Day 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 9

Oh what a difference a night can make...

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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



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



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

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

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