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

Project 2663 Update - 1/25/15

It was a huge week for Project 2663, and I wanted to share a bit about the status of the Project, and what our goals are moving forward as we get closer and closer to April 15.

First of all, I wanted to thank everyone who has thus far contributed to the Project 2663 Kickstarter.  With your help we are over 2/3rds of the way to the kickstarter goal of $3000.  With almost three weeks to go to raise funds, I'm more confident than ever that we'll hit that number.  If you're interested in supporting the documentary, please check out the kickstarter page at:

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

Funding ends on February 15, so please stop by and donate before then if you are interested in helping us out.

Secondly, I want to welcome two hikers to Project 2663, who have graciously agreed to share their stories as they make their own attempts at the PCT in 2015.

Tyler Dalton, a 21 year old salesman at a Truck shop in Madison, Wisconsin, is making his first long distance hiking endeavor this summer as he attempts an ultra-light attempt on the PCT.

Kayla McCarthy, a 23 year old graduate student from Ohio, is attempting the PCT after a successful through-hike of the Appalachian trail in 2014, and has an aggressive plan to finish the trail before school starts in September.

Both will bring a fascinating dynamic to the project, and I couldn't be happier to have them on board.

If you are a through hiker interested in taking part in Project 2663, please email me at:

project2663@gmail.com

Thirdly, having completed my scheduling for the trail, my attention now shifts to gear and food.  In the coming weeks I will have completed my gear list and will post it here for everyone to see what I'm taking with me as I attempt both a through-hike and a documentary.  For food, I'm working on recipes for light-weight but high calorie backpacking meals which I'll hopefully be able to share with everyone in the coming weeks.  I'm experimenting with several techniques and ideas that are foreign to me, so I'll be sure to let everyone know how they work out.

Thank you again for all of your continuing support of the Project.  It's much appreciated.

John

PCT Training: April 2014 - Southwestern U.S.

While it has long been a dream of mine to hike the PCT, since May of 2011 when I first heard about it, it wasn't until April of 2014 that I ultimately felt comfortable making the commitment to hiking the 2663 mile expanse of the trail in earnest.  There were a variety of reasons for delaying my decision, a knee injury, work, relationships, etc, but the real reason was that I didn't believe I could complete it.  For a long time the Pacific Crest Trail was a pipe dream, like climbing Everest or crossing the Sahara on foot, something I would always think wistfully about while others actually did it.

In April of 2014, I found myself with a six week hiatus from my show at the time, ABC Family's Chasing Life, and decided to take an expansive two week trip through the four corners region of the American Southwest.  My sister and nephew, free for a week because of Spring Break, decided to fly down and join me, and, with me wanting to share the places I'd fallen in love with over the last few years of hiking and exploring, we set out for a desert expedition that was both inspiring and enlightening for all of us.

Our first stop was Zion National Park, in Southwestern Utah, one of my favorite places on Earth and a natural layover point from Los Angeles.  We arrived after nightfall and set up camp, and immediately upon landing, I became intoxicated by the smell of wood fires and budding spring leaves in the icy early spring air.  We set up camp quickly, and then I insisted on a walk under the half moon to look at the stars and embrace the night air.  We hiked a mile up the Pa'Rus Trail, along the banks of the Virgin River, saw a gray fox and several deer, and, when it got too cold for my sister and nephew, they returned, while I stayed beneath the stars taking photographs.

The following morning, we rose early, and I took them to the Emerald Pools, the first trail I like to hike upon arriving in the park.  It's an easy, 6 mile loop, and a good place to introduce people to the park, I've found.

Immediately, they were hooked on the park, and we opted for a second day there, where I led them up the Virgin River to the Wall Street section of the Narrows, the infamous corridor where the river cuts through 2,000 foot high walls on either side, and light only touches the bottom for a few hours each day.  It was an enriching experience, and while it was my second attempt at the Narrows, it was the first time I'd felt like I'd been able to capture it in photographs.  We spent all day in the 40 degree water, floating my nephew downstream in his dry suit and playing the "zombie game" whereby we tried to stay ahead or behind all the other hikers in the river (fun for the boy, and necessary for my photography).

