May 28: Won't you take me to...Hikerstown

Hiking was beautiful again today. This section is infamous for being a hellish and miserable 100 miles. The heat is said to be unbearable. The views are nothing great. Water is nowhere to be found. Many people even skip a big chunk of this section, as the trail crosses the Mojave, by opting for a 20-mile road walk, which effectively cuts off some 30 miles of trail. This year, however, none of these factors are living up to their notorious infamy.

All morning we had views of the arid, colorful Antelope Valley to our north as we looked out from under a patchy, alternating canopy of black oak and coulter pine. At noon we crossed Pine Canyon Road and were lucky enough to arrive just as a car was dropping off a huge watermelon. A couple other hikers were hanging out there slurping down huge sections of plump red fruit, cut into enormous arm-length sixths lengthwise. To our great surprise, one of the hikers there turned out to be Stewart (now "Moose") -- one of the brothers who had dropped us at the border our first day on the trail, five and a half weeks ago. We caught up with him for a while, amazed to be seeing him again at all. It turns out that his brother Chuck ("Spike") was having a difficult time keeping up, ended up getting sick, going home to San Diego, not being able to take it at home, and finally returning to he trail in Stew's jeep to drive around as chauffeur and trail angel for what has been referred to as "the family" -- Moose, Dat and Bobboh. These guys are pretty damn funny. They are headed up the trail and bringing a party right along with them. "Campfire every night, wine all the time," grinned silver-haired Stewart, raising up his Gatorade jug full of Merlot. They are making a point of stopping at every bar, grill, or restaurant within three miles of the trail, and I think they've been successful so far. While very amusing, it is odd to listen to men in their late 40s talk about getting drunk with the same breathless adoration as freshmen in college might. We figure that some of these guys come out onto the trail to find themselves, to rediscover some lost sense of what it all meant once, only to find that they can just as easily drink themselves to sleep every night out here as at they could've at home. I'm certainly not judging. As they say, you hike your hike, I'll hike mine.

The last 6 miles of the day took us over some rolling footills just on the southern edge of the Antelope Valley. It was a bit tedious, but still comfortable and very beautiful. Our goal for the day was Hikerstown, yet another Trail angel stop, this one a bit less popular than the last two for whatever reason. Apparently the owner had a rocky start getting acquainted with the PCT hiker community a few yeas ago when he bought the place. At first he thought people were trespassing, which he didn't like. He hadn't known a thing about the trail before moving out here from Hollywood (he's in the movie industry) and suddenly here he was, on a spot that hikers had always come to in the past for water and camping. Next thing, he decided that it sounded pretty cool, got a few hikers to help set up the place so it would be a comfortable, functional place for folks to stop. Two people stuck around, helped him build some little buildings and set this hiker village up, refused payment and headed on down he trail. Well, Richard figured that maybe all the hikers would want to help out so generously. The next day, some hikers showed up and he handed them some paintbrushes and started in on what he'd like to see get done. They had just hiked 18 miles and weren't too keen on the idea. Then, Donna Saufley at Hiker Heaven in Agua Dulce heard abou it from some hikers and she started warning people not to go there. She takes her job as trail angel very seriously and doesn't apparently like to hear of othrs doin a sub-par job. Also, she's a bit of an alarmist and a firebrand. Long story short -- it took a while for Hikerstown and the PCT to come to terms with one another.

We had heard all of this and definitely wanted to check it out. With my mother coming to visit in a couple weeks, we'll still have a few days to spare between here and Lone Pine, so we figure it's best to spend days where we are welcome unconditionally and free of charge rather than push on until we are forced into getting hotel rooms or staying in uncomfortable places.

Hikerstown turns out to be a pretty low-key, strange kind of spot. It is a fenced in property with lots of little building facades running te length of one of its sides, piled with junk and vehicles, arranged to resemble subtly an old mining town or something out of the Old West. There is a saloon full of chickens, a spot in front of another building where an old kiddie horse toy on springs faces a naked female mannequin with a missing arm, other random artsy piles of junk. There is an outdoor shower next to a small garage which houses Richard's Ferrari, and a hiker lounge with TV and DVD player, couches and chairs. A pretty white horse and donkey parade around with the six fat dogs.

We were welcomed by the groundskeeper, Bob, and shown around. There were about eight other hikers already "in town," relaxing in the yard, watching a movie. We hit the cold outdoor shower right away. The dust has been particularly bad these past couple of days. I think that this is the filthiest I've been yet.

Richard decided to have a barbecue for dinner and so made us all chicken and hotdogs. It was very filling and kind of gross. I spent the following hours in food coma. Everyone is laving in the morning, but Eliza and I may stay.

May 27: God bless the USPS

Eliza has proclaimed today the best day yet on the PCT.

We got up with the dozen or so others at the Casa de Luna and enjoyed a big pancake breakfast, with good strong coffee and real Vermont maple syrup.

At around 8:30, the Andersons starting snapping peoples' pictures in front of the welcome sign painted on the front of their garage, and piling hikers into their little cars to start the process of getting people back on the trail. The photo routine, along with jotting down some info about who we are, where we're from, e-mail, comments, etc. is pretty standard when taking leave of a trail angel. This morning was laid back, with time for seconds and thirds of Terrie's waffles and pancakes. The whole process was atypically slow -- hikers are usually itching to go well before 7. We went with the last load, back up to Hughes Lake Road where we had finished our packless walk yesterday afternoon. Before leaving, I had time while waiting to call Greg and catch him at his office, which was nice. It was a good start to the day.

We started up Sawmill Mountain at 9:30. The sun was burning pretty high already and we were swimming in sweat before long. The hike, while not extraordinarily spectacular, was very nice, affording great views of the sweltering Antelope Valley below to our north and east. Insects were swarming around our legs and faces, not biting, just swarming. We had lots of shade once we ascended high enough to find some trees. Black oaks and incense cedars were our main source of cover. Dry, gravel-strewn stream beds crossed the path often. Water was sparser today than usual. However all of these random aspects of our day fit together, we loved it. We both felt rested and strong. The heat was a bearable and uplifting reminder of the fast aproaching summer.

At 1:30, we stopped for lunch atop a nice ridgetop meadow, under an gnarly oak tree. It is the first meal we had cooked on our little alcohol stove since before arriving in Agua Dulce over a week ago. Digesting our oatmeal, we decided we would try once again to get in touch with someone who might be able to help us find our missing bounce bucket. We'd had the central USPS lost package center working on it as of a few days ago, but hadn't heard back, so we tried calling one of the post offices to which it may have been forwarded -- the first one we found listed in our data book was Big Bear City, so I gave it a try. Mail Guy answers, I tell him who I am and what my situation is. He says, "Foster? A bucket? Yeah, I'm looking at it right now." What? I am floored. Not only was I 99% sure that this bucket of ours was spilled all over some loading dock somewhere on the outskirts of LA, the contents drifting away on the wind like so many tangles of tumble weed -- but to call up and hear from the first guy I ask that it's sitting right in front of him, fully intact? Ask and thou shalt receive! All my pessimism, all my faithless indignation has suddenly vanished. Oh, humanity! Oh, civilization! I was even able to give him a different forwarding address over the phone, so as to have the whole lot waiting for us in LA before we flip up to Canada in a few weeks.

This was an amazing and unexpected turn of events. Life felt grand, no worries. We were just out on a mountainside, digesting our whole grains, thinking of nothing, feeling the moment completely. At least for one moment. Soon the vacant gap of frustration left by the discovery of our missing package was bein crowded in upon by other, heretofore lesser worries. There was still this pesky thing with the returned camera which I haven't had any confirmation on yet . . . and my teeth have been bothering me since having some cavities filled last month . . . what else? There will certainly be something else turning up tomorrow. Something to perturb my tranquility. There is sure to always be something -- some stain on the carpet, a smudge on the glass just over the perfect sunset horizon.

I have a very vivid, clear memory of a time -- I must have been in the 2nd or 3rd grade -- I was sitting in our dining room in Caton, NY reading a National Geographic, or rather, looking at the pictures, and I had the thought that everything was just then all right. Life was a purity, a perfect hovering sphere, blessed and contenting, full of infinite promise. A stillness may have occurred. But before I could grasp this moment, my heart had sunk. There were things that bothered me, things that lived like viruses inside my mind -- secrets and dark guilty fears. And this disease, Lupus. How could this be my life, I wondered, fearfully, incredulously? I often recall this childhood realization as my earliest moment of maturation.

***

Today, nothing much matured in me . . .

We cat-napped on our ground cloth after lunch, got up after an hour and enjoyed an easy afternoon. We set up camp early, around 5:00, ate two dinners and climbed into our little yellow tent before dark.

