I waited them out, until I truly was alone in the canyon.  I filled my water bottle from the creek and ran cold water over my head and face.  Then I called my mother.

I was not expecting tears, let alone crying harder than I ever remember crying.  This place felt like a prison, I told her.  Here, at my most free, with no job or bills or problems beyond walking everyday, I felt trapped, claustrophobic, petrified that I would never find a way out.

We talked for some time.  My battery dipped low, but I didn't care.  We talked about why I was doing this hike in the first place.  We developed a plan whereby I'd stop through hiking and start section hiking shortly after arriving in Mt. Laguna that evening.  I made concessions and excuses, I bargained like I'd never bargained before.  I was ready to quit.

But I didn't.  I stowed my camera holster, a ridiculous saddlebag that pulled me off balance and kept my camera a little too secure.  In the previous two days I barely touched the thing.  Photography and making a documentary were the reasons I'd started the PCT, and I'd done so little of either.  Once my bag was packed, and I was back on the trail, I started taking photos.  Not many, mind you, but enough to feel like I was being productive.  I pushed on, breaking here and there, still convinced that this was my last full day as a through hiker.

It was around mile 34 that I met No-Trace and Unbreakable, eating lunch in the shade of a manzanita.  A retired couple from San Diego, they are in the opening days of their second through hike attempt of the PCT, and revisiting the first part of their triple crown history of long distance hiking.  These were lords of the trail, and they offered to walk with me for a way, sensing my mindset.

No-Trace, a grizzled hiker who never lacks for words, put me at the front of the pack, which I saw as a veteran move, as it let me set the pace, and allowed them to make sure I kept moving.  He talked at length about the trail, of his own history with it, of the characters I was bound to meet if I kept going.  Then he talked about me.  The pace of set was slow, but he said it would get me to Canada if I kept it up.  My pack was huge, but no bigger than the one he'd brought his first year.  My doubts weighed on me like a stone, but he said they were no different from the doubts any other hiker would carry at certain points along the trail.

When I finally had to stop, my calves on fire, my chest straining at the exertion, they promised to see me at camp that evening.  I watched them walk away and for the first time on the trail, truly felt encouraged to reach camp that night.

It took me another four hours to do so, and once again I found myself pitching my tent after dark.  I slurped down all the ramen I could stomach and went to bed, a short call to my family and girlfriend the only things that kept me from passing out immediately upon slipping into my bag.  The stars shine overhead, and the morning would bring my first resupply, and hopefully, a new perspective on the trail.

Day 3

My third day on the trail started slow.  The final push in over Mt Hauser had left me sore, chafed, and thoroughly disheatened.  My pack was too heavy, I was moving too slow, and I couldn't get out of camp til two hours after I'd wanted to.  The heat of the previous day had dissipated somewhat, but the sun nevertheless beat down on me the whole way.  It was tough.

I set in my mind that I would split the day into two stages.  First, I would hike the six miles to Boulder oaks campground, which promised shade and water right next to Interstate 8, and a nice rest spot before I pushed the next 12 miles to Fred Canyon, my stop for the night.

Boulder Oaks proved a little too comfortable, as I spent nearly three hours in the shade contemplating what I had gotten myself into.  I started to feel like something had to change, and soon, or I wasn't going to make it.

A more pressing concern had started to arise, in my mind, that was only fueling the fire of doubt within myself.  I had set out on this trip with the primary goal of documenting, through photos and video, the trail and the people who hike it.  So far, all of gotten were a few photos and a lot of video of me huffing and puffing in the heat.  Nothing was going according to plan.

I pulled myself off the ground and moved on past Boulder Oaks, doubt and depression weighing on me even heavier than the massive pack on my back.  It took every ounce of conviction not to walk up to the side of the interstate and hitch a ride into San Diego.  My old life was so close, salvation so near.  I talked to my mother again, and later my girlfriend, and they pushed me on with words of encouragement, and a lot of verbal kicks in the pants.

