The following is Part
5 in a series of posts concerning my experience with the Pacific Crest Trail. Part
1, Part
2, Part
3, and Part
4 can be found via the associated links.
Chapter 2:
TRAILAHOLISM
28 April: Saturday
12:54
Failure. After only 110 miles, only one completed PCT section
(A), I am defeated. How? Why? To what end? These are questions that I must
ponder. But I do not think that there are any immediate or clear answers. In
some ways I am very disheartened by all this. Yet in part, I consol myself by
recognizing that most of the choice—at least the one made in hope of wisdom—was
not really mine. In other ways, I welcome the oblivion of uncertainty: the
disruption of the unknown. Faith. I find great power in redemption, in how it
manifests itself regardless of our human boundaries. But there is still grief.
There was so much anticipation, so much preparation—so many imagined memories.
As often is the case in my life, I got ahead of reality—or at least tried to.
Perhaps that is what defeated me. Can hope be an enemy when it is courted by
pride?
To begin to answer the questions, I will first outline my
final three days on the trail. In these circumstances there may be some clues.
As usual, I was the last to break camp (Wednesday morning).
There is too much that I like to do to prepare for and close a day. I was never
even able to do it all. A significant realization that I later had is that my
mileage approach to the PCT led to a sort of workaholism—let us call it
“trailaholism”: when each day is driven by getting from A to B with little or no
true rest, when all that is done is to keep the body progressing. Progress. . .
. I hoped to escape it for a time. Yet it dwells within me. How dare I bring it
into the wild? No wonder Nature resisted. I forgot why I loved being in nature.
I forgot my greatest memories. They are nearly all in stillness: atop a
mountain or hill, in a whispering valley—anywhere that I can stop and just
listen and receive quiet’s blessings. Naturally, to reach those places takes
work, but I let the work define my journey from the start. Timelines. I need to
recreate my approach to the PCT. There needs to be lower daily mileage. There
needs to be a greater emphasis on people. There needs to be more peace. A new
aspect of peace has made itself known: embracing slowness. It is not a profound
or new truth. I just understand it better now.
Anyway, I felt tired and footsore as I left Pioneer Mail
Trailhead Picnic Area. I hoped to catch up with Ryno and Matt that had left
about two hours and an hour before. The day was cooler with scattered clouds
and the promise of evening rain. The views were lovely and lonely. My foot pain
was my main companion, stealing my attention, my will, and my joy. Yet I
pressed ahead steadily.
Not long after passing a “SoBo” (South Bound; I am a “No Bo”
apparently) group thoroughly enjoying themselves—where was that celebration in
me?—I caught up with Ryno and Matt. Their feet were also causing some grief. Yet
I wonder how it compared with mine. A highlight of the day was, after passing
Monkey and her mother, when we crossed west over Sunrise Highway (S1) toward
Cuyamaca Reservoir to rest at a horse trough in a small field of grass buzzing
with unobtrusive insects. We restocked our water supplies with our personal
filtration systems, took our shoes and socks off, washed our feet, and then let
them dry as we propped them on our packs and laid back to nibble and review
maps or guidebooks. This is what the PCT is about.
Eventually, we packed everything up and walked the half mile
east back to the PCT. At the junction, a young veteran SoBo couple was
picnicking. I first heard the NoBo-SoBo terminology from them. Ryno had heard
the term “NoBo.” I replied, “like hobos . . . or nobodies . . .” with a smile.
The couple was going to the official PCT Kick-off at Lake
Morena during the upcoming weekend
(i.e. presently). We were thoroughly encouraged to attend. Probably nine out of
ten people we meet encourage us to do so. Many people hike the first section (A:
Mexican Border to Warner Springs)
before attending the kick-off. They are then afforded a few days to rest and
heal. That seems smart. As lively as it sounds, I was not sure that I had been
convinced to attend. A lot of drinking is apparently involved. Many people get their trail names during that
weekend. For example, one seemingly unfortunate lad lost a drinking contest to
a woman. She, as a reward, named him “Mangina.” Apparently, he is proud of the
name and was only too ready to tell others about it. Regardless, I mostly justified
my reason not to attend by the fact that I did not have the extra supplies or
transportation coordinated to backtrack and forth those few more days.