The bugs came out vicious and hungry as dusk approached. I got frustrated as hell and by the time I climbed into the tent I felt like this entire day had been spoiled. The end of the day can do this, we've found. Even the coldest, wettest, most miserable day can end up just fine and be soon forgotten if the sun comes out for just a brief moment and preparations for sleep can be done in peace.

blah blah blah.

Good night.

May 26: Casa de Luna, the Lunatic Lounge

No two trail angels are alike. This I know is true. Terrie summed it up well. The Saufleys run their show with corporate efficiency. They have everything any hiker could want. They are easy and chill and they make it look like they don't even try. Donna is in the yard watering flowers, smiling, always smiling. Jeff is patting a hiker on the back, wishing him a safe trip. There is something eerily perfect about the whole thing. The Andersons, on the other hand, are running more of a Hippy Daycare. They're playing it by ear every day, running to the store at any hour for extra beer or nacho cheese when stocks run low. There are torn up shoes in the yard, dishes on the countertops and weed packed glass pipes on the coffee tables. Terrie is chain smoking and drinking beer at 11am. Joe is screaming profanities at the dogs, laughing like a mischievous 14-year-old. Then there are the MacKenzies in Wrightwood, and old Pat and Paul back at the Oasis in Anza, and Walkabout in Big Bear . . . Somehow, all these absurdly different people are out here, living their different lives, helping out hikers in their own different ways.

We had pancakes and waffles and coffee this morning. Last night we decided to take another day off, let our surprisingly sore feet readjust to the hard life, and enjoy ourselves at the Casa for a day. Six or seven people had already left by 9am. I wanted to make a few phone calls, catch up on this Pocketmail. Eliza slept in, hidden up on the hill behind the house in a sun speckled passageway deep in the Alice in Wonderland Mananita forest. I am carrying two books now for some reason, The Great Gatsby, which I love and am rereading (and should have finished today, it's only 200 short pages) and another book written about NYC in the 30s -- One of these needs to be finished and jetisoned immediately. If anyone out here knew I was carrying two books!

At noon, we set off on an 8-mile slack-pack. The walk was realt nice. We spent an hour recalling everything we had eaten over the past week. The break in LA was very good for re-establishing some semblance of equilibrium to our chortling GI tracts. Our two-week experiment in junk food dieting ended badly. We felt ill going into the Saufley's and vowed then and there to take better care of ourselves . . . if anyone out there wants to send some good food our way, we're currently accepting applications for long-distance re-supply duty.

It's been a quiet evening. The TV's been running DVDs nonstop. I've been immersed in my typing. We had our second night in a row of Terrie's taco salad and everyon is off to tents and beds . . .

Tomorrow, we walk. Hikertown awaits.

May 25, another Oasis?

Back on the trail, today we were up at 4:25 am, excited to move and finally get some miles behind us again. The day got pretty hot, pretty early and my feet felt pretty bad, pretty fast. I am not sure if it's the new shoes (the used, not new ones taken from the hiker box, that is) or my soft, lazy ass, R&R-week-in-LA spoiled feet. Hopefully the latter, as my opportunity to get new sneakers again is just about nil until my mom comes to visit in two and a half weeks. The day was a good one, though, aside from the aches and pains and the heavy, first day out packs. We were good and alone again out there. The streams were flowing strong and we felt free.

At around noon we came upon a strange scene. Rounding a bend, we were confronted by a grotesque, grinning sight. Before us, an undead pirate partyer hung from a Manzanita limb, Miller Genuine Draft affixed in hand. It was a plastic prop placed at the entrance to the Casa De Luna Oasis water (plus) cache. Passing under the living bough header, we found ourselves in a shady little room furnished with beach chairs, 5 gallons of water, an extra sweat shirt (?) and a fully stocked cooler. We were tickled and delighted and sat there reading and applying ourselves to the register for the next hour. The Casa de Luna, our next trail angel stop was only 6 miles away and we were in no hurry to leave the cozy confines of our little trailside fort.

We were fortunate during our rest stop to be present while Joe, one of the proprietors of the Casa de Luna, and another hiker showed up on a restocking mission. He was loud and goofy, the kind of guy who likes to poke fun and get a rise out of people. They sat and drank a beer--he never drinks before noon, and thank God it was almost 12:20--and he told a few stories of how good a time he and his wife like to have with the hikers each year. Once, they heard tell that a few young hikers, kids right out of highschool, were camping at the cache and that they were jonesin' for some weed. Well, he and Terrie rolled right out there at midnight bearing flashlighs an a big bag of weed, looking to have a litle fun with these kids. They showed up, torches blazing, and gave the kids a nice scare, claiming to be cops or something, before coming clean and settling down right along with them for a nice session under the stars. He seemed nice enough, a real character to be sure.

Later on, after a shower and a bellyful of Terrie's specialty taco salad, we weren't sure when we would be back on the trail. Rumor has it, thre's even another hiker place 40 mils down the way, Hikertown, where we will be encouraged once again to dally away more of our time. We're not sure what's happening...we're going to start expecting everyone to take us in and feed us wherever we go, this can't be any good! We're being spoiled!

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May 24: Back to the trail

After a day in Agua Dulce and a nice, long, four-day visit in LA, we returned to the trail tonight. My friend Dan drove us back to the Saufley's this afternoon from his apartment in Los Feliz and we set about preparations for leaving. By 9:30 or so, under cover of a hazy, warm darkness, we were back on the PCT, road walking out of Agua Dulce.

The week off has been really great. Time away from the trail and trail culture has been refreshing, relaxing, and restorative. The day and a half spent at the hiker heaven was a treat as well.

The Saufley's house -- this Hikers' Heaven -- is just a really laid back place. Jeff and Donna, the owners have put so much of themselves, financially and personally, into making their home a home to the hikers of the PCT. Thursday, after arriving mid-day, was spent hanging out, drinking a few beers in the sun, catching up with friends. The Saufley's have two extra cars which they allow hikers to use so people were always coming and going in little groups, heading down to the supermarket or to the pizza place, taking trips to the REI in LA, going to the Post Office. A carload even took a daytrip on Saturday to Six Flags Magic Mountain in Valencia. I can't say I wasn't tempted. A group of us got out Thursday evening to catch an opening day showing of the now Star Wars film (it was excellent, incidentally -- dark, exciting, well done).

The Saufley's home and property span a few acres, dotted with big open tents full of cots, a mobile home with kitchen, two bedrooms and a living room, an RV, a beautiful flowering cactus garden, horse corral and stable. Aside Jeff and Donna's house is a line of big, clear plastic bins, set up as hiker boxes for hikers to exchange food, gear, etc. I actually found a nice pair of used sneakers in there which am trying out now. It isn't often that I come across used 13s at all, let alone decent, comfortable ones. In the garage, on the south side of the house, there is a sign board with information about the trail, the vehicles, doing laundry, etc. Also, the garage acts as the postal receiving area. Boxes are stacked to the ceiling, five-gallon buckets wrapped in blue, eagle's head sihouette priority tape form a wall of their own. Our bounce bucket, unfortunately, never made it. We've been leaving forwarding addresses everywhere we've gone, but still no bucket. It's been particular frustrating, this missing bucket because everything in the bucket was put there for convenience sake, just in case, so we wouldn't have to go to stores in search of little things like Deet or sunscreen or Advil or batteries, everytime we got into a town. But here we are, still no sign of the damn bucket. We don't really even need a lot of the stuff in there. The whole thing has been one big, ridiculous headache. We've called the postal service and they claim to be looking into it . . . fill out the change-of-address form and keep on walking.

We were given the honeymoon suite in the hiker mobile home as we were the only couple in attendance upon our arrival -- we recalled that Angela and Duffy had enjoyed the same honor in their book, A Blistered Kind of Love. A copy of their book was actually right down the hall in the living room and Eliza enjoyed an evening of re-reading the first half of their journey, comparing our own trip, as a couple, fairly new to hiking, with theirs. We had been harboring some deranged, misplaced pride early on that we never needed to get hotel rooms in towns, we could just slip in, get our groceries, slip out and sleep back on the trail (we are actually just incredibly cheap), and we swelled smuggly, triumphantly after reading that Duffy and Angela desperately needed their first room on day three. We're so tough. It was very interesting to reread some of the book after actually seeing the trail and experiencing some of the same things as the two of them. We thought it was pretty cool a few weeks ago seeing the register forms that these two had filled out in the Hikers' Oasis. They are like celebrities out here, along with Meadow Ed, the Saufleys, and Yogi -- another woman who has written a book and is commonly revered as a trail guru of sorts. It's kind of comical, really. Then again, it is very cultural, very inclusive to have these figures whom everyone knows about, that everyone relates to to some degree.