The sun had started to hang low on the horizon, the hazy golden light again racing me to camp, and winning.  I fell in with a pair of hikers, strangers to each other at the start of the trail, but now seeming fast friends, and walked with them to Kitchen Creek, two miles short of my goal for the day, but a welcoming and peaceful valley carved into the rock by its namesake.  There, standing amongst the rocks and sagebrush, were half a dozen marines, part of the Warrior Hikes group of heard about my first two days.

I introduced myself, and they did in turn and I promised to catch up with them before dark, but by the time I'd eaten and set up camp, the stars were out and everyone had gone to sleep.

I went to bed feeling the weight of the emotional and mental wringer I'd put myself through all day.  Little did I know the worst of it was yet to come...

Day 2

My second day on the trail was a hard one, for sure.  Breaking camp at 7:30, I set out into the hills north of Campo, and was immediately made aware of how hot and dry this stretch of trail really is.  My left hip ached immediately from the weight of my pack, and within an hour I had already regretted my decision to try hiking commando.  Ah, the chafing...

I stopped for an impromptu breakfast after two miles, cold oatmeal with applesauce, chia seeds, and cinnamon sugar.  I took pictures of pretty flowers and let myself soake in the pretty morning sunlight.  It was the last moment of tranquility I would find.

As I pushed up the winding trail, I slowly watched the border fence dwindle behind me, and the rocky pinnacle of Mt. Hauser signal me onward.  At the base of the mountain, in a verdant creek bed, sadly dry this year, I had designated my first camp, though having hiked four miles the day before, I felt encouraged to push an extra five miles in to Lake Morena, where there was the promise of clean water, showers, and a quiet campground filled with other through hikers.

So I pushed onward, up through rolling hills dotted with craggy boulders.  I spooked a rattlesnake in a bush, and almost had a heart attack.  I met other hikers who quickly left me in the dust.  I stopped frequently and drank water as I could, though the burning sun seemed to suck it out of me as soon as I ingested it.

I stopped for lunch as I came to the southern face of Hauser Canyon, a trail bar, some jerky, and a handful of dried fruits and nuts.  Shortly beyond, a work crew from the local prison was clearing brush under the watchful gaze of half a dozen corrections officers.  One officer, noting my dwindling water supply, kindly proffered me a bottle of evian, for which I was most grateful.

I was soon overtaken by Alex, a hiker from England who I fell in with for the next 4 miles to Hauser Creek.  We hit a good pace and I was most thankful for her conversation.  I'm finding the loneliness is oppressive out here, so every bit of human contact becomes a welcome relief, and invigorates me to push on.

I hit the creek bed out of water and dreading the coming five miles.  Blessedly there was a water stash some kind soul had left along the creek bed, and I filled up one more liter, enough, I surmised, to make it to camp.  I lay in the shade of the cottonwoods with my boots off for half an hour, watching a half dozen other hikers, including Alex, leave me behind.  I was alone once more for what would be the hardest part of the hike so far.

Straight up the side of the ravine I started to climb, up dreaded switchbacks with no shade and the heat of the damnable sun pounding on my back.  It was getting late, and my internal clock was pounding in my head.  I had two hours to go five miles.  I wasn't going to make it.

I called my parents near the top of the ridge, one of the few fleeting moments of cell service, feeling defeated and demoralized.  They talked me back on my feet, but it was hard.  I pushed on, and as the sky grew dark a mile from camp, I lay down again, my body spent, my water drained, my heart deflated.  Was this how it was going to be for the next six months?

I called my girlfriend, and her voice calmed my nerves.  I miss her terribly, and knowing I would disappoint her if I didn't push on helps me do exactly that.  She offered some words of encouragement, one of her fortes, and forced me off my ass for the last mile.

At 9:00, roughly 13 hours after I started the day, I arrived in camp, and was greetd by a cold can of beer on a rock.  I like to think it was left for me by one of the other hikers, and it's a gesture I will try to pay forward in the days and weeks to come.