We left Zion that night, and raced down to Page, Arizona, where I'd purchased tour tickets for Antelope Canyon, where I had long dreamed of shooting (as have most other photographers I've met).    I took the special "photography tour" offered by http://www.navajoantelopecanyon.com, a smaller, more intimate experience specially catering toward professional photographers.  I took the two-canyon tour, first exploring Rattlesnake Canyon, then Upper Antelope Canyon, two notorious slot canyons on Navajo Land, only accessible with a guide.

We left that afternoon and popped down to Horseshoe Bend, another place I'd never seen, hiking the two miles out to the notorious bend in the Colorado River.  I sat on the edge of the cliff face and felt engulfed by the vast expanse of sandstone and dark green water, before finally pulling myself away to continue our journey south, to the Grand Canyon.

The next day, after taking in the views at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, we continued on to Monument Valley, a treat for the film fan in my sister.  We took photos at John Ford's Point, and stepped out onto the iconic stretch of Highway 163.

Our next day found us at Canyon De Chelly National Monument, on the Arizona/New Mexico border, where we drove the rim and took a guided horseback ride deep into the canyon.  One of the most inspiring aspects of the entire trip was gaining an appreciation for Navajo culture, and seeing the history and vibrance of the people carved from the land which I'd grown to love so much in the past few years.

The next day I dropped my sister and nephew at the Albuquerque airport (following an impromptu drive-by of a few Breaking Bad locations), and turned north, to Mesa Verde.  It was still cold on the mesa, and stormy, and at one point I found myself taking shelter in the Cliff Palace ruins from an unexpected hail storm.  I returned to my car cold and wet, but thoroughly inspired by the ruins and the mysterious history of the place.

I continued on to the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park, and spent the night taking photos of the milky way beneath the blood-red moon of a lunar eclipse.  The peacefulness and solitude of the Needles has always drawn me to it, and the next day, hiking out to the Confluence Overlook, where the Green River pours into the Colorado, I decided, finally, to embrace the idea of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.

There were a few reasons for my decision.  Firstly, that day was April 15th, the two year anniversary of my best friend Erik's death back in Iowa, which was in many ways the catalyst for my seeking solitude in the outdoors in the first place.  Secondly, it was my longest hike to date, as I wound up turning the 8 mile Confluence Trail hike into a 24 mile hike down to Chesler Park and back, which was the first time I'd seriously pushed my physical limits since my knee surgery the year prior.  Thirdly, I had begun to grow complacent in my photographic and hiking endeavors, revisiting the same places and taking the same kinds of photos.  I needed a new challenge, I needed to push myself even further.

I left the Needles the next morning, and drove straight to Arches National Park, where I sought out another photographic landmark, Delicate Arch.  I waited for nearly three hours to get a clean photo of the Arch, without any of the hundreds of other tourists impinging on my shot, but I eventually got several that I was happy with.

Satisfied, I moved on to the Island in the Sky section of Canyonlands, only to find that the campground was full, and I was facing a long search for a new place to camp.  Fortunately for me, a retired couple from Montreal invited me to share their camp, and even cooked me a delicious meal in their camper van, dubbed their "Sherlock Home," because it took them on a voyage of discovery, and because it was their home for nearly six months.  It was a beautiful gesture, and I was extremely grateful for their hospitality.

I got up early the next morning for another stop on my photography bucket list, Mesa Arch at sunrise, and spent a few hours with a dozen other professional and amateur photographers, in a rather surreal experience, talking shop and taking ultimately very similar photographs.

I left Canyonlands and proceeded on to my final stop, Capitol Reef National Park, where I'd read about the beautiful orchards and looked forward seeing the spring blooms on the apple and cherry trees.  I left my campsite with the intention of a taking an easy stroll along the Fremont River, and wound up hiking nearly 17 miles without water, trying to cover as much ground in the criminally underrated National Park.

I slept soundly that night, and in the morning made the long, 12 hour drive back to Los Angeles, with a heart full of love for the Southwest, and a new goal to pursue, one that will officially kick off one year to the day after my decision to hike the PCT.


John

Most of the photographs in this blog are available to view or buy on my photography website:  www.daturaphoto.com