***

The trip to LA was a great time, although it started off a bit rocky. We were dropped off in Griffith Park, just off the freeway, on Saturday morning, by Duck and Swift who were visiting their brothers. They were continuing northward on Sunday, so we said goodbye, wondering whether we would see them again. The trail this year may prove to be particularly divisive for groups of hikers. The weather and everyone's daily changing plans for how to deal with the Sierras is pulling everyone in a different direction . . .

So with our cohort left dissolving in Agua Dulce, we found ourselves wandering into LA's baked central park. It turned out to be a thoroughly miserable day, an ugly, sweaty transition. Once again we discovered how much more unpleasant it is to walk on roads than out on a trail -- not to mention how difficult it is to navigate a big city without a map. I thought I could get us around the park and into Dan's neighborhood, Los Feliz, but I was sorely mistaken. We walked and walked, but the roads stayed right with us, the crowds just got bigger, with more kids and more pinatas and louder music; the park never became a park. Finally we ended up calling Dan and leaving three messages from a bench across from the kiddie train ride next to the pony stables before getting directions to his place and setting off in the opposite direction.

The day got better. We found the place and by evening we were drinking beers, guitars in hand, cocked and loaded, catching up with new and old friends, officially off our feet and off the PCT.

Los Angeles

Dan and Molly were extravagent in their hospitality this past week.

We were given a fabulous futon mattress for sleeping. Food, gossip and other fuels were readily available around the corner at the local chic coffee shop. We spent Sunday morning perusing produce and sampling the wares at the Hollywood farmers' market. I indulged in a heaping platter of vegetarian Mediterranean food -- one of my most frequently fantasized-about food; Eliza, Dan and Molly all stuffed down steaming, overloaded burritos. The market was very nice, crowded, colorful, pleasantly alilt with music and the entreating calls of vendors.

Later that day we agreed to join our hosts at a co-ed baby shower a friend of theirs was having. It was held in Glendale, somewhere up the highway and around the hills, in a beautiful and enormous house overlooking the dense, smog-stained, steel and concrete valleys of eastern Los Angeles. We all got out the car and balked when we saw the house, its pristine white doorway being grace by the entry of a group a pristinely clad party goers. Eliza and I had on the same clothes that we always wear. Dan actually looked no better than us. It was fine, though. The party was for a guy who works with Dan's new twins, and he was just excited to see more people from his side in attendance at his highly unorthodox cross-gender baby shower. Nearly everyone there turned out to be Armenian, stangely enough. In fact, it seems that there are lots and lots of Armenian people al over LA. I had no idea. So we schmoozed some, ate a lot, played the games that get played at these types of get-togethers . . . Dan ended up winning the apple juice chugging contest to see who could drink a baby bottle-full the fastest. It was a hilarious thing to watch. We left bearing chocolate party favors and a huge plate of Arabic food. I had eaten the same for breakfast, but my mouth wasn't about to stop munching.

That night Dan, Eliza, and I went out to watch Molly perform with an improv group at a comedy club in Hollywood. It was a good time, funny. Her show was followed by Jeff Gruner's standup show (the guy from "Curb Your Enthusiasm") with Bob Goldthwait and another guy. We didn't stick around for more than a few minutes, though, and the rest of the night was spent recalling old times over guitars back at the house.

***

Monday was re-supply and Internet day. Eliza and I walked around some other neighborhood, Silverlake, I think, for a while. I ran into Hollywood and got my cellphone replaced, saw Dan's place of employment, played some riffs on his boss's ancient guitar, and that night we were treated to a huge Indian meal at The Electric Lotus.

***

And Tuesday afternoon, we found ourselves back in traffic, headed out to Agua Dulce, an hour out of downtwon LA. Dan was able to drive us back to the Saufley's and our vacation felt abruptly finished.

Immediately upon arriving at the Hiker Heaven we saw that our package still hadn't arrived and started to get frantic about all the little tasks we still had to get to before being able to head out and get back on the trail. There were what seemed to be hordes of new hairy hikers spread out over the lawn behind the house. Bits and pieces of conversations caught our ears. "Dude, the climb right after Islip was so intense, but we did it," and "Man, didn't want to take a break, but I knew it was right. My body definitely needed a zero." It was too much for me. For whatever reason, Dan and Molly didn't show much interest in our hike. They were really, really happy to have us, and excited to share their lives with us, but never fully seemed to grasp what we were really doing out here. At one point Dan called out from the other room where he was preparing some CDs or DVDs to burn for me, "Where are you guys living now, anyway?" "Nowhere, Dan, we're just hiking until October," we replied. "What?! No really, what about listening to music?" I don't think he ever dropped his incredulity. We told him we might be able to see him again when we were back in LA and he took it as a matter of course. Anyway, back in Agua Dulce and there was no escaping the trail and its all encompassing trappings . . .

By 9pm, we were off, headed down the road towards the trail, headlamps ablaze, the nearly full moon hung like a lamp over our shoulders . . .

May 19: Agua Dulce

Today was by far the hottest day yet on the trail. We passed through Soledad Canyon at around 9am and, after a unsuccessful side-trip into an RV park to get a cup of coffee, ascended up the boulder-strewn, baking hills which stand just West of the San Gabriel Mountains. A huge composite rock formation loomed orange and brown over our heads as we switched back and forth up the exposed hillsides. Coming up over the crest, we spotted Agua Dulce and the busy Antelope Valley Highway, whcih we would cross underneath via a deep, long culvert tunnel. The rest of the morning was spent passing through the Vasquez Rocks county park, a beautiful, if buggy and poison-ivy-choked, outcropping of metamorphic rock globs, chock full of caves with squawking ravens and speedy, slithery lizards. We weren't in much of a mood to linger and appreciate, however. We had a goal to get to.

We rolled into town and into the Sweetwater Market for juice at 1:00 pm. We immediately spotted a bi sign reading, "Welcome to Agua Dulce, PCT Hikers!" and a crew of scraggly, bearded guys in matching royal blue Saufley's Electric tees. There were about seven of them, all shoveling down pints of Ben & Jerry's (Eliza may insist that I am exagerating here, but mark my words . . . ) These were Thru-hikers, no doubt about it. We knew we had come to the right place.

An hour later we were kicking back in the Saufley's back yard, sipping Red Nectar Ales, catching up with some other hikers, making plans to get showered and head out ASAP to see the newest Star Wars film.

So here we are, taking a load off for a bit, happy to have made it this far, excited about the next stage, feeling like we're really out here, in the middle of something really big, a challenge -- on our way somewhere, each of us for ourselves, both of us in it together. It sounds cheesy or contrived, I suppose, too compact, too tidy. We certainly have our share of worries, all of the details and headaches, our own interpersonal issues -- arguments, communication problems, short-sightedness, selfishness.

May 18:

Gorgeous hiking today, under cover of Black Oak and Incense Cedar, various pines -- lots of shade. The ravens were riotous and loud. I've never heard such a racket in the woods in the middle of the day. Such choruses are usually restful and muted until select moments at the opening and closing of each day.

We were having a blast just walking today. Occasionaly we'd pick up an old thread, pose a follow-up question to an earlier, previously suspended conversation. For the most part we just swept onward, keeping a good 3-mph clip. We are hitting our stride well, as are most of the other hikers we've been seeing, getting in our 20-mile baseline easily by 5:00, pushing on for a few more to finish the day usualy at 21 or 22, with time to spare for journaling, cooking, reading.

We caught up with Duck and Swift, as well as the Khaki Crew, and camped at Mattox Creek (mile 25.5 for us). Kickstep burned by us early on, pumped up from a successful climb and descent of Mt Baden Powell. He apparently is trying to make Agua Dulce tonight, pulling a miraculous 42-mile day. He is a hilarious guy. Koala and I both really like him and his gruff, buffoonish, macho manner.

Tomorrow, we'll all make Agua Dulce and the Saufley's Hiker Heaven, the famous PCT milestone, hikers' paradise, where people have spent weeks off-trail. We are hoping to spend some time, and even catch a ride into LA if possible. Our schedule shows that we have a little extra time on our hands and I have an old friend who lives in Los Feliz. We just hope that our arrival in Hiker Heaven doesn't mark the end of our time spent with the other ten hikers in our loose cohort.

May 17: Accounting for friends

After camping on a little bluff overlooking the rush and tumble of Rock Creek in a beautiful mixed flora canyon of Cedar, Pine, and Oak, we set out this morning tired and achy -- the second day out is a tough one on the body. Unhappily we crossed the creek's bitter, thigh-high waters a few times.