I showered and made dinner, then passed out, feeling innumerable aches and bruises and raw chafed spots.

Thus ended my second day.  I hope the third is easier.

John

Day 1

So here I am, starting out on the Pacific Crest Trail...

The last few weeks have been a blur to be honest.  Since finishing work on Jane the Virgin back in mid March, I feel like I haven't had a moment to sit down and really think about where I'm going or what it is in actually doing on the trail.  For the last month, my life has been entirely consumed with preparations and squaring away my non-trail life; from packing everything I own into storage to arranging all my resupply plans in Washington with my family, to making sure I had every little thing I would need for the next six months.

I write this now about 4 miles from the Mexican Border, in a small cheat-grass clearing next to the trail.  Tomorrow I hike on to Lake Morena, my first of many 16 mile days ahead of me, and I find myself oddly comforted by the fact that this is now my life.  At sundown I make camp, at sunrise I wake and walk.  There's a beautiful simplicity to the whole thing, a  welcome respite to the stress and anxiety I've inflicted upon myself the last few days, weeks, and even months.

When I signed the trail register in Campo, I included a quote I recently discovered on the wall of an abandoned house on the road to Julian...

"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." - William Shakespeare

It struck me as particularly relevant to my pursuits over the next few months, and oddly perfect that I would stumble upon such a quote the day before stepping out onto the trail.  It reminds me of the reasons I set out on this journey in the first place, to hear the song of nature in the deserts and mountains and meadows from here to Canada.

For those that are interested, I'm including a link to a map by which anyone who's interested can track my progress:

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0VzeXKSuay45j2sYv2lGvh8z85HiPGaQl

Please follow along and support my expedition on Twitter and Instagram at @project2663.

Good night.

John

Project 2663 Update: My Gear List

Hello All,

It's been a big last couple weeks for Project 2663.  First of all, and most importantly, we managed to achieve our Kickstarter goal of $3000 on the 15th, which means the project is now fully funded and ready to go.  Now for the hard part, allocating those funds to maximize my ability to hike the trail.

Knowing the money I have to work with, I've finalized my Gear List for the trail, and thankfully am very close to my target pack weight for the trail.

Here is my base gear list for the trail.  I'll be swapping things in and out as necessary, but for the most part, this is all the equipment I'll be hauling on the trail.  I'm aiming for a max pack weight of 40 lbs, though it'll be less than that for much of the hike.  I'm very excited to have pared down my weight, and it should make for a much easier 3000 mile hike com April, relatively speaking.

Tent: Big Agnes Fly Creek UL2

I love this tent, though it's less fun when I have to share it, as some can attest.  It's lightweight, compact, and quick to set up or take down.  My last time out in Zion National Park I had it out and set up in under five minutes, in wind and rain.

Hammock:  Eno Doublenest

I'll be using the Eno interchangeably with the Fly Creek as the trail progresses, opting for its ease of setup and lighter weight in more forested sections of the trail.  It's a great hammock and surprisingly comfortable given the exposure of it.  I'll be using the Profly rainfly to supplement this and protect me from the elements as needed.

Sleeping Bag/Pad: Big Agnes Lost Ranger 15/Q-Core SL

I discovered this neat little sleeping bag/pad combo last fall and fell in love with it.  Both are lightweight, a necessity, and the bag is rated for 15 degrees, hopefully more than warm enough for the entire trail.  The bag has a sleeve on the underside for the pad, so I never roll off the pad or roll around too much.  It's great for tent use, hammock insulation, or even cowboy camping on the ground should the need arise.  Very cool setup.

Stove: Biolite Camp Stove

Ive been using this stove exclusively for close to two years now and absolutely adore it.  It's a bit heavier than a normal stove, but because it uses wood and other organic material as fuel, I save myself from carrying gas or liquid fuels .  Added to that is the fact that Biolite uses the sales of their stoves to help provide heating, cooking, and electrical needs to third world countries make it a brand I'm proud to support.