After our conversation, Ryno, Matt, and I left the couple, and
I felt a wave of focus and strength—and relative painlessness—rise within me. I
pushed ahead with an ambitious sense of getting back on schedule by reaching
Scissors Crossing that evening, which would result in a 26-mile day. I sort of
regret this decision. I loved being with Ryno and Matt. I just got distracted
by the “necessity” to reach Warner Springs
before Saturday (today) in order to guarantee picking up my first re-supply box
without delay (the Post Office is closed Sundays). Yet I feel like I abandoned
them in my brief period of strength. Do I often distance myself from people with
my sense of resolve or discipline or call it what you want? I usually fear
being abandoned by others. It has seemed to happen a few times. Though those
people may have had different reasons than me, perhaps I would be a hypocrite
not to recognize the same essence within me: abandonment justified by some
personal conviction. Have I really ever sacrificed, purely without selfish
motivation? As I recover and reorganize, assuming Ryno and Matt are still on
the trail, I hope to get in touch with them to reconnect somewhere further
along, such as in Yosemite National
Park.
Meanwhile, I felt invigorated. I felt my old strength. I
passed Heather and Monkey. I passed SoBo hiker “Don’t Panic” as I made the
steep descent to Chariot Canyon.
I climbed up to the ridge between it and Rodriguez
Canyon, hollering back to Ryno and
Matt a few times as I noted their slower progress below. I reached Rodriguez
Spur Truck Trail just before dusk. Paul was there, setting up camp along with
another couple. I cannot remember his name, but the husband and I spoke some
German together. He had studied near Hannover for six
months.
I knew that Ryno and Matt would probably camp at Rodriguez
Spur Truck Trail for the night. It was a lovely spot. The San Felipe Valley
stretched out below. I probably should have stayed. Yet my timeline
lingered—persisted even—in my thoughts. I was tired. But I was determined.
The next 9.2 miles were lovely, especially with the sunset over the
San Felipe Valley. That glorious view was God speaking to me about redemption. A few F-16 Fighter Jets even flew south over the valley
toward the training zones east of the Laguna
Mountains. I passed one other SoBo
hiker along the way. I quickly began to tire. Seeing a house nearby at one
point, I imagined a trail angel family welcoming me into their home where other
hikers were staying for food, fellowship, and civilized comforts. Alas, it was
to be a lonely night. I became fatigued. Once I reached what Don’t Panic had
called “No Man’s Land”—Earthquake Valley
between Granite Mountain
and Grapevine Mountain—I
was struggling to walk steadily. A few miles away from Scissors Crossing, I
found shelter from increasingly harsh winds behind a large bush to cook what I
intended to be my first dinner course: a freeze-dried meal. It helped. As the
sky darkened, others creatures began their own supper routines. A few
silhouettes of what were either desert foxes or coyotes ran stealthily across
my path. After refilling at a blessed water cache near the S2 (road), I left
the trail in hopes of hitchhiking the last 1.2 miles. That was unsuccessful. In
a dark loneliness I continued, with a small circle of light from my flashlight
to guide me.
At last I reached the bridge that marks Scissors Crossing. A
camp consisting of four tents was setup on the sand under the bridge. The men
there were friendly. They had selected that spot to avoid the expected 1.5
inches of rain to come that night. They told me of a water cache waiting across
the dried creek, at the other end of the bridge. I chose not to camp with the
men mostly because it was a bit crowded, but also due to the wind and sand
blowing, and only slightly because I was not in the mood to socialize more with
what seemed to be four gay men—a few of them started singing together after I
left.
A few other camps had been set up a short ways away out in
the open. My feet were really killing me. I was tired and grimy, and not in the
mood for a stormy evening. I stumbled around awkwardly for a while. The bridge
group led me to think that there was a campground nearby. A curt word from one
uninterested camper let me know that I could just camp anywhere. I was hoping
to find someone familiar, but it was just too dark and late.
I eventually found what seemed to be a suitable spot. Its
disadvantage was that it was surrounded on three sides by a briar patch. When
this settled into my now half-conscious mind, I was already too progressed with
setting up my tent to feel like seeking another spot. My fingers were stabbed
by the briars a few painful times as I used my Leatherman saw to remove branches that could potentially snag my
gear or myself. This took too long. But I did not want to stumble out of my tent
in the rainy night in hopes of relieving my bladder to instead get tangled in
the embrace of an angry plant. Now, the advantage of the campsite was that it
was protected against the wind, not to mention any intruders. Like lions . . .
By the time everything was set, I was in no mood to cook again,
though I was hungry. My weariness took precedent. After going to the east side
under the bridge to try to tend to my feet—somewhat in vain—I retreated to my
tent, not even bothering to brush my teeth. I was tired and demoralized. My
feet were grievous. I felt grimy from blowing sand. I was hungry and lonely. I
could barely think to get organized in my tent—a challenge amplified by bad
weather and doing so at night—and my clothes smelled rather putrid. Not to mention
that I had cursed to myself more than I like. God forgive me. I eventually
found some sleep. I was in too poor a mood to want to call Mama & Papa.