The day was somewhat humdrum for both of us. We got to worrying about our plans and timing and about our mysteriously missing bounce-box which we haven't seen in three weeks. What can we do, though, but walk for now?

Crossing the highway again (the Angeles Crest winds it's way throughout the San Gabriels) we spotted a motorcycle highway patrolman who pulled up and gruffly asked us if we were with "those other two." No, we're by ourselves, officer. Images of half of our hiking cohort sliding down off a thousand foot rock face, plumetting like lemmings to their horrible crushing demise below on the boulders . . . "Well, I just passed a girl named 'Swift' up the road a few miles. She looked kind of upset, said she got lost or something. There was another back behind her; red hair, braces . . . " He cocks his head a little, raising an eyebrow behid his steely shades, "Said she was walkin' from Mexico all the way to Canada." He laughs to himself: joke's on you guys, he's thinking. "If I were gonna do that I'd have to take this here along with me." He pats his shiny BMW two-wheeler lovingly and pulls out into the empty highway. "Take care, kids!"

We were relieved to hear that Swift and Flippy were safely road walking and down off the mountain top. That left another three guys unaccounted for, but we knew for sure that they had full, six-point crampons and had presumably stayed together up there.

We wondered at the peculiarity of the cop referring to Swift by her trail name. I think of all of the times I've had to hang my humble head down before men of the law. I don't think my record would be so clear as it is now had I ever dared to give a self-indicting freakish cult nickname like "Wolf" whenever the flashlight came hammering down on the window and my life as a free man came screeching, momentarily, to a halt. You might as well just fess up, "Hey man, dude, you can just call me pot head, outlaw, canine man, cuz that's like my identity, bro." But then, there we were, hearing about our friends "Swift" and "Flippy" from a big, tough chopper cop. Life on the trail . . .

The rest of the day was uneventful. We are already sick and tired of our food supply for the week -- we are going to make a concerted effort to get off the junk next week. We went ultra-cheap, ultra-hydrogenated, ultra-high fat and calorie content coming out of Wrightwood and our bodies are definitely paying the price. For lunch today I ate a peanut butter, cracker crumb, pretzel, cookie crumb burrito. It wasn't too bad, really. It did made me feel pretty bad, though, really.

Swift caught us later and told us about her harrowing trip down from the mountain. She had slipped down a washout and ended up hanging onto an old stump's roots, overlooking a good two-hundred-foot drop, trying to figure out what to do as the scree slid out from underneath her feet. Running out of time, she jetisoned her pack and let herself go behind it, making sure to roll out of the fall line, in an effort to avoid being struck by rocks following in her wake. She made it down with just a few scrapes, thankfully, and camped that night at the bottom. She sounded pretty shaken up by the whole thing. Her ice axe was lost at some point during the fall and her water bite-valve was broken as well. We were glad to have avoided the experience ourselves.

We camped atop a shoulder of Pacifico Mountain at a viewful, sunny spot adjacent to a jeep road. We never caught the remander of our crew. They must be just ahead.

May 16:

Back on the trail today. I caught a glimpse of a bear cub this morning, retreating uphill through a grove of live oak. I never saw his face, but his thick brown back side and clumsy, loud movements gave him right away. That was a treat, and a nice welcome back to the mountains after having a bit of a break in Wrightwood.

Coming to Vincent's Gap, we left the PCT, opting for the safer and, presumably, much easier road walk around Mt Baden-Powell. After much debate, it seemed like the hikers we saw in town this weekend were fairly split on which route to take. The PCT route, which runs over the summit of the mountain and down a steep, north-facing backbone ridgeline has only been done once so far this season, just last week by a British couple who posted their accomplishment, along with a lengthy description of the trail's dangers and difficulties, on the PCT list-serve. I had considered attempting it, but it was very likely that I wouldn't be able to make it down far enough to reconnect with Eliza -- she didn't give it a second thought, she was NOT going up into the snow-covered peaks -- and since we share tent and other accoutrements, my decision was made for me, which was fine by me. It turned out to be the right choice for both of us.

First of all, this road walk was no ordinary road walk. The Angeles Crest Highway has been closed all winter and will likely not open again until the summer of 2006. The ten-mile stretch that we walked today has been utterly destroyed by avalanches, landslides, and washouts this winter. It was really wild to walk through and witness firsthand the carnage, the shear, magnificent power of earth, and wind, and water. At points, where the snow had actually melted off, the blacktop of the road was barely visible under a fresh layer of recklessly strewn silt and granitic boulders. At other points, the highway was gruesomely cracked and sagged under its own weight -- the earth underneath having been washed away leaving nothing to support the poor, invalid roadway. For the most part, the road was still covered with snow -- great, avalanche drifts, over ten feet deep at points, speckled and dimpled with dirt and grime, stones and boulders, all sunk into the once white surface where the sun had heated their hard, black backs.

The way was spectacular, but very slow going. It's not often that one is in constant danger of spraining an ankle on a road walk. There was just so much rubble out there today. The snow was the real hindrance, though. As we plodded, soaking, over the drifts, the mountaintop clouds howled and whisped overhead. The trail was up there somewhere, veiled in mist, lost underfoot. We knew a good handful of people who had gone up earlier this morning and we hoped that they would all make it down safely.

At Islip Saddle, a point where the PCT crosses the highway, we ran into Tomato, a guy in his early 30s whom we've been seeing a bit of lately. He had just descended from Baden-Powell and seemed pretty shaken up. He had gotten split up from the others and had eventually followed some meandering footprints which had led to the top of a great landslide, hundreds of feet over the road. He described faling at one point and sliding so quickly down an icy chute that when he finally grabbed ahold of a tree branch his body actually left the surface of the snow, lifting up violently, and nearly dislocating his shoulder. We wondered, why were you alone? Where are the others? He had seemed like one of the more experienced mountaineers in the bunch we've been hiking around and if he was this spooked, what about Swift and Buckeye, Kickstep and Wildhair? We left Tomato to eat his dinner and walked on after a short stop (two other guys, Smiley and Scrubs who had road walked as well were there eating too). The clouds were moving in quickly and the day as starting to feel awfully eerie.

May 15: "Zero"

Today was a "Zero Day", hiker slang for putting in no miles on the trail. On the AT, while we were in the Smokies last month, hikers were constantly talking about their zeros -- frankly, at the time, they sounded like a bunch of whiners to me. I recall a particularly brilliant conversation by the campfire on our last night there: one guy, after a lengthy recollection of his two-day beer run into Gatlinburg, sighs plaintively, "Zeros are the best. Really, man, zero's my favorite number." I am just finishing up Saul Bellow's "Mr. Sammler's Planet", in which the brainy protagonist bemoans, disinterestedly, bewildered (though, not amused), the self-deprecated and devoted allegiance of today's American youth to obscurity, falsehood, nothingness. He was writing of the 60s actually, but much of what he says rings very true. Having this book, incidentally, has been a wonderful and complimentary addition to my trip so far. From what I've experienced on the PCT, the zero is enjoyed much more sparingly out here than back on the AT. There is also, among the sundry modes of finding time for R&R, the widely excercised "Near-O" day -- a day of just a few miles, on the way in or out of a town, back to the trailhead, etc. A couple of Near-Os, back to back, with a bunch of tiresome schlepping around on busy roads with no sidewalks back and forth from the grocery store to the PO to the pizza joint, this has been the typical town stop. Not all that relaxing, really. This week we had to wait for Monday to hit the PO, and since we had a place to stay here at the McKenzie's, the full day off was more than welcome.

Things aren't always as they seem. The zero turns out, quite often, to be a just a haze of a day. At first so full of infinite possibility, the horizon so wide and distant, the present so promising . . . and then before you know it, you're three beers into an early afternoon, sitting in some stranger's house watching "Elf," wondering if you ever even got out of bed this morning. Feet ache inordinately, a cup of coffee after a week of relative chemical purity sends the mind spinning, too much food still in the belly after last night's three hour gorge . . .

Today, we did our shopping, which shortly turned into a down and out junk food spree. Yes, we've officially slipped ourselves over to the dark side of the nutritional balance spectrum; our bags now brimming with Cheetos and Fritos and vanilla cream cookies . . .

We loafed around the tiny town of Wrightwood, a pleasant vacation location, retirement town, ski resort village. Apparently the Olympics were slated to be held here back in the winter of 1928. They built all the facilities, put up a new stadium and rink, even brought in a railroad line. Then, to the utter disappointment of all interested parties, no snow fell that winter. In Wrightwood, they pulled down the bleachers, tore up the railroad ties and rails and hung their heads right into the Depression. And the Olympics, they were moved to Lake Placid. This is the story I was told, at least.