Pack: Gregory Baltoro 75

This pack, though large, is engineered to be well balanced so the weight of it feels negligible even on long hikes.  I've used it several times and love the design.  This pack will ultimately become either my best friend or my worst enemy on the trail.

Photography Gear:

Canon 6D DSLR

Sirui Tripod

GoPro Hero 3+

IPhone 6+

Tascam D-40 Sound Recorder

Rode NTG1 Shotgun Microphone

Canon 17-40mm f4L lens

Canon 100mm f2.8L macro lens

Nexto DI 2901 sd card backup

Ravpower 15000mAh battery

It's not the lightest pack in the world, but I feel confident it's well within manageable limits for this hike.

Thank you to everyone who continues to support Project 2663.  Stay tuned to this blog in the coming weeks for more updates as we near the April 15th kickoff date.  I'm nervous and excited as it gets closer and closer to the day I step out on the trail.

John

Embracing Loneliness

As I prepare for the six month expedition that is the Pacific Crest Trail, I find myself increasingly asked the question, by friends, family, and coworkers; "Why would you do such a thing?"

There are always a few answers I give them; to see the country as I've never seen it, to experience this unique and amazing opportunity, to test my mettle against nature and my own self doubts... None of these answers tells the full story, however, none of them really gets to the heart of why I've chosen to step away from my life for six months to attempt something so far beyond the limits of anything I've ever thought myself capable of.

I love the outdoors.  I love the smells, the physicality of it, the sights and sounds.  To be immersed in nature is, quite simply the closest I've ever come to a religious experience, and yet that also fails to totally explain why I hike.

The simple fact of the matter is, I both cherish and fear solitude, and hiking, particularly long distance hiking, is the surest way to chase the loneliness and emptiness that I've always had such a complicated relationship with.

As a kid I moved around a lot.  I have always compared my childhood to that of an "army-brat," though my father worked in academics not the military.  As he took jobs at University after University, all over the U.S., I found myself never forming the kind of friendships others I've met seem to take for granted.  My imagination and creativity were often my closest companions, and though I had good friends everywhere I lived, I always knew in the back of my head that such friendships were ephemeral, fleeting.

When I moved to Iowa in the 8th grade, that changed, and I met a few close friends who have stayed among my closest to this day.  We met through shared classes or common interests, we played the same sports and even pursued the same dreams of making films, and over the years I have come to cherish each and every one of them.  

Amongst all of my friends, however, I felt closer to no one more than Erik Lemke, my best friend, my confidant, my brother.

We met in the cafeteria of Northwest Middle School, me an awkward nerdy new kid, trying to develop a new personality that would help me find a place in my new home (I often tried to reinvent myself with each new school, looking at each move as a reset and a new beginning instead of holding on to the persona I'd had previously), and Erik a quiet, long-haired and way-too mature for his age outsider, more comfortable  with his books than in social situations with his peers.  He sat next to me one day in eighth grade, introduced by another dear friend, Bart, and we immediately found common ground, not in the books, or movies, or sports, which we shared affection for, but in the jokes and ideas and debates that became the framework of our friendship.  I would always joke that our friendship started when we spent an entire lunch hour making fun of french fries, but it was the fact that I found someone who would challenge me, push me to be better, smarter, more articulate and well-read.  

He was one of the few friends I invited to hang out at my house, and he shared that privilege with me.  Our friendship existed almost entirely outside of school, as he seemed to exist somehow removed from school.  We rarely shared classes, rarely had the same schedule, but we always found time to talk about the books we were reading, the things we were writing, the ideas that inspired and tortured us.

Erik graduated high school a year early, and met a girl who would one day become his wife.  We saw each other sparingly the next few years, as I became  consumed with making films, and he focused entirely on his writing.  It was not until our sophomore year at the Iniversity of Iowa that we really reconnected, but our friendship had not faded.  We spent entire nights without sleep, playing poker or video games, or wandering the streets of Iowa City, discussing life and ridiculous ideas, philosophizing and making fun of drunk college students.  Ours was a bond born of talking, and we never once ran out of things to talk about.