In the evening we were treated, once again, to a second four-course feast. Marion, the lady of the house, prepared pork, chicken in a mushroom cream sauce, potatoes, stuffing, mixed vegetables, a huge salad. Bottles of wine were popped open, coffee and ice cream closed out the gut-tearing affair. The hosts went on and on about one of their Canadian excursions, from years gone by, as each and every one of us lurched in his seat, queasy, stuffed, filled to the brim.

The difficult thing here is that between the trail and the town there is no barrier of moderation. All week, we ration and skimp, licking the peanut butter jar clean with our finger tips, emptying the last morsels of dehydrated mashed potatoes into our mouths dry lest we waste even one of these precious, albeit empty, little calories. And then we charge into town, half starved, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to fill ourselves with as much food as humanly possible. I suppose the ability to moderate comes with times, and actually, from what I can tell, Eliza and I are a bit more adept at avoiding this comsumptive extremism than most.

Again, my belly is overfull, though. The McKenzies prepared and left us a big fritata before running out this morning to see the doctor and pick up their grandson. We are cleaning up and preparing to set out again soon.
Everyone has been debating about how to go about this next section of trail -- Mt. Baden-Powell. There is a great deal of snow, even on the alternate routes around the mountain itself. Even the scenic highway which circumvents conveniently the trickiest of the twelve-mile stretch has been washed out at points, and we've been informed that CalTrans highway workers will turn us back if they see us trying to use the road as a trail.

We've also started getting reports of bear activity in the area. I guess we'll have to learn how to hang our food from here on out.

May 14: Kindness of strangers in Wrightwood

We marched hard all morning back up into the mountains. We camped last night with a group a hikers that we are getting to know pretty well now, enjoyed hearing about everyone's slightly different, yet identically routed daily journey. Koala and I broke camp and were off by 6am and nearly everyone else had already beaten us up the trail. In Cajon pass yesterday someone had gotten word of a trail angel in Wrightwood, and everyone wanted to make the 20+ miles (and 5000 ft of elevation) early enough to leave time for getting through the snow which would inevitably be blocking the way into town and for finding this trail angel and a place to sleep before dark.

We came upon an empty water cache and found nothing but two Clif Bars, one of which was being gnawed into just as we opened the doors to the trailside cabinet by a plump mother mouse. I grabbed the second, unopened bar as the mouse ran out of a hole at the back of the shelf, curiously leaving a nest full of her young all alone to fend for themselves, were I so inclined as to want to have had them for breakfast as well. We pushed onward, pondering this mama mouse's negligence -- how curious the world of animals can be. For example, we've seen two snakes so far this month. The first was sleeping. We swore it must have been dead, lying there, eyes wide open, us standing less than a foot away, ogling it's scaly coil of belly. Eventually she flicked her tongue, that's it. It was hardly the terrifying rattle which we have been preparing daily to have our blood curdled by. And then yesterday, we were actually rattled at, as we dropped down into Lone Pine canyon just before sundown, when those in the cold-blooded world of temptation and venom come out from their hiding spots, when those legless personifiers of pure evil and sin for a good chunk of this God-fearing planet slither out and try to enjoy a nice stretch of open sun-baked path at last. Well, we tromped by and scared this one half to death. His rattle sounded like a broken toy, pre-pubescent or geriatric, and his body went flailing wildly down the hillside, nothing menacing in this move. We barely caught a glimpse of him, not even time for a photo-op.

Other animals seen: mainly lizards, of a few varieties, horned toads, jack-rabbits, one fine coyote, just today . . .

We did nearly our entire ascent and 14 miles by noon today, an achievement which we were proud of and congratulated ourselves with cookies and dry, uncoked instant mashed potatoes (water rationing was necessary today, for the very fist time this trip). The afternoon was difficult and we lost the trail under snow cover for a good portion of the remaining 8 miles until the highway crossing to Wrightwood. Eliza has a hard time in the snow and we may skip the next steep and potentially dangerous snowy traverse of Mt. Baden-Powell. We haven't yet figured out how to work together through these most difficult of sections -- God knows I am trying to see us both through them.

We did make it to the highway, relieved at finishing the day's hike early at around 4:00. Immediately we scored a ride, along with a guy from Davis, Duck Boy, who we finished the day with, and were on our way into Wrightwood before we had even gotten around to taking our packs off.

From here on out, people started acting really, really nice to us hikers. First off, the old couple who drove us to town treated us to ice cream at the local sweet shop, sat with us at a picnic table and asked us about our trip so far. Then, a couple of other hikers, whom we know -- Wild Hair and Dick Tracy, two middle aged guys who hike together along with a recent college grad, Buckeye -- come over to tell us that while the original trail angel connection has fallen through due to hiker overflow exceeding guest room capacity, there are plenty of others from the local Lions Club over in the parking lot by the hardware store (fundraising with a hotdog cookout or something of the sort--one of them brought us a tin foil wrap of about six extra weiners to help wash down our ice cream with, which we did, our Green-eating Koala Bear included) who are more than happy to host us for the night.

And here we are, seven of us, in the home of, once again, a superbly gracious and kind elderly couple bent on spoiling us rotten and fattenning our bellies. We went through six bottles of wine, a round of huge steaks, a wonderful, crisp salad with mango and cashews, all followed up with coffee and apple pie a la mode. It has been a hiker's wildest food fantasy come true.

I am the last one up here. I can hear all the others breathing heavily, sleeping soundly. The coffee at 10pm jacked me up for the night. Tomorrow, a full, uninterrupted zero day awaits. Post office closed until monday. Quaint mountain town to explore. Rest to be had.

May 12: Boaters with beer

Coming over the rim of Silverwood Lake this afternoon, we were beckoned down to a small beach seclusion by a group of boaters where they were playing with their children in the sand.

The woman called up to the trail asking if we would like a beer or anything. We certainly would, we responded, and trotted down to the shore.

By the time we set out again, an hour or so later, we had been amply restocked with a full box of Cheez-its, a half-bag of pretzels, a quarter-roll of Oreos, two bottle of water and an apple a piece. These people, the woman, a young well-to-do mother of two, in particular, could not believe what we were doing. Where are you going again? Canada. Blank stare, as if numbly convincing herself that Canada must certainly be the name of some small town north up in the San Joaquin valley. Oh, ok. Then, reflecting on our trip thusfar, "Three weeks is a fuckin' long time, man, here you guys need this stuff. Want another beer? Want to get high? . . . "

Most of all, this woman talked about having kids, about how much her life changed -- for the worse, mainly -- after giving birth to her boys. She must have said it a dozen times. "It's all gonna change, man. Hey honey, look at these guys, they're just like we were before we had kids!" Meanwhile he and a buddy are up in the boat slurping down cans of Coors, testing out the new sound system in the boat.

I tried to tell the woman about Greg and Varuni, their kids and their lives, but she cut me off and blabbed on in the same vein that they are probably just terribly jealous of us for having such a fancy-free lifestyle and all that. I don't think this is so. It is strange and ammusing to speak to a empassioned stranger who happens to be so preoccupied with her own life that she is unable to stop for even a second to consider another perspective. Then again, she was very generous and kind to us. People are so odd.

We strolled on for just a couple more miles, happy to have come across these interesting, very Southern, Californians -- bleach blonde, big boobs, a big boat, etc. -- especialy happy to have come away with such a bountiful booty.

We camped by the water, enjoying the box of Cheez-its to it's fullest potential.

Section C, dubbed originally section Cheri, and/or section Corri (we've taken to naming our sections after our family members -- if they only knew how much we talked about them out here), has been re-named section Crazy. The hot springs, with the lounging locals, shrouded in nothing but pot smoke, followed by this run in at the lake, with a pit stop at McDonald's on the horizon for tomorrow . . . we can only offer our humblest apologies to our dear family members for what is turning out to be a very bizarre week.

May 13: Cajon Pass

Food has become quite the conversation piece out here on the trail lately. Calories are counted and compared. Methods for maximizing fat and protein intake are appraised, approved, and perfected. All concepts of how to maintain a nutritional and balanced diet are thrown out the window and our bodies are trained daily to sustain extraordinary physical strain on the meagrest, most defficient, dirt junk food diets imagineable.

Eliza and I fantasized all day long about the upcoming mid-day break at the McDonald's at Cajon Ppass we were headed towards. Milkshakes, large fries, re-fillable sodas, even cheeseburgers, Big Macs, Chicken McNuggets, we already tasted it all as we dropped down out of the San Bernardinos toward the heavy, loud, mass transit, commercial rumble of I-15.