My first serious relationship started my last year at the University of Iowa, and when it started to break down, Erik was the one who was there to hold me up.  When I made stupid decisions, he was the first to put me in my place.  He was the rock I could always lean on.  When he got married, I spoke at his wedding, and called myself his best man, even if I technically wasn't.

As people do, we eventually went our separate ways.  He moved to Canada, I went to New Zealand.  He had children, I went to film school.  We still kept in touch, talking while playing video games online, or on the phone, though I never talk to anyone on the phone.  We had our separate lives, but he was always my best friend.

In January of 2012 I spoke with him for the first time in a few months, and talked at length of my breakup with my girlfriend of three years, a girl I'd thought to build a home and career with, but who didn't want the same with me.  I told him how I had rebounded with a girl ten years younger than me, who I didn't care for beyond the transferrence of my feelings for my ex, and for the physical relationship which I thought I needed.  I told him of my feelings of stagnation and unhappiness with my job as a production assistant, and my doubts as to whether I'd be able to have the career I'd spent my entire life chasing.  He offered to have me come back to Iowa and visit, and I thought I would have a chance that summer.

It was the morning of April 15th when I got a call from his wife Cait, telling me that he was in critical condition at the University Hospital in Iowa City, and that they weren't sure how bad it was, only that it was indeed bad.  I left work early, and spent the day distracting myself with video games and movies.  I went to a special screening of the Princess Bride that night with my closest friends in LA, worried but not wanting to dwell on what couldn't be dealt with from 2000 miles away.

I got the call halfway through the movie, and stepped out to hear from Cait's cousin that Erik had been declared brain dead.  I was devastated and bought  a ticket back to Iowa at the first opportunity.  I called all the mutual friends I knew, backed out of a job with my mentor, and went home heartbroken and feeling entirely alone.

Loneliness, it seemed, was something I'd forgotten about since I had moved to Los Angeles.  In film school, I was surrounded by my peers and colleagues at all times.  After school I'd started working. On film sets surrounded by people working feverishly for up to 16 hours a day.  My personal life was entirely taken up by the presence of my girlfriend.  As I flew back to Iowa, I found myself alone, truly alone, for the first time in five years.  I had lost the relationships, walked away from most of my friends, disconnected with work, and lost the person I'd always been able to turn to in the darkest times.

There is a popular series of fantasy novels called the Wheel of Time, which I started reading at Erik's suggestion shortly after we first met back in junior high school.  Together we read every novel in the eventual 14 volume epic multiple times, discussing ideas and philosophy, style and substance.  I oddly was rereading the series when he died, and even referenced one of the core concepts of the books at his wake, the idea that life is a tapestry, and each persons life a thread woven amongst the tapestry.  It resonated with me at the time, and still does, but there was another concept that was needling me subconsciously, an idea referred to as embracing death.

The concept is simple, because we all fear death, a source of power and strength can be found in embracing that fear, and turning it into something you have control over.  I found myself confronted with my own mortality for the first time in my life, but found it was not death that I feared.  Yes, the death of my best friend spurred in me a desire to experience the world fully before my time came, but the greater drive was to conquer that which I feared most, without knowing it.  

And so it was that I chose to embrace loneliness.

Over the next few months and years, hiking became the reason I worked, the thing I pursued, because it was the thing that made me feel most alone.  I used photography as a creative outlet, and sank my energies into capturing the beauty of empty places.  I would wait for hours to get a shot of a place with no people, and hike long distances just to feel alone in the wild.

At the end of the day, above all else, that is why I hike, and why I have chosen to start this particular hike on April 15th, 2015, three years to the day from the day I heard Erik had died, three years to the day from the moment I felt my life truly shifted into a new direction.

Thank you for reading, and please support Project 2663, either through the Kickstarter at: 

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1357160531/project-2663

Or on Twitter and Instagram at @project2663.

- John