We restrained ourselves pretty well, when judgment finaly arrived as we reached the front of the eggregiously long weekend highway traveler line. We each had the McVeggie Burger Extra Value Meal and a hot fudge sundae. We felt stuffed, but pleasantly so. Later on, we reconvened with some other hikers and heard tales of unbelievable, absolutely disgusting -- I daresay, criminal, caloric consumption.

Kickstep Casey, I believe, held the crown for most filthy fast food eaten there at Cajon Pass that day. He told it proudly, with a sick, and altogether too comfortable, grin stuck on his face. He had a Big Mac extra value meal, a McChicken, a six-piece Chicken McNugget, a double cheeseburger, and a hot fudge sundae at McDonalds. Then, ahem, he went across to the other side of the exit and proceeded to eat a second meal at the Del Taco restaurant -- he restrained himself with just two burritos, one steak, one super. Casey's performance at the fast food chains seems to have drawn a general, yet genuine sense of awe and admiration from our fellow followers of the trail. I guess I am impressed as well, although not in a positive way.

Eliza and I continue to simultaneously pack too much food and never have enough to eat. We have finished all of our home-dried and packaged meals and are now learning how to eat ramen at every meal. We prepare it a la carte, the classic Top Ramen style -- I can still remember my formative years, munching half cooked noodles out of a coffee cup at Monkey Run with my father, if I had only known then how valuable an education in cheap camp cooking would be to me now! -- sometimes mixed with the ubiquitous and often tasteless instant mashed potatoes, sometimes together as a savory filling for noodle-tater burritos . . .

Ah, how appetizing it must sound out there to you all on the other side of cyber world, with your full kitchens and normal dietary needs. I had secretly, yet greatly, looked forward to eating all the junk food I wanted while out on this trip. My bubble has been burst, however. I am sick of junk food already. Fritos and M&Ms, Clif Bars and Skittles, Donuts and Hot Dogs -- shit, all shit. My mouth hurts to think about it now. My body keeps going though, and my stomach will surely want it all over again come tomorrow.

May 11: Deep Creek Hot Springs

The trail was a nightmare today. The San Bernardino National Forest has, for whatever reason, let the PCT go to hell over the stretch we covered today. Blowdowns (trees fallen over the trail), overgrown brush, washed out trail tread -- every 100 yards there was something getting in the way of our walking. It was such an unpleasant surprise, especially given that yesterday, we couldn't have been happier with how clean the trail had been, how well-graded and how smooth it was. It was hot today, as well. We dropped nearly 3000 ft in elevation and spent most of the day trudging monotonously along the exposed rim of Deep Creek Canyon. It was nice to look down and see the rushing waters below, but the day got tedious fast. Flies and gnats were out in abundance. Eliza was grumpy. We both felt kind of bored and miserable.

Around five o'clock, however, we dipped into paradise. We came to the Deep Creek Hot Springs. We had been looking forward to a soak in the hot waters and knew we'd get there by evening. I think we were both skeptical about how nice it would be, though. We've been to some natural hot springs in Oregon and Washington and there is a tendency among the locals who frequent these types of places to use them as party spots, leaving a lot of garbage around, scumming up the water with who knows what. But this spot was absolutely beautiful.

There were a handful of local guys in attendance, a couple here, a couple over there, drinking beers, smoking pot -- it really felt all of a sudden that summer had arrived, the summer ease, the feeling of summer vacation. A group of thru-hikers were there, some of the folks we had been leap-frogging with for the past couple of days, others that we've met and see in town every week. The hiker crowd took on a strange role at the hot springs. I expected that people would be lounging around, filthy clothes discarded, lapping up the change in scenery, basking in the glory of such a spot as this. What I saw, though, was an almost sullen crew of neoprene-clad workhorses, a bit tired out from the day, thoroughly unimpressed with the luxury of steamy baths before them, nervously checking their watches, figuring how many more miles to get in before sundown. Not that I don't frequently suffer from the same obsession with getting in miles every day, but this had to be an exception.

Eliza and I soaked for a while in one of the constructed stone baths, built to catch the flowing hot water before it makes it's way down into the cold rush of the creek. We chatted with a local couple who had come over from Wrightwood, our next town destintion. They were both amazed to hear about this trip we're on, this multi-month journey by foot which we find ourselves in he middle of. We find it pretty amazing ourselves, we laughed.

Camping supposedly wasn't allowed at the hot springs, but I wasn't going to miss the chance to wake up to a hot bath in the morning. We slept on the beach, spellbound by the low crash and rumble of the strong currents of Deep Creek.

May 10: Snow talk

It was a very easy day, smooth rolling trail, pleasant pine cover, our well-rested bodies . . . We were dropped off at the trail head by Walkabout at 9am and had hiked a solid 19 miles by 4:30. We pulled into the Deer Spring horse camp and cooked dinner, chatted with some other hikers, rested our feet until 6 or so when we packed up and pushed onward with another guy, Cypress, until making camp at around 7:30 under a statuesque pair of Ponderosa Pines. *** Everyone is talking about the snow again. We got a report from a guy who lives in the mountains up in central California that two feet of fresh snow just dropped this Monday. They re-opened ski resorts in the Sierras, he said. Everyone's next thought is of the dubious and disjointed flip-flop hike. People are realizing that there is simply no getting around it anymore. All Spring there had been hopeful predictions circulating on the Net of an early summer and a rapid snowmelt, just a minor postponement at Kennedy Meadows before being able to hit the Sierras full stride. It keeps raining, though. And in the mountains, it keeps right on snowing. It is the worst case scenario for anyone who rejected the notion of the flip-flop from the get-go. Eliza hated the idea at first, figured that it broke up the hike's continuity, lended an elevated sense of arbitrariness to the whole endeavor -- a "why don't we just walk in a circle in the back yard for six months and save ourselves some money" kind of thing. But when making it to Canada no longer seemed like a viable goal (we banked on the Sierras staying snowy well into the summer months ago), what could we do but come up with a contingency plan? Our initial goal, the end of our first stage, is to make Lone Pine by June 14. Lone Pine is the eastern jump-off point for climbing Mt Whitney, nestled in between Great Sequoia and King's Canyon National Parks and Death Valley. If we can make it this far before flying up to Vancouver on the 21st, we will have given ourselves an ideal final endpoint in Mt Whitney itself. We will climb the highest peak in the continental US a day or so before we complete the entire PCT. Now others are thinking of doing the same thing. It could be that getting up to Lone Pine from Kennedy Meadows at that point will be impossible -- we don't really know what kind of snow cover to expect at that point. And there are other obstacles to tackle before then, namely, Mt. Baden-Powell, the next high, ice-packed ridgeline, west of here in the San Gabriels, with trail at over 9000 ft.

May 8,9: Big Bear Lake

We motored down the trail on Sunday afternoon, 15 miles by 1 pm to Highway 18 where we met up with Meadow Mary and Billy Goat, a hiker/driver support crew who everyone sees everywhere it seems, talked trail for a few minutes and then flagged a ride into Big Bear. It was our first hitching attempt and went off without a hitch (sorry). An elderly woman out on a relaxing drive from Yucca Valley picked us up and dropped us right at the The Sizzler where we gorged ourselves on the all-you-can-eat salad bar for three hours.

Leaving the restaurant we were faced with the ominous task of figuring out just how to actually relax while in town -- while simultaneously getting all of our errands done (a hefty task without a car in a big town, it turns out), finding a place to sleep, and avoiding spending a fortune while we're at it. We ended up going straight to the grocery store, walking dazed and tired with our packs down the aisles, picking out our next week's delicacies. Afterwards, we crossed the lake and made a stealthy retreat from the road into the cover of some woods where we spent the night outdoors once again.

This morning we awoke early. I ran over to a donut shop we had seen yesterday in a shopping plaza, picked up a cup of coffee (something I've enjoyed saving and savoring for my town stops), a Bavarian cream and an apple fritter and ran back to roust Eliza and set about hitting the Post Office and getting back on the trail.

So we flagged a ride across town, hit the PO, and found out to our continued dismay that our bounce box once again failed to arrive at our destination for the week. We'll see if the camera makes it another few days without dying completely. Debating how to get to the trail-head, a guy named Walkabout offered to give us a lift, and if we'd like, stop by his place for showers or anything else . . . well, we're still here, decided to make it a real rest stop and enjoy the hospitality of the trail angels once again.

Casey Kickstep is here, sleeping on the floor in front of me. An Israeli, Guy Smiley, is waiting to use the computer which I've been monopolizing for too long. And I am off to join Eliza for a good night's sleep in a bed for the first time in two and a half weeks.

Amen.

Back to the trail tomorrow . . . should be hitting Wrightwood by Sunday.

All you can eat. We were there from 2 pm until 4:30 pm yesterday afternoon. Sizzzzler 

a splash of color, a ray of light at the Mesa wind farm 

Another look at San Gorgonio, the highest peak in Southern California 

Mount San Gorgonio and the hot dusty corridor around I-10 below 

San Jacinto, our first big peak 

reentering the sunny lowlands...stopping to smell the flowers 

end of the line? 

mountain bear 

nearing the peak 

beginning the hard steep climb 

May 7

Today was hard. We are both feeling very fatigued and in need of a break. We lost the trail again this morning and wandered a mile or so up a roccky creekbed. Eliza walked into a branch and scraped her cheek. We hit more snow and spent much of the afternoon wet and kind of miserable. Now, I guess we are doing fine. Eliza is in the tent getting things situated. I am at the stove waiting for my water to boil. We are just about out of food and tomorrow we'll hitch a ride into big bear city. We've been fantasizing all day long about all you can eat salad bars and hotel rooms and pizzas coming to our door and a six pack of beer and movies on tv...

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May 6, up mission creek

Hiking was great today. Weather was fine after the morning drizzle stopped and the sun came out. We forded the rushing Whitewater River, which is usually dry this time of year, and the knee deep mission creek maybe 40 times today.

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May 5, snowblind

Eliza woke up with snowblindness this morning. We had been above 10000 ft for much of yesterday afernoon, and I hadn't noticed that she wasn't wearing sunglasses until we had already been up there for hours. I had read that in snow above 8000 ft or so, reflected UV rays could damage the eyes, but I hoped the exposure hadn't been long enough.

At first, she was unable to open her eyes at all. They were swelled shut, oozing, irritated. She was in a great deal of pain. Slowly, they improved and with the aid of my baseball cap and sunglasses she was able to face the morning sun. We had thought that a good night's rest after yesterday's ultra exhaustive snow-trudging marathon would clear the slate for a fresh new day. For Eliza, unfortunately, this wasn't the case.

She felt better at length, though. We stopped shortly after setting out in some shade and debated stopping for the day and just resting, but ultimately she figured that she would probably be bored so she might as well be walking. I could have read my book, or written in my journal, of course, but she would still have to deal with the pain in her head. So we kept on going, and by mid-afternoon she was doing well enough to enjoy the fine descent down out of the mountains towards San Gorgonio pass and I-10.

About 10 miles down, we were stopped so that Eliza could do some dirty business up off the trail with the trowel, when we noticed a helicopter hoering around above us. Eliza was understandably annoyed at having her picturesque mountainside doodie interrupted (we've pooped in some of the most beautiful places in the world these past two weeks) and we both wondered what was up. It coldn't be the border patrol this far up? A mile later, we came upon Marge, the Old Gal. She had a leg pain that wasn't letting her go on and someone had called in the rescue team. She was in high spirits, but I am sure she felt bad about having such a big fuss made. Later we saw firetrucks and ambulances and more helicopters, even a plane; all had been called out on account of Marge's bad leg. For Marge, the worst part must be that this is the second time she's had to be flown out of these mountans in the past few year. Last time, it was a broken leg on Fuller Ridge.

Our day ended after we crossed the windy valley, made our way under the Interstate, enjoyed some trail magic candy that had been left by some trail angels (we laughed that never before in our lives would we be even remotely excited by the sight of a styrofoam cooler with a couple sticky cans of juice and a bag of melted tootsie rolls inside stashed under a tree by the highway), set up camp at nightfall by the great moaning turbins of the windmills of the Mesa Windfarm.

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May 3-4, Fuller Ridge, San Jacinto

We had originally decided that we would skip the Fuller Ridge section of the trail, which follows directly a stop in Idyllwild and is easily bypassed by a day long road walk up to Black Mountain where the road and trail intersect. All reports thusfar held that the ridge was completely submerged under feet of snow, and virtually impossible to traverse without backcountry navigation skills and proficiency in ice-axe use. We had no qualm whatsoever in taking the road.

But when we got to Idyllwild and we heard that Casey and Maury and another guy, Shutterbug, who actually had mountaineering experience, were heading back up the Devil's Slide on Tuesday evening to try Fuller Ridge, we reconsidered and agreed to go along. At least, with an experienced climber, we would learn how to use the ice axes which have been hanging so uselessly on our packs.

So we spent Tuesday running errands. Our bounce box never arrived--we had made the mistake of sending it parcel post from Warner Springs--so I looked around unsuccessfully for another camera battery (mine may not last until our next town stop), we did our shopping, made a nice lunch back at our campsite (fresh veggies, at last), bought little instep crampons at the local gear shop and met up with the rest of the crew at 5 for a late afternoon hike back to the PCT.

We camped at the junction of Devil's Slide and the PCT which we had never been able to find the day before. The night was the coldest we've had yet.

****

We set out on Wednesday along the patchy trail northbound again. Snow drifts covered large sections and by 8:30 we all had our crampons strapped on and were navigating using map and compass, hanging ouselves to the ridgeline, using the altimeter on my watch to guage highpoints and peaks.

Soon thereafter, Shutterbug gave a brief demonstration on ice-axe use and proper self-arrest technique. He is a section hiker from Lake Arrowhead, a nearby city, and a volunteer with the mountain search and rescue unit there. It seemed simple enough, watching him show it-- grip the axe firmly across the chest, plant the balls of the feet into the snow--however, none of us really wanted to practice, as practicing would mean getting wet and we had a long day ahead of us.

We had no idea just how long it would turn out to be.

At the first crest we came to we pulled out our maps and approximated our location. We agreed on a point and debated which route would be best to take. To do this, one approximates a route on the map, deciphers where the route leads over the immediate, visible geography, and chooses a goal from within that visible geography to aim for. Compass bearings are taken and the route is discussed. Once highground is lost, it is very easy to lose a sense of direction, drop elevation inadvertantly during a traverse, and very soon, perhaps, end up frustrated, tired and lost. This didn't happen to us for some time. Before any of this would set in, we had a grand scheme to crack, stores of adrenaline to sap, and terrifying heights to conquer. In short, for some reason, out of some twisted turn of logic, we all agreed that the thing to do was to climb an extra 2000 ft off route, up and away from the PCT, over sweeping, exposed mountain sides to bag the summit of San Jacinto.

***
let me say:
We all lived. No broken bones, no helicopter rides down the mountain, nothing worse than a few scrapes and bruises came our way. Tears were shed, however, and fears were faced.

It all started lightly and easily enough. Some guys with a GPS system came by and hollered up to tell us e were headed in the wrong direction. We had seen them earlier that day and they were extremely cocky and quite unlikeable. Koala (these trail names are great--they're actually becoming our names out here) yells back, "We don't need you guys! We're going our own way!" and promptly slips onto her backside and shoots uncontrollably down the hill in front of her. I'm watching from behind, thinking: this is the end of our mountaintop adventure. The guys we are hiking with, all standing directly downhill of my plummetting girlfriend all cry out in unison, "Self-arrest!" And, I'll be darned, she did it. Flipped over, drove that pick into the ice over her shoulder, grinding herself to a halt in a fit of laughter...

Later, things got a bit heavier, though. Midway up this huge exposed slope, overlooking a boundless field of scattered boulders and pine trees, Eliza and I realize that we are scared shitless. We're in a line, following the other three guys. Casey is wearing these big mama titanium crampons and is kicking us footholds (he has now been dubbed appropriately, Kickstep) and we're all inching up behind him, ice-axes probing ahead at each step. Picture that Everest I-Max films minus the rope that holds everyone together--that's what it felt like heading up there.

The two of us stop and have a conference behind a boulder, considering our options for a second while the others inch onward. Eliza is shaking and crying. I don't know what to do, feeling sick, sure that it's my fault that we are in this mess at all. Next thing, she tells me she just now started having her period. Holy shit. I've been around enough women to know that this particular day of the month is the absolute worst day to attempt to climb a mountain on. Many of the women that I've worked with routinely take this day of the month off because it's so often just a bad day. And there we were. The day was starting to feel bad. What do we do? We stand up and keep on going. We really didn't have much choice. And it got better, fortunately.

No one fell. Even if someone had, we had our ice-axes. I don't mean to be implying that what we were doing was entirely reckless or even all that dangerous. It was hard and it was scary, but we had the tools and the skills to take care of ourselves.
The terrain levelled off some at around 10000 ft and we were in a winter wonderland. After a couple of false summits we reached the peak at 10834 ft. The views were incredible. I felt like we had really acomplished something, that we had overcome something quite formidable, both of this earth and of ourselves.

Coming down from the summit, refinding the PCT, making it over Fuller Ridge, and getting to dry land by nightfall--the rest of the day was no less challenging. Eliza had a very hard time descending the steep snowy slopes. Paralyzed with fear and in tears again, she still made it through.

Fatigue was our final challenge. Fuller ridge was long and slow going.
We made camp on a logging road at dusk, awestruck by the day.

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May 2, Taquitz Peak

Last night we camped on a precipitous outcropping in low manzanita shrubs, overlooking the glow of glitzy Palm Springs more than a verticle mile below. The wind was howling all night, slapping and shaking the walls of our little yellow tent. It held up well and we passed a surprisingly warm night above 7000 ft. When I got up at 5am it was 51 degrees inside.

We set out early, Casey just in tow, and ascended further up into the mountain range. After about 2.5 hours we hit the snow. The trail rounded a bend just east of Taquitz peak and as we took on the north facing wall, we were forced to make our own route as the trail disappeared completely beneath the thick, icy drifts. We followed some snowshoe prints and what seemed to be the only substantial track of footprints down off the ridge into a bowl and went cross-country towards the saddle along the western rim where a junction was to take us on a spur trail--the Devil's Slide--down into the mountain resort town of Idyllwild. It was really beautiful, actually, to be off the trail, to frollick a little bit, sliding down the hillsides, skiing down overtop the frozen, virgin crust of untouched mountaintop snow. It was also very very frustrating and difficult. Faling is kind of fun for a bit, but then it starts to hurt. Ankles started to swell, knees got jittery, even my muscl!
es got sore, trudging up and down the ridgeline--it is very diffifult to maintain elevation without the trail to keep you up. Eliza was having a hard time kicking foothold and was getting frustrated with me for moving too quickly. I was getting frustrated because before too long we were absolutely, undeniably lost. We found highground eventually and pulled ourselves together, ate some lunch, checked out our topo-maps, figured on which wa we should go and or how long and then set out. This didn't work, however. We ended up in a saddle, losing elevation, following a seep or a rivulet, hoping against odds that it was the right one, only to discover that we were looking down over a near-verticle ravine, pebbles and boulder dribbling past our ankles as we skid to a halt on the lose terrain. This led to more frustration. We bickered a little. Then we started in on another plan--walk back and forth, up and down this strip of ridgeline, keeping a close eye on our compasses !
(they are definitely proving useful), until we hit this damn j!
unction.
We had lost Casey hours before when we stopped to filter water and so we were alone through all of this. Then, as we started one of a seris of these N-S passes I caught a glimpse of a green backpack just like mine bouncing down the hill before me on someone's back. It turns out it was Maury, a younger kid from NJ who is out hiking for a couple of months on summer break from college. He, Casey, and I all carry he same pack, oddly enough, so at first I was sure that it was him. Maybe he was on the right track. But it was Maury and he, too, was lost. We all briefly conferred and soon agreed that we could just blaze on down the mountainside and eventually we would hit the trail. So we did just that.

Two hours later, we strolled into town, after a couple of miles down the trail and a couple more down the road. These road walks are the worst, by the way. In Idyllwild we met Casey soon enough at the State Park campground. He got lucky, I guess, and found the trail no problem. Marge, the Old Gal, was at the post office, and we even ran into Bob (little debbie), the first person we met on the trail almost two weeks ago. We had passed his campsite our first night out and then the next day he walked up while we were sitting down for a snack. We exchanged pleasantries and we asked where he was from after he said something about "back east." He said, "Oh, I live in Ithaca now." We thought this was pretty cool, as did he. He's a goofy guy, talks a lot, but I like him.

A community does feel like it's coming together for us here.

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May 1, The Desert Divide

We left this morning from the Oasis, fat and fed and well rested--it's incredible, the difference between sleeping on a hillside and sleeping on a nice flat lawn. Allister, a Calgarian who is spending a week or so at the Oasis with his wife Gail (they hiked the PCT in 2003) helping Pat and Paul out for when the rush occurs next week, dropped us off at the trailhead on route 74, and we were off.

The San Jacintos are the first real deal mountains we pass through. Almost immediately we felt the steeper grade as we ascended up towards the snow capped crest of Fuller Ridge and Mount San Jacinto in the distance.

The terrain changed drasticaly as well, today. Scrubby, low chapparal and sandy hillsides were replaced more and more each hour with big coned Coulter Pines, graceful aromatic Cedars and Oak, all planted precarioisly in the nooks and crannies between massive boulders and solid granite walls. These were defintely the mountains, with their crisp, speckled white turrets, as I'd always imagined them--first standing isolated in my imagination as the backdrop to the cartoons I grew up watching (I picture Goofy goes alpine skiing, Gargamel's castle with lightning cracking overhead, the Gummibears' quick car speeding down the rails and shooting itself out of a cliffside cave) and later realizing themselves to me, emblematically, as the symbol of the American West.

So we climbed and climbed, stopping briefly to note the now, seemingly, meager and miniscule height of 6500 ft--previously our highest upwards achievement. By the end of the day, we topped out near the 7500 ft, crossing a couple patches of snow on the north facing wall of a ravine in the late afternoon. We had expected to see more, perhaps even a consistent and menacing cover starting starkly at 7000 ft, but the sun must have been doing its thing, clearing our way for us daily as we approached the divide this past week.
The snow in the Jacintos has been a pretty standard topic of discussion thusfar out on the trail, at water stops, in towns, whenever we come across someone keeping a clip close to ours. At the kickoff some local folks gave reports of feet upon feet of snow, no trail visibility, potentially dangerous conditions for those without mountaineering or significant snow hiking and orienteering experience. Four people had gone up together along the section of trail that we took today and upon losing their way in the snow, dicided to split up and try to find the route collectively. At the end of the day, only three of them were accounted for and it was some time before the fourth was heard from again--it wasn't made clear, however, if this fourth, a german, had been incredibly lost or if he had simply neglected to check in with the others following their expedition. Whatever the case, the message was clear: Hikers beware the snow on San Jacinto.

Since the kickoff it comes up daily.
"I heard they got 2 more feet last night. Didn't you see those clouds up there?"

"I hope you've considered an alternate route. You can road walk past Fuller Ridge, you know. I did it in 2001 and that was a low snow year!"

"What are you all gonna do in the snow?"

"Don't know, what about you?"

and on and on...

There is a funny way that people who do have a plan about how to approach such delicate and daunting issues as the snow pack this year or the prospect of a "flip-flop" will bring up the subject. A great attempt is made to come across with a sense of supreme self assurance and confidence--these plans have to be sold to the other hikers as a part of a legitimazation process. Too often these speculations and plans come up in conversation just too quickly to feel natural, suspiciously juxtaposed to grand disclaimers of daily mileage and pointed, off-hand reference to every other impressive hike ever embarked upon. "Oh hey, how's it goin'? Nice day out. But not as nice as two years ago when I was here, or in '86 when I did the AT. Yeah, you know what was really beautiful, the view up on top of Mt. Fuji. Yeah, did that last year." and on...

The people we've met have been a pretty odd bunch. I guess it should come as no surprise. Perhaps, setting out to do something like this necessarily comes at an odd time in one's life--a transition, be it as a result of other life circumstances or as a catalyst, the hike itself an attempt to bring change. For the most part, the folks we've met have been quite a bit older than us--retirees, ranging in age anywhere from 40 to 65, many of them longtime hikers, veterans of other season long through-hikes.

Today we ended up hiking with a young guy, about our age, named Casey. Other than Gruevy and Donna, whom we haven't seen in a week, he is the first peer that we've shared the trail with thusfar. He has also completed a couple of Americorps terms, his in Montana, one being a weed puller in a conservation corps, just like me. He had been for about a week hiking back "with the pack," which according to him is comprised of some 100 other, primarily younger hikers. He told of passing 20 some people a day, and camping together with more than 30 some nights! This really came as a surprise. We hadn't yet seen more than 6 or 7 in a day, and like I said, all retirees. He told of raging hotel room parties and unfolding soap opera dramas...

Who knows what this trail holds, before us or behind us...

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April 30, Slack Packing

We walked today up and accross the arid hills just east of Anza. Taking the Bear up on his offer, we slack packed the 15 mile stretch from Tule Canyon Truck Trail up to the Palm to Pines Hwy, Rt 74. I carried lunch and water and sunscreen for both of us in my deflated green golite, and Eliza was able to go packless for the day. It was, as one might guess, a comparably relaxing little stroll.

Tomorrow, we leave for Idyllwild, CA. It is only about 30 miles north of here, but we expect to fid ourselves in the snow before the end of the first day.

and on, and on